Ian Barrett's Tale - Part the First.
The decline of summer - Cleve has assisted - The winter bear - A reversal of fortunes - Dr. Wu's lecture - The One King's Fool.
The decline of summer
It’s
August.
There
is a long calm that comes in and permeates the bricked halls and low dormitories
of Tower College now, coming down from the wide northern vineyards and the lake
country, settling in the rolling hills where the college sits like a sentinel
between tangled Otherwood and the city of Norton.
It’s a calm of late summer, long heat, quiet days.
Only a few students, serious and scholarly, attend to the business of
their studies at this time. Afternoons
resound with the lull of insect song, lazy and mindless, a sound with all the
pervasive qualities of silence, stretching into evenings that come late and slow
and with reluctance.
Norton
is an old town, old without precious quaintness. It is a bookish college town that seems to tolerate the
encroaching newness of its neoned streets with amused detachment, as an
eccentric professor might put on some flashy garment by way of humoring his
pupils. These days, even the
city’s most urban districts are quiet more often than not, as in their spare,
cloistered rooms at Tower the students turn in early or spend their evenings in
studious contemplation. Night life
here is a handful of hours over coffee and poetry in the corner of some half-lit
café, or haunting the used-book shops along Morgan Street as the sun sinks over
the wooded hills to the west.
It’s
August. Here already the living
green has started to fade, hinting at the harvest browns that will come with
autumn. It’s August, and summer
has begun its slow decline, making the long days into a kind of bright perpetual
twilight, melancholy and pale. This
is in-between time, ending time, dying time.
Before the leaves fall, long before the first killing frost, the dry
fields are preparing for death, and over them comes an air of hushed
unearthliness.
It
is at the threshold between afternoon and evening in this season that the long
gray bus pulls into the terminal and discharges its few passengers.
One of these is a young man who is carrying, by way of a suitcase, a
single large bag over his shoulder, and an unwieldy leather portfolio in his
hand. He has a ten-day growth of
beard, a new development for him. His name is Ian. He
has come to his new home.
As
he stops at a station bench for long enough to check the address scrawled on a
piece of yellow paper kept safe in his trouser pocket, elswhere in the city a
woman is kneeling on the floor of her second-story walkup, in a room that smells
of sandalwood and cigar smoke, and she has just taken off her glasses to rub her
eyes in frustration and fatigue, as she tries to decipher the complex spread of
cards in front of her that seems to hinge on three potent trumps: the Magician,
the Emperor, the Fool . . .
And
in another room, in another part of the city, where the curtains have been drawn
against the descending sun, a man lifts a long black cigarette to his lips and
lights it, filling the air with a sweetly spiced smoke. He looks at where the
heavy draperies are half-illumined from the other side, translucent and golden,
and sighs.
From
the massive carved chair in the corner, where the diffused sun cannot unknit the
shadows, a voice speaks, low and deep; it is a voice made of winecasks and
weathered oak. “What are you
thinking, old friend?”
The
man with the spiced cigarette turns from the curtained window.
His head is an unruly tangle of long, slender dreadlocks.
“I’m thinking of summers and how they end.
I’m thinking of cello music played in dusty rooms.
I’m thinking of the songs of frogs, and starshine on leaves, and a
beautiful boy in Greece who loved me for three days once.
I’m thinking of crows, gathering like clouds over the fields.”
He pauses to draw on his cigarette.
“Does that answer your question?”
The
shadow in the chair stirs a little, to the sound of old wood creaking.
“Ah, I think I can unriddle you there. ‘Love that which the sun loves
in the sun’s time, and walk in kindness the paths of winter.’
Is that it?”
“Something
like that. Or just run-of-the-mill
melancholy. I don’t know.
I think I’ve just been dancing on the fringes for too long, and find
I’m unprepared for . . . all this.”
A
long pause, where the only sound is the drone of the insects ouside, hidden in
their secret places in the wood. And
then: “We are the stewards, Jack. This
is our charge. We made that
decision a long time ago.”
“Maybe.
I thought I made a different one. I’m
not sure now.” Another pause. “Either
way, it’s a terrible responsibility.”
At
this, only silence comes from the shadowed chair. And this could be assent, or it could be something else
entirely.
Now
Ian is making his way through the maze of Norton’s streets to where Tower
stands overlooking the woods, his bag slung across his shoulder.
Here the avenues are paved with brick as often as not, between buildings
that seem to have selected their architecture at a kind of banquet. Styles and
elements combine in a strange alchemy of Classical, colonial, modern, Baroque.
And many of the buildings seem to have been oddly designed, or expanded
in unusual ways, with wings or turrets or gables sprouting from them in a marked
disregard for balance or symmetry.
Cleve has assisted
Ian,
I
cannot tell you how pleased I was to hear that you were taking me up on my offer
to find you accomodations in Norton. I
think you’ll find that Ashley House will provide you with both quiet and
inspiration – not to mention that your new proximity to an artistic, academic
community will provide you with resources you did not, perhaps, have access to
before. I do not doubt but
that your craft will continue to flourish as you take root in this new soil.
The
reissued Sanguinaria, by the way, is
doing even better than I had hoped to expect, in no small part thanks to you.
Your illustrations are all I could have hoped for; it’s truly as though
my vision is made manifest by your hand. It
has been a pleasure collaborating with you, and I look forward to both our
future work together and having a meeting in person sometime.
If I have not said so enough before, thank you.
Zacharias Cleve
The winter bear
August
3
Orion’s,
late morning. Third cup of coffee.
Some
much-needed head-clearing. Fucking
cards gave me a migraine yesterday, and by the time it passed I didn’t have
anything like the will to give them another try. Had a walk, lit up a really fabulous Dominican maduro I’d
been saving for a month, and watched a glorious sunset from a bench on Prospect
Street. I could feel the evening
wanting to get cool already, like autumn’s anxious to get started.
This is always a weird time – godawful hot days and chilly nights.
I’m looking forward to being able to just break out the Big Coat and be
done with it.
Came
back home and dreamwalked to a part of the Labyrinth I absolutely know I visited
not five days ago, and found it had changed – shifted around in a couple of
completely unexpected ways. It took
some doing getting out of there, and more than a little trial and error.
Not quite scary so much as disconcerting and weird.
I tried to investigate what was behind it, but when I went Deeper it
turned out the guardian had changed on the gate I wanted to use – a huge,
primordial bear in a starlit winter glade, pierced in the side by a spear. It asked my name and didn’t like when I gave “Jenny
Haniver,” so now I’m at a bit of an impasse.
I decided in the end to come back and look into it later, when I’m a
little less frustrated. Maybe
Murdoch or Jack will have some insight into this that will give me some clue to
unraveling it.
Speaking
of which, I went to Ashley House this morning to return Jack’s copy of of the Codex
and got a first look at the new lodger. Guy
named Ian who’s apparently a painter. Nice
guy, if not much of a morning person, and kind of cute and appealing in a
rumpled, bohemian sort of way. (Not
that I have a lot of room to talk.) Did
pick up an artist vibe coming off him in a big way, though there’s nothing
else about him I can really get a bead on yet.
Should
go home and get some rest. Doing a
shift at the Library tonight – not especially exciting, but the extra
money’s nice. It’s been a while
since I heard from the Old Man. I’d
be inclined to be concerned if I didn’t damn well know better.
On the other hand, as weird as yesterday was, nothing would surprise me.
A reversal of fortunes
Kate,
Well,
it’s more or less official now. Your
baby brother is now living as a first-class starving Artiste.
I’ve been settled in for three days & have already turned my room
into a studio – I was fortunate enough to get south-facing windows &
therefore great sunlight most of the day – & I’m hard at work on the
cover of the new Alan Gemini book. (It’s
called Elagabalus, & it’s set in the Roman Empire, & no, I
don’t think you’d like it much.)
Not
sure what I did to deserve all this – doing artwork for these big-time famous
writers like Alan (not being precious, he really wants to be called that) &
Zacharias Cleve. Even more
fortunate to be working with guys like that who have a say in the art that’s
used for their books – you have no idea how rare that is.
Got to admit that I take some satisfaction in this, given how you always
used to make fun of me for drawing monsters when we were kids.
See? Maybe there’s a
future in it after all. There
better be – I’m not going back to the file-clerk stuff.
I don’t care what kind of doors it might open for me.
I’m happier now than I can recall being in a very long time.
I’m more convinced than ever now that the beard was a
good decision. It just felt right,
you know? Like all of a sudden it
was unnatural scraping it all off every morning. Maybe you’ll feel different
about it next time you see me & it’s all come in.
As
you might have seen in my return address, I’m living in this place called
Ashley House – it’s this big old boarding-house right near the college at
the edge of town. (You were right,
by the way – I didn’t find “Tower College of Art” in any of the
registries I looked in, either. I
get the impression it’s a pretty private school, for whatever that’s worth. Who knows.) Anyway,
it’s everything you might expect out of the kind of place it is, huge &
ancient & a little spooky. Full of all these offbeat characters.
The landlord lives on the ground floor – he’s this big, red-haired
bear of a guy named Tom Rowan who spends a lot of time sitting around in big
chairs with a book & a pipe. Makes me think of Walt Whitman as a retired
rugby player. Seems like a good sort of guy to rent from, kind of like an old
hippie professor that’s settled down, & I hear he’s got a brewery down
in the basement, which sure puts him on the Good List as far as I’m concerned.
The
boarder down the hall from me – I’m on the second floor – is Jack, who
looks a little like a reggae version of a railway hobo; he seems to be made
entirely out of dreadlocks & layers of patched clothes. I have no idea what he does other than come & go at all
kinds of bizarre hours & smoke clove cigarettes.
Real nice guy, though. Really
helped me get settled here & get to know the house a little, & he says
he’ll show me around town if I want. Good
to have an ally. Also got to meet
his friend (or maybe girlfriend, I don’t know) Jenny, who seems alright, if a
little aloof & weird. Bit of a
quiet nerdy type, not that that’s bad.
Haven’t
really met anyone else yet – seems like mostly students at the college –
except for the girl who lives upstairs from me, Lola, with whom I had a brief
conversation in the kitchen on my second morning. She’s also a student & plays the guitar.
(I hear her from time to time. She’s
pretty good.) I liked her, even
though she seems a little . . . I guess melancholy’s the word.
Pale, wears black all the time. You
know.
Otherwise
things are good all around so far. I
get a lot of work done, even more than I thought I could – it’s like
something about being here is allowing all this to come out of me in a rush.
It’s a good place to be, & if I’m ever stuck I can go down to the
library (oh yeah, there’s one in the house – they call it the “Yellow
Chamber,” & I understand it sometimes even loans out to the big Library on
campus) & find some strange old book or just a little quiet.
Very different pace from my life previously.
Anyway,
that’s all I have to tell so far. Not
sure when I’ll be coming to visit, as I’ll have to see how the funds are as
things progress. Probably I’ll be
down around the winter holidays, if not before.
I confess I miss you, & Baltimore.
Not enough to change my mind, though.
I’m
sorry if this development in my life isn’t exactly what you would’ve wanted
for me. I know you’re interested
in my happiness. Believe me,
that’s what I’m interested in too. You’ll
just have to trust me that my version of success isn’t going to be the same as
yours. If you could do your best to
be just slightly happy for me, it would mean the world. For what it’s worth, I do hope all the best for you in your
own work, too.
Write
back. More later.
Ian
Dr. Wu's Lecture
“Good
morning. As this will be our last
session prior to the final, we’ll cover something we glossed briefly over in
an earlier lesson in slightly more detail today.
If you’ll turn in the Treatises
to the third chapter, I’d like to talk for a bit about Lander Thrace’s model
and the Seven Pillars.
“As
you’ll recall, the Covenantus Lander Thrace developed this model during the
First Building, wherein he envisioned a great temple with Art as the roof, the
Eldritch as the foundation, and the structure supported by seven Pillars which
he considered to be the core principles of the adept’s practice.
It was a symbology that was followed closely during the latter part of
the First Building and the time subsequent, and indeed has had more than a
little influence on our approach to the Art ever since, although as we’ve seen
there have been certain challenges to it down the eras.
“As
you can see diagrammed in the text, reading in sequence from left to right, the
seven Pillars are Will, Order, Rite, Discipline, Sympathy, Entropy, and
Submission. And you’ll note that
in that sequence they describe an adept’s journey, as well as illustrating in
their arrangement the relation of the components of practice to each other –
e.g., Order and Entropy balance each other, but neither comes first or last, and
Discipline is at the center of all the others. And this model does, as I’m certain you can see, present a
picture of certain fundamental principles on which our Art is based.
“But
the Landerian model is subject to criticism as well. For one thing, though it’s an excellent symbology to
summarize what a practitioner should learn, it opens itself to flaws when used
as the basis for a student’s curriculum of craft – which is why we’ve
saved it until the end of the term instead of beginning with it. And, of course, there are disagreements, and well-founded
ones, to the philosophy that the practice of Art begins with Will, centers on
Discipline, and culminates in Submission, filling out with the other components
along the way. And it was
criticized even in its day for leaving out a Pillar that is arguably even more
fundamental than the others – Anyone want to take a guess? . . . No? –
Passion. Thrace spent some time
half-heartedly arguing that Passion was an Eldritch quality and belonged in the
model’s foundations, but it eventually came to be accepted among those who
used the Pillars as a tool that Passion must infuse every other component of
practice or else the entire structure is false, and so it came to be known as
the “invisible eighth Pillar” and left at that.
“Furthermore,
a debate inevitably arose concerning the interpretation of the problematic
seventh Pillar. It was generally
assumed that “Submission” was to be read as the adept’s submission to
forces and patterns greater than himself – but some saw that idea to be
included in Sympathy, which is not only the sympathy of symbols but also the
practitioner’s existing in sympathy with the rhythms of the energies of the
worlds. So, again inevitably, there
were those who read that the seventh Pillar denoted the submission of lesser
forces to the true adept, a reading with particular appeal, especially with its
connection to the number 7, to a certain sect or group of sects – Anyone? . .
. Yes, exactly, thank you, Joshua – the Enclave.
Falling on the significance of seven as a Chimaerical number, the Enclave
adopted a particularly skewed interpretation of the Landerian Pillars as their
own, with Submission standing for the eventual submission of the world, and
worlds, to the Chimaerae and their followers. And Thrace himself, long since
having disappeared from the circles of the Art, was unavailable to give the
“true” interpretation of his teaching.
“All
of which goes to show, once again, that any path, any learning, can be inverted
in the service of destruction instead of creation. That is the real difference between the choices made by the
Enclave and those of other practitioners – not a focus on Entropy over Order,
or the reverse, but the use of both Order and Entropy and all the other tools of
craft to tear down instead of build up. But,
of course, all of you will be able to draw your own conclusions on this subject
by now.
“That’s
all for today. Thank you all for
your attention, and for your attendance to this course over the summer months.
Hopefully I’ll see some of you back in a couple of weeks in the fall.
Good luck to all of you on the final.”
The One King's Fool
Jennifer,
I
was most distressed to hear of your recent frustrations.
Ours is, of course, a capricious art.
I may, however, be able to provide some small perspective to your
dilemma.
Obviously,
I lack your own perspective as a student of Skein and the Labyrinth, but I was
intrigued by your description of the wounded bear that hindered your progress.
I was some time pondering over why that image seemed familiar, until I
recalled The Book of Winters and the progress of Berengar Moran out of the
underworld. A great bear pierced by
a spear is the last guardian of the gates leading out of Hell, which Berengar
must best in a contest of riddles before he passes. I confess to more than a little surprise that Jack failed to
mention this when you asked him about it, and even more so that it was not among
the Berengar tales you had already heard from him.
The
significance of the bear is, unsurprisingly, not agreed upon by Berengar
scholars. I seem to recall that
your old master Dario saw it as the conquest of the dying winter, and that
others interpret it as the triumph of civilization over barbarism, both of which
I cannot help but feel are incomplete readings.
In any case, it seems that this is a portent for you, perhaps for all of
us, concerning the One King’s Fool. It
may be that Jack knows something of this he is reluctant to impart; if this is
what it appears to be, I can certainly sympathize. He has certainly waited a very long time for such a sign, and
is unlikely to want to speak too much of it.
Still, any insights you might glean from him would be, to say the least,
advantageous. I wish you the best
of luck in unraveling this mystery, and will continue to provide what assistance
I can should you require it.
Incidentally,
on another subject, I was paid a visit by none other than Zacharias Cleve the
other day, who was in high spirits. He
brought me a gift of the new illustrated edition of his Sanguinaria, which I confess I have not had the time to peruse in
detail, though it is clearly a beautiful book – bound in red leather, with
darkly evocative plates by an artist (Ian Barrett) whose work I have not
previously encountered. Cleve left
with the words, “I continue to find America to be a land of hidden treasures,
even after all this time.” If by
this he meant his gifted collaborator, I can see why.
I wish I had received your missive previous to his visit, though –
Cleve’s scholarship of Berengar lore is most impressive.
Should
you find the time and opportunity, I would very much enjoy a visit from you
sometime soon. It has been far too
long since you last graced my home with your presence.
In
the interim, take care. I hope to
hear from you again soon.
yr
obt. svt,
M. Murdoch
[his sign]