The 37th mandala : a novel (21 page)

The three books appeared under three different names—none of them his own—and vanished within weeks, lingering on the paperback racks for about as long as it had taken him to write them. The problem, apparently, was that scores if not hundreds of other writers were on the same track, taking the same jaundiced approach to literature. There was no way to carve himself a niche without years of hard labor; not to mention dedication, inspiration, and something—however trivial—to say. He might as well have remained a copywriter. Fiction had failed him utterly.

Nights he lay awake thinking of what he might write and publish under his own name. Something real, something true to himself. Writing was all he felt qualified for, but nonfiction seemed like too much work. He didn't have a specialist's knowledge of anything. As a layman, he was easily confused by technical explanations, so he couldn't be one of those popularizers of abstruse knowledge. He had already proven himself a failure in math, despite his early interest in the sciences; he had shown himself lacking in the necessary logical or anal tendencies needed to pursue a career in the law—or at least to pass the LSATs. In everything he'd ever tried or been goaded into trying, he'd managed to undermine himself somehow; there had always been one element indispensible to his success, which turned out to be exactly where his failings lay. And he had many failings. They seemed custom-fit to doom whatever new enterprise he set himself.

But he was determined not to let himself decline any farther. As a writer he was dependent on nothing but his own mind; there was no one to rely on, no one to blame. It was a way of keeping faith with himself, after years of laboring along as his own worst enemy. He would succeed at it somehow.

And so he lay awake wondering:
What can I write? Who should I be? What sort of author is Derek Crowe?

At times his own name sounded phony to him, like a stage name, better suited to an old-time magician. An illusionist, or maybe an actual wizard. Who was that one they called the Great Beast? Oh, yes, Aleister Crowley. Similar....

He fell asleep dreaming of magic and sorcery and woke with a new reading plan fully realized. Within the year he was receiving letters addressing him as Adept, Teacher, or even "Grand Master Crowe."

The only subject Derek had truly
mastered
was the occult "nonfiction" format. By skimming a hundred such volumes, he learned to distill them to an essence, creating a boilerplate on which almost any sort of flimsy half-baked supposition might be built up into a complete popular philosophy.

It had all succeeded far better than he had dreamed that first morning. No matter how many writers ran the same scam, there was always room for another. Half-literate halfwits who never read novels didn't mind picking up a book about psychic phenomena, full of tips on securing a better life by developing one's innate clairvoyance. Most never read the book once they bought it. Those who did might try an exercise or two and blame a lack of results on their inability to concentrate. No one could sue him if latent powers didn't blossom overnight. And next week, the fools would buy another book that promised to give easier mastery than the first:
five
easy steps to telepathy, instead of
ten
. Lay your money down, boys. They were addicts.

The gypsies made their money on these suckers with no regrets. A palm-reader at an L.A. street fair had once told him he was shrouded by a halo of dark luck, which she would be only too glad to dispel by burning eighty candles over the next three months, for the modest price of thirty dollars per candle. He had laughed, admiring her guts, not even bothering to tell her off. Anyone who fell for such crap deserved to be taken. Her example inspired the rationale for his own scam. He need depend on no confederate; the real shill was the idiot mind of the eternally hopeful, prodding them to take another foolish chance because you never know, this might be the one....

Best of all, from a writer's point of view, popular occult books never went out of print. Tracts from the Dark Ages were still earning money for canny publishers. He relied on the public's insatiable appetite for the supernatural to keep him solvent, figuring that by the time he was an old man, he'd have sold enough of the things to finance his senility. Did the authors of innumerable volumes on UFOs, ancient astronauts, and oceanic triangles really believe what they promoted? That was a mystery worthy of several more volumes. In the end, these authors were wealthy enough to believe whatever they chose. An audience of believers could bring anything to life ... but especially, he hoped, his flagging, fledgling career.

Derek's first book took scarcely a month to write, and with the income thus gained he was able to spend more time researching and writing the next two. He believed that the general occult readers liked their nonsense embedded in a historical foundation, to support them in arguments with non-believers. (Derek had sustained relatively few such attacks himself; first because his books were rarely taken seriously enough to be reviewed by any major publications, but also because he avoided the occult as a topic of casual conversation. It wasn't something he thought about when he wasn't working.) He therefore intended to make his third book especially scholarly. He read nothing but history for three months before getting to work on
Remembering Your Past Lives
. And once he was working on that, he continually sought topics for his fourth book, while plotting a way into the upper reaches of occult publishing—out of the cheesy lower depths that Phantom Press had come to represent to him. He had seen the slick New Age volumes, glossy and presentable, with covers you weren't embarrassed to be seen toting about in public, perfect for those businessfolk who were concerned about their image as much as their spiritual development. He knew money when he smelled it.

That was when he received Elias Mooney's letter. With his keen eye for obscure resources, he saw a new source of material falling into his hands. Suddenly his writing plans extended ahead to books four, five, and six. He might not necessarily wish to pen the old man's autobiography per se, but books based on Mooney's eccentric knowledge could easily interest the right publisher. He'd heard that the highly respected Veritas was starting a line of New Age writings; this might be his entree to that house. And the old man had said he was a collector, which meant he undoubtedly owned rare volumes that Derek might borrow and scour in search of even more ideas for his own books.

And Mooney did not disappoint him. He was indeed a fertile source of imaginings....

Eli did not trust people readily, so it seemed odd to Derek that he had warmed to him so quickly, as if they were predestined soul-friends. His paranoia level fluctuated wildly according to his mood and medication. One day he sang songs and spun out amusing tales of his psychic exploits; the next, he ranted darkly for hours of how his life was a cage and of how his captors were dragging him closer to the hour of execution. They had taken his wives, scattered his children across the globe, and sabotaged his lines of communication with many of his correspondents.

Derek took to visiting twice weekly, and it was not long before he realized that what the old man wanted, more than a ghostwriter, was a sympathetic ear, someone who would not object immediately to his extraordinary worldview. Derek was eager to play this role. Eli embraced a far more interesting, complex cosmology than any he had encountered before, in or out of popular occultism or the world's religions. He felt certain that whatever book emerged from these conversations, it would be unique and compelling. He began to scope out possible publishers, leaning more and more toward the budding Veritas line.

Yet Eli was maddeningly vague when it came to spelling out the basic tenets of his beliefs. He would discourse for hours on the minutiae of various esoteric sects but never name any particular gods he believed in or any specific devils he feared, as if naming them would draw their unwelcome attention. With the same scrupulous paranoia, he refused to discuss certain subjects over the telephone, stating that government pawns of these powers monitored the lines constantly, and that the mention of key words or phrases would instantly set off alarms in dark fortresses, both of this world and out of it.

In other words, he exhibited swatches of his philosophy but never the whole tapestry. Whenever Derek tried to piece the fabric together, he was left with gaping holes. Part of the reason for this was that Eli presumed Derek already possessed an Initiate's knowledge, and Derek had to be careful never to reveal his ignorance.

One evening, hoping to loosen the old man's tongue, he brought along a bottle of wine. Eli accepted the bottle gratefully but put it aside unopened.

"I was hoping we could toast our partnership," Derek said hopefully.

"Oh, no, I never touch alcohol except in ritual."

"Ah, well, of course. I should have realized. And when do you think you'll know me well enough, Elias, so that we might perform a ritual together?"

The old man's tufted eyebrows hovered above his eyeglass frames. "Together?"

"Well, a sorcerer's ritual style is a key to his whole character, wouldn't you say? It would mean a great deal to me in trying to capture your essence for the book."

"No doubt it would, no doubt.. . but I'm afraid that's almost impossible. Not to slight your own abilities, but... it would be far too dangerous unless great precautions were taken."

"Well, certainly, we would take all the precautions."

"Alone, I am capable of defending against the things that flock around when I cast a circle. But I'm not used to working with others. I couldn't be sure of safeguarding you."

"I think I can take care of myself," Derek assured him.

"Actually ..." Eli bowed his head. "The truth is, after Evangeline died, I swore never to work with anyone, ever again. I learned a terrible lesson then."

It was late in the evening, Eli a shadow in his chair. It took Derek several moments to realize that the old man was weeping.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to stir up painful memories."

Eli shook his head, gathered himself upright, and sighed, as if shrugging off his pain. "Why don't you turn on a light?"

Derek switched on a lamp, filling the room with a glare that was anything but reassuring; too stark, too bright, it caused his eyes to water.

"I have spoken very little of Evangeline," Eli said.

"The memories are still ... too sad," Derek said.

"There's another reason, though. What happened to us was the single most important event of my life. I cannot explain my life, or make sense of my philosophy, without referring to those days; yet I find it almost impossible to speak of them. They involve too many things that must never be published."

Derek checked the cassette to make sure it was nowhere near the end of a reel. "Yes?" he said helpfully.

"Maybe you
can
advise me, Derek. There must be a way to speak secretly about these things ... to make myself understood without being explicit or too grim. As I've said before, I don't want people to lose heart. I want to improve lives, not fill them with fear. But for me, knowing what I know, it is impossible not to feel fear every moment. Resistance is a constant battle-it takes all my will not to give in. The same knowledge might overcome weaker souls. Evangeline never really understood, for which I give thanks every day; but it was through her—damn the corruptors—through her that I learned the truth."

Eli was silent a long while. Derek said nothing. He set the recorder on pause, thinking to get up and brew a fresh pot of coffee, then either embark on a new subject or say his farewells.

As he was rising, Eli said, "I'll need your help."

"Certainly." Derek was already up. "What can I do?"

"In the hall closet, on the top shelf. I had one of my nurses put it there after Evangeline's death, so I wouldn't be able to reach it, wouldn't be tempted."

Derek located the closet in the small hall adjacent to the living room.

"There's a box," came Eli's voice. "You'll see it. Be careful, though, it's heavy with books. Bring it down."

Derek opened the closet, which he had eyed curiously on numerous occasions, expecting it to be full of magical talismans and ritual costumes, carved staves and shamanic animal masks. Instead he found several overcoats and a vacuum cleaner. Above, on a shelf, was a stack of shoe boxes labeled "Snapshots," "Cards," "Grandchildren." Next to these was a larger cardboard box, unmarked, which proved to be not quite as heavy as Eli had led him to believe. He got it down without much trouble. When he set it at the old man's feet, Eli stared at it without blinking, his lips and jaws trembling.

"Shall I make more coffee?" Derek said.

Eli made no reply.

Derek busied himself in the kitchen. By the time he returned with two full cups, Eli was leaning over, trying to fumble at the folded flaps without much success.

Derek squatted down and quickly threw the flaps open, hearing a sharp gasp from Eli as he did so.

At first Derek wasn't sure what he was seeing. The box was packed with some loose, soft material—a pliant foam padding, but strangely patterned and colored, like handmade paper. He dug under this stuff, exposing the covers of some old ledger books with red binding and black spines. Thinking these the main object of Eli's fear, he pulled out the packing material and flung it aside with a swift motion that caused it to unravel.

Eli cried out, rolling backward nearly to the kitchen. Derek stared in horror at what he had so casually drawn from the box. It was as if a third presence had joined them, invited but unwelcome all the same.

A complete human skin, rumpled from long confinement, lay spread out on the carpet.

Had it been an ordinary human skin, repulsion might have been all Derek felt. But this sallow hide was riddled with bright lichenous tattoos in dark blues, brownish reds, and dirty greens. The patterns were circular, wheels of all sizes, and none was identical. They speckled the shoulders, the back, and the winglike shreds that fanned out to either side ... wings with nipples centered high on each of them. The circles covered buttocks, thighs, calves, and arms, running right to the ragged hems of ankle, wrist, and neck. Derek found himself counting the blotches, as if the mundane task would restore his sense of proportion.