THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (30 page)

‘A bit dark in here, isn’t it?’ Herman comments as they continue on down.

‘Rascham has no need of light,’ Hanno replies with an obvious smugness.

‘Ah yes, Lord of the Darkened Way, isn’t that so?’ Herman remarks. ‘But is he really blind?’

‘
Blindness
… what is blindness?’ Hanno muses. ‘It is humankind that is blind. Blinded by ignorance. Humankind knows nothing.’

‘Oh really?’ Herman responds with amusement, and not attempting to hide his contempt for the other man’s pseudo wisdom. ‘What about an engineer, or a doctor, then, Hanno? What about a man who builds a steamship or a great bridge - does he know nothing?’

‘Ah … given a few million years and you can teach a monkey to do those thing - monkeys just like us, ha ha!’ Hanno replies, undaunted. ‘Only Rascham - he is not like us. The Lord of the Darkened Way can see what no one else can. He can see the future. He can gaze into the souls of men. Even though his eyes do not work, he can tell when people are pretending to be something they are not.’

Trying not to take this as a threat, Herman continues on in silence, hoping he is not walking to his own oblivion in this dark and desolate place. Contained and nurtured within this building could well be minds of exceptional psychic ability, skilled in the reception of thoughts and emotions. And so, with a little tug of the sash about his shoulder, he reminds himself that he is, indeed, a novice amid such an unusual and sophisticated congregation, and that he must never forget it.

A final set of double doors, and Herman finds himself in what appears to be some kind of formal presence chamber for his audience with the great man - it can only be he - seated motionless like some mighty Buddha on a dais at the far end of an otherwise sparsely furnished space.

‘Listen, I have a train to catch,’ Hanno whispers, to Herman’s surprise, as if confiding a slightly subversive intention, ‘and it’s a long way to the nearest station, right? I leave you with Rascham. Be good.’

Perhaps the fellow would normally be expected to linger somewhere close at hand, Herman reflects - but he seems keen to be off, closing the door very softly, without sound, behind him as he goes. And Herman certainly has no wish to detain him.

The unseeing Rascham, meanwhile, and who has remained silent, without reaction upon their arrival, says nothing. It is as if he were trying to sense Herman’s presence rather than wanting to question him or to talk. The silence here, in the depth of the mountain, is extraordinary - immense. It is a silence unlike any he has ever experienced or even believed could be possible. His own breath is like the waves of an ocean in this silence, his heartbeat like a mighty drum, the blood coursing through his veins and hissing in his ears like a hurricane.

Above he notices a shaft of daylight emanating from an aperture high in the chamber, surrounded by panels of stained glass, and this provides a certain opalescence to the atmosphere, along with a more concentrated beam, angled downwards and directly onto the dais and the face of Rascham himself who continues to sit in concentrated silence, reminding Herman of some menacing reptile waiting with infinite patience and, save for a slight, rhythmic swaying motion of the body, utterly still - as Herman standing silently also, his eyes gradually becoming accustomed to the darkness, continues to wait … and to wait.

The mantra’s sound fades; her thoughts transcend the familiar realm of the senses. The pure space of meditation should open up to her then, she knows. But it fails to do so. Again this afternoon, as so often of late, it evades her bidding. What can be wrong? Her achievements during the first few months after joining the Society had been spectacular, and the disciplines she had learned had taken her to spiritual heights she had never imagined could exist until then. But now what’s this? There is nothing - nothing but confusion - a melancholic silence punctuated by strange voices and memories. Her mother is in her meditations, her mother’s love and devotion - almost tangible, those long-forgotten feelings mixed with all manner of recollections of childhood and adolescence, like a kind of juvenile homesickness - only amplified ten-fold.

For the past several days it has been like this; with the passing of that most festive and loving of seasons, the winter solstice and Christmas, it is as if her spirit-self has begun to draw upon the past, upon her mother’s amazing mental strength, something that had so often motivated and enthralled her as a child. She remembers the stories at bedtime, the country walks and horse riding through the lush green country fields and woods. She remembers long summer evenings in the garden at home, of pets and animals whose lives they shared, of fantastic stories and tales of heroic deeds - and of the simple wonderment at nature’s mysteries, the trees and wild flowers, mushrooms and herbs, and the bees her mother would keep at the end of the garden, too - always introducing her to one sacred mystery after another as if divulging the source of some great lineage of arcane secrets.

