person, leaned close as the password was whispered to her. I couldn’t quite make it out, but thought they may have been saying “stardust”. It all put me in mind of Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven, and I was careful not to smile.
“The current password is known to all but one,” Mandy said.
“Sister,” Neal said, addressing me, “you are witnessing a great and secret tradition. Do you agree not to share what you see and hear tonight?”
“Yes,” I said, with all due circumstance. I was lying,of course. I thought I may never see these people again, so it hardly mattered what kind of promises I made.
Neal looked around at the others, waited a few moments. “Brothers and sisters, let us invoke the Higher.”
Much muttering and mumbling followed, accompanied by a thorough censing of the room in sandalwood, and a bit of water from a silver goblet being splashed about. They walked right and then left in a circular pattern, held hands, drew pentagrams in the air, called out spells, invoked deities long-since discredited, and paraded about like self-important extras in a B-grade fifties Biblical epic. I admit, I wholly admit, that I took none of it in the least seriously. I watched and I listened, and I drew my conclusions. Despite their ridiculous behaviour, and despite the studied seriousness they all cultivated, it was abundantly clear that they were having the time of their lives. This was a cubbyhouse gang for grown-ups.
As the ritual wore on, I started to consider my options. There was nothing sinