Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (40 page)

 
          
Colin
shrugged, turning away and heading for the lecture room in the back of the
store. The Sorcery Shoppe's lectures were notorious for their late starts, and
in fact, when he arrived in the lecture room, Colin was the first one there.

 
          
He
glanced around. The Shoppe's back room was also used by a Magickal Lodge active
in the New York area; the equipment from their last ritual were stacked
carefully in the corner, looking like nothing more fantastic than worn and
dusty theatrical props.

 
          
Was
this all that magick was? It was easy to think so; to doubt, to give in and
accept what everyone said
—
that magick was no more than self-hypnosis in fancy dress.

           
But Colin's entire life had been
dedicated to the belief that the sum of humanity was so much more than a
simple empirical assessment of quantity and duration. To deny the realm of the
spirit was to deny half of all Creation: even if magick were reduced to nothing
more than passionate
belief,
such passion was a force that could build
cathedrals out of nothing and carve empires out of wilderness. Yet Cannon's
books were the only glimpse some people ever got of a world outside their own,
and the viewpoint he presented made it easy to dismiss magick as a Faustian
exercise in self-delusive smoke and mirrors: self-important, foolish . . . and
harmless, in the long run.

 
          
The
nineteenth century had been like one long chess game between Spirit and
Substance, played out in the echoing aftermath of the French Revolution and the
defeat of Napoleon's imperial ambitions, and the scars of the Rationalists'
misguided reforms still shaped the modern world. If the Age of Reason that had
swept through the West at the end of the eighteenth century had committed any
great crime, it was this: that in shutting out superstition and fanaticism, the
Rationalists had attempted to reduce the whole of God's creation to something
that could be measured in a balance.

 
          
On
one side, Darwin and Freud, proclaiming mankind nothing more than a computer
made out of meat, assembled by random chance and a blind watchmaker.

 
          
And
on the other side, Mathers, Case, Waite, Fortune, Crowley . . . the magnificent
irrationality of Helena Blavatsky, fighting against the Rationalist's cold
equations, working desperately in a world that thought them ludicrous
eccentrics or even criminal lunatics to keep the glorious medieval panoply of
High Sorcery from being swept away, so that the tools of that alchemy by which
animals become angels would not be lost.

 
          
It
was a battle without malice, without enemies, as oblivious as that of the seed
to take root and flower; a battle that continued to this very day.

 
          
That
would be fought here, again, tonight.

 
          
The
room had started to fill as Colin stood lost in his own thoughts. As he'd
suspected, the audience was substantially the same as that for his own
lectures: young and upwardly mobile gypsies of the spirit, with a small scattering
of veteran dilettantes and seasoned seekers.

 
          
There
was a good turnout; John Cannon was apparently a popular speaker. Colin took
his place on an uncomfortable metal chair in the front row and turned his
attention to the podium. It was decorated with a poster similar to the one out
in front, proclaiming John Cannon as the author of
The Devil in
America
, The True Story of
Witchcraft,
and
Voodoo in the Modern World,
as well as of several other equally
sensational titles.

 
          
When
the room was fairly full, a man wearing dark slacks, sportcoat, and a black
turtleneck
—
gaunt, and much taller than Colin had suspected from the
photograph
—
entered the room. John Cannon had the stooped carriage of a
file clerk. Except for his imposing height, he would blend easily into any
crowd; a good attribute for an investigative reporter to have. He was carrying
a sheaf of papers as he ascended to the podium, and spent a few minutes arranging
them as he stood there, waiting for the audience to settle.

           
"Good evening, folks. I'm John
Cannon
—
my
friends call me Jock. In the past few years I've poked my nose into quite a few
dark corners of the world, and seen a few things that would make your hair
stand on end." He ran a hand through his sandy brown hair and smiled
self-deprecatingly. Cannon had a confident resonant voice
—
he was obviously a practiced
public speaker.

 
          
"I've
chased ghosts in
England
, devils in
Haiti
, and demons in
New Orleans
. I thought I'd seen just
about everything, but I was wrong. Tonight I'm here to talk to you about Black
Magick
—
not
as something safely tucked away in a history book, but right here, right now.
In
New
York City
, today, right this minute, there are people forming covens
and worshiping the Devil. It's no joke. These people are deadly serious
—
and I do mean deadly."

 
          
For
the next hour John Cannon spun his audience tales of his experiences in his
practiced raconteur fashion, telling of how he'd penetrated a dark occult
underworld that existed right beneath their very noses
—
a world of orgiastic sex,
dangerous drugs, and deliberate blasphemy.

 
          
"These
people have absolutely no scruples whatsoever. They will use any method to
achieve their sensual self-gratification, whether it be old-fashioned
strong-arm techniques, or ... Black Magick."

 
          
He
spoke of the occult powers that the black covens could wield to steal a man's
mind, to bend the will, to hurt or even kill. It was pure
Rosemary's Baby
stuff,
but as far as Colin could tell, Cannon never quite stooped to out-and-out
fabrication. There was always a grain of truth in even his most lurid writings,
and so there must be something to this.

 
          
But
your viewpoint depended on your perspective. By Cannon's wide-ranging
definition of Black Magick, Colin MacLaren's own Lodge and its ancient sacred
trust was a part of that same recondite occult conspiracy that seemed
—
from Cannon's description
—
to be on the verge of taking
over Manhattan at this very moment. Left to Cannon to describe, the activities
of even the whitest Witchcraft would take on an unholy tinge.

 
          
When
Cannon finished, there was a scatter of pleased applause, and a few people came
to the podium to get autographs or to ask questions. Colin dawdled until the
traffic jam in front of the door had eased, then got up to go. He had no
particular desire to meet John Cannon.

 
          
"Colin
MacLaren!" Someone behind him had called out his name, and Colin stopped,
turning to see who it was.

 
          
Cannon
hurried up to him. "It is
—
You
are
Colin MacLaren, aren't you? The
ghosthunter?"

 
          
Any
residual sympathy Colin might have felt for the writer evaporated with his easy
use of the dated, pejorative term. But he answered, cordially enough:

 
          
"I'm
Colin MacLaren. That was an interesting talk you gave back there."

 
          
"Years
of practice," Cannon said candidly. "But I think I've really struck
gold this time. This stuff is real
—
these people are actually
out there, and they're as serious about this hoodoo as you or I about the
pennant race."

 
          
"I
don't follow sports, Mr. Cannon," Colin said, hoping he didn't sound too
disparaging. "But what can I do for you?"

           
"Well, you know a writer's
always looking for his next book," Cannon said. "And I think I've got
a doozy. So I was wondering if I could interview you. Let me give you my card
—
"

 
          
"Me?"
Colin was horrified, and thought, absurdly, about how Claire would laugh to see
his expression. "I'm sure I'd be of very little interest to you." Automatically
he took the proffered card and tucked it into his jacket pocket without
looking.

 
          
Cannon
finally seemed to notice Colin's coolness.

 
          
"Well,
that is ... Naturally I'm familiar with your work, Dr. MacLaren, and I
certainly wouldn't dream of doing anything to, ah,
sensationalize
the
work you're doing
—
"

 
          
"As
a ghosthunter?" Colin asked, and Cannon had the grace to wince.

 
          
"Sorry
if I put your back up. I'm afraid I've fallen into the habits of my profession,
Prof
—
"

 
          
Colin
held up a minatory hand. "Please, Mr. Cannon. My doctorate in psychology
was a long time ago, and I no longer teach. Just plain 'Mister' is good enough
for me."

 
          
"Mr.
MacLaren, then. But I was serious when I said I admired you. That article you
did for
Police Journal
about ten years back on the commonest sorts of
psychic frauds
—
I freely admit that it was a great inspiration to me. Sort
of got me into the field, so to speak."

 
          
Colin
remembered that John Cannon's first book had been an overview
—
and debunking
—
of fraud mediums. There were
several, Colin knew, whom Cannon had researched but not included, because he
could find no way of exposing them.

 
          
"I'm
glad my life has not been wasted," Colin said dryly. "But you'll understand
my confusion, Mr. Cannon. Why would you want to interview me?"

 
          
"Thorne
Blackburn," Cannon said quickly. "You knew him, didn't you? I've
talked to some people, and your name came up a few times. After I'm done with
the current book, I'd like to do one on him, you see, and
—
"

 
          
"Thorne
Blackburn?" Colin said blankly. "Forgive me, Mr. Cannon, but unless
you're planning to solve his mysterious disappearance
—
and, frankly, it's pretty
clear to me that the man's dead
—
I can't see what appeal your book will have. Nobody outside
of a rather specialized field even remembers him."

 
          
"Now
there you're wrong," Cannon said, warming to his subject. "Everybody's
interested in
Blackburn
—
look over here."

 
          
He
led Colin to a section of bookshelf in the center aisle of the store. Neatly
typed labels on the front of each shelf said "Golden Dawn," "
Crowley
,"
"Kabbalah," "Regardie," "
Blackburn
." There were four or
five different titles in the Blackburn section and several copies of each,
ranging from crude pamphlets to a gaudily produced small-press volume bound in
black leather and stamped in red and gold foil. The spine of the book said
The
Opening of the Way.

 
          
Colin
reached to take the book down and hesitated, letting his hand fall to his side
once more. He'd looked at some of Thorne's writing just after the accident, and
had found it an amalgam of blasphemy and wishful thinking more suitable to a
pulp novel.

 
          
"Even
if there is the interest that you say, Mr. Cannon, I'm not so sure that a
popular book on Thorne Blackburn is such a good idea. What he was trying to do
—
whatever it was
—
got two people killed.
Putting that material into the hands of the general public might be considered
a bit irresponsible."