Heavens! She had thought she had left all this behind - imagined she had succeeded at last in growing up, discarding all those illusory infantile attachments of family and friendships - just as they told her she would. But this afternoon she is a child once again, her mother’s invisible hand smoothing away her cares, her lovely serene face in the light of the hearth fire appearing again and again before her, full of humour and tenderness.

In this bleak and friendless place, the anguish is almost too much to endure. And as a tear forms and trickles down her cheek, she realises she will have to consider withdrawing from her meditation - yes, if only for a moment, stretch out her legs and allow herself to sink back, supine onto the prayer mat where she lays herself down, wanting so much to be hugged, wanting so much to hold tight and cling to the forgotten sensation of love.

‘Return to your meditations at once, Penelope,’ her personal mentor, Frau Weiss, murmurs firmly - Frau Weiss, the formidable woman who supervises her training, in addition to just about everything else these days; her meals, her sleep; her entire daily routine on an almost constant basis in this secluded place. She is behind her now, as so often here in her private chambers - helping her to sit up once more, and none too gently, into her cross-legged position. ‘When there are temptations,’ the woman continues in her sturdy Germanic tones, ‘fill your mind only with devotion to Rascham. Remember, Rascham is your lord and master, your father and husband, your body and soul. Concentrate.’

She closes her moist eyes once more and, as the other woman leaves her, begins the mantra softly under her breath yet again:

Rascham, Rascham, Rascham,

Lord of the Darkened Way,

Rascham, Rascham, Rascham ...

The tears do not cease, however, and she feels so cold and desolate, and so very alone.

It seems like an age to Herman as he waits here in the hall, without any response to his presence from the great man - and with little sign of life at all, in fact, save for that same peculiar rocking back and forth motion of his body, as if in time to the rhythm of his breathing or - as Herman senses now with a most chilling clarity - with Herman’s own breathing. Rascham has somehow aligned his senses with that of his visitor’s most vital of faculties, the breath of life itself. It is a most disconcerting sensation, an unease compounded by the recollection of Hanno’s parting words - having a train to catch, he had said. Has he gone again upon a mission in search of Deborah? Unfinished business? The possibility fills him with a mild state of panic, that he should be stuck here, powerless.

Then, without hurry, the guru gets to his feet, steps down and walks slowly, sedately towards him, his floor-length black and silver braided robes sliding, hissing upon the flagstones as he approaches. Herman’s heart pounds with anxiety and revulsion as Rascham subsequently extends both his hands, like the antennae of some obnoxious insect, feeling the energy of Herman’s presence, his tongue showing between his lips, almost in reptilian manner as if tasting the air, and with a face, Herman can see now, badly pockmarked, most likely due to smallpox or some such illness. The sight engenders in Herman’s imagination scenes of a grim childhood in some distant land of poverty and deprivation, though here today it seems also to be a face of indolence, well fed and bloated with all the excesses of appetite and greed. And really, anything but holy.

Herman knows he must continue to respond positively, however, to somehow project thoughts only of respect for the embodied force of evil standing there before him - for evil it undoubtedly is. He feels that with every fibre of his being - the sense of sympathy and care one would normally feel for one with such an affliction completely driven from Herman’s mind at present. Meanwhile, Rascham’s fingers, extending beneath his voluminous brocaded sleeves, come ever closer until they begin to touch and wander about Herman’s face, feeling, sensing, as he probes with the lightest of touches. Something inside of Herman, wants to scream as the fingers extend down the sides of his neck and across his throat. But he holds fast, struggling to summon up thoughts of veneration, thoughts of respect - knowing he must maintain focus or be destroyed. He pictures in his mind those men he has admired in the past, therefore: his masters at Cambridge, his father, also, and these thoughts go some way towards diverting his profound sense of repugnance: a kind of psychic play-acting, in fact, and probably the most important performance of his life.

‘What can you do for me?’ comes the slow, hissing yet immensely resonant voice of the man in the silence of the chamber, and in an accent impenetrable, and certainly not English or German.

‘To accelerate with your guidance the end of this corrupt and ailing world,’ Herman replies, hoping his intuition will guide him.

‘Ah, you have power,’ Rascham whispers, retreating somewhat as if to feel again with outstretched palms the energy field about Herman’s body.

‘I dedicate what modest strength I may possess to the fulfilment of your purpose,’ Herman states, obsequious to the point of absurdity, yet it seems to be perfectly suitable under such circumstances.

Satisfied, Rascham turns and, with his robes hissing once more upon the paving of the floor, slowly climbs back onto his dais where he rearranges, and with inordinate care, his elaborate lengths of clothing about himself. All is deeply silent for a moment until, motioning with a subtle wave of the hand and confident Herman’s eyes would still be upon him, he signals for his guest to approach and to sit at his feet. With no possible alternative, Herman complies and places himself, seated askance, at the foot of the dais.

‘Some questions ...’ Rascham begins. ‘In the best traditions of mystic initiation, yes? And especially for those who would rise so far, and so very fast.’

He almost sounds amused, Herman thinks, a barely discernible smile playing at the corners of his fleshy mouth.

‘Question number one. Who am I?’ he asks.

‘Rascham, Lord of the Darkened Way,’ Herman answers, knowing he will need to second-guess the thoughts of this accursed creature if he possibly can - otherwise Rascham would perceive his duplicity and all would be lost.

‘Correct. Question number two: What am I?’

‘You are to the true God what the Baptist was to Christ.’

‘Oh, good - very good. I like that. Very deep. Most profound. Final question. What lies at the other side of the curtained doorway behind me - can you see it?’

Herman strains his eyes in the darkness. Behind the dais is an elaborately beaded curtain. ‘Twelve disciples,’ Herman replies, hearing a voice in his head, one of his spirit guides whom he fervently hopes is in a helpful mood today.

‘No, you are wrong,’ Rascham replies, almost exultantly. ‘There are just four,’ he adds with a teasing lilt to his voice, as if delighting in the ideas springing back and forth between the two minds. ‘At this time, three others of my most intimate circle of devotees are asleep in their chambers. Four others are absent on missions abroad from which they might not return. Thus, my entire retinue at present numbers just eleven - an unfortunate state of affairs, for did the man you referred to a moment ago not have
twelve
disciples who sat at his table?’

‘Yes … yes, it is the number of completion,’ Herman replies, wondering if he is expected to answer at all. But Rascham seems unconcerned over his interjection. He merely smiles once again, self-satisfied.

‘The number of completion … yes, that is correct,’ Rascham responds. ‘Yet never easy to attain. Devotees must come and go, live and die. And sometimes they must also be sacrificed - their number always in a state of flux, as is all of life on the earthly plane. Do not be discouraged. You have answered two questions correctly, and the third
almost
correctly. And for this, you will be granted the initiation you desire. If you do not flinch from those tasks that will be set for you and at the same time comply with our rules on surrendering all worldly possessions, you will be numbered among the initiates of our order. You will wear the purple robes of honour and will be assured of immortality.’

Herman mutters a few words of gratitude, at which the master with a magnanimous smile of self-congratulation, waves his hand just the once to signal the audience is at an end and that Herman may depart - and this he does with the utmost alacrity, closing the big oak doors behind him and returning upwards along the passageway, still half-expecting, despite his escort’s earlier protestations about having to leave to ‘catch a train,’ to find the spectre of Hanno or some other lackey in the blue serge uniform waiting for him at the top.

But no: there is no one. And so, aware of being presented with an opportunity that might never be repeated, Herman removes his shoes and tip-toes back as quickly as he can to listen outside the same doors he had closed behind him with such relief only a minute earlier. There is now an almost unbearable suspense for Herman as he weighs up the chances of being detected. Supposing the man were about to follow him out from the chamber? Supposing at any moment he would open the door and find him standing there? But no … instead, there is the faintest and most-distinctive sound of a beaded curtain being disturbed far back in the chamber - surely the one Rascham had indicated behind the dais, for there was no other.

An unstoppable curiosity drives Herman on now as gradually, he eases the doors of the entrance apart and peeps between them to confirm whether Rascham had indeed left the chamber. He has. The shaft of light is still shining down, but the throne on which it is focused is vacant.

What might there be behind that curtain? This is what Herman needs to find out. Wasting no time, he walks on, rounding the dais, pausing to listens again. The curtain, which is composed of numerous strands of what appear to be precious stones, hangs in all its splendour before him, trembling and rustling whenever there is turbulence in the air. A number of tiny bells chime and tinkle occasionally from places unseen, and he can also detect the faintest of chanting - not from directly behind the curtain but from a distance - a single voice, two at the most, the faintest of melodies rising above the otherwise intolerable silence of the place. And yet beneath all of this there is yet something more, something almost outside the range of human hearing - a low, underlying current, more a vibration in the ground than a definite noise, and which somehow has the effect of lulling Herman into an exceptionally tranquil, soporific state. Most peculiar. He feels his mind slowing down, his normally alert and observant consciousness mellowing and floating upon an atmosphere of somnolence, which in this most tense of situations is more than a little disconcerting. It makes it more and more difficult to concentrate or maintain a state of rational self-control.

Slowly, Herman eases the beaded strands of the curtain apart revealing an aperture - a rough hewn, narrow space in the wall leading into a substantial chamber where, in almost total darkness by this stage, he is assailed by wave after wave of warm and very humid air. There are sunken pools of water either side of him, he can see them faintly illuminated, effervescent and with tiny swirling clouds of steam rising from them - a luxurious hot spring here in the depths of the mountain. And it is this deep resonance of the waters, seeming to be channelled beneath his feet, that continues to lull Herman into what is surely becoming an almost mesmeric state as, driven still by an insatiable curiosity, he continues to advance.

Ahead, there hangs another beaded curtain, just visible in the gloom. Again, this one is composed of the most elaborate and extensive array of precious stones, of pearls, rubies and emeralds, interspersed with items of coral and shell. He becomes fascinated by all the tiny sparkles emanating from it, caught in what meagre light there is, all coloured and shimmering.

Then, without warning, disaster! The curtains part and through them comes a young woman, entirely unclothed. She is only a short distance from where he stands waiting for the inevitable scream and, with raised palms, an apology already shaping itself on his lips. And yet ... the scream does not come, and the young woman simply walks slowly across the chamber towards one of the pools.

Transfixed and puzzled, Herman watches as she steps with caution down into the water and commences bathing - her hands fumbling for a tiny vial of oil, dropping it, then fumbling again. With rich dark hair that falls in a host of tiny ringlets about her shoulders, this lovely girl is clearly as blind as her master Rascham - beautiful, stunningly beautiful, without the cast to the eye that such disabilities often bring: yet blind.

Leaving her to her bathing, Herman is inevitably attracted more than ever towards the curtain through which she has entered, and this he silently draws apart, just a fraction, just sufficient to peer through the divide. The taut, rhythmic resonance inside his head has almost taken over now, so that every movement, every breath of his body floats and dances as if in a dream. The very air is sweet intoxication, fragrant with incense; and he is wondering if he has not already slipped away into some kind of trance.

And yet if his hold on the normal process of consciousness has, indeed, already been loosened, then what he beholds next is even more disorienting and not the stuff of reality at all. There ahead of him in almost total darkness is Rascham, lying naked upon an expanse of carpet and cushions with a trio of the most beautiful young women hovering in attendance. These are surely the disciples, the dark angels he had somehow always suspected and yet dreaded would be installed here at Schloss Lethe. One such, a supple young woman with braided fair hair is astride him, moving, swaying to and fro very slowly with extraordinary flexibility of her hips, pausing for long periods, totally still before moving again.

Another young woman, darker-skinned, bejewelled and exotic, is seated behind the man, her legs entwined beneath his neck and serving thereby to create a pillow for his head. Chanting softly a melodious song-like mantra, she has an oriental face, possibly Japanese, and in-between bouts of chanting, she stretches her body, again and again, leaning backwards and forwards alternately in an ecstasy of carnal self-indulgence - while yet another, her features more difficult to see in the gloom, appears at first to be stationed slightly above and to the side, her body prone upon an altar-like structure that dominates the rear of the space and where, arching her back, she exchanges at leisure one yogic asana for another, from ‘cobra’ to ‘locust’ to ‘bow’ - a lithesome, exotic creature lost in the depths of her own sensuality, coaxing her limbs into the pleasure of each movement until, gradually, she allows herself to twist and spiral forwards and down, extending her hands and fingers across the flesh of the man beneath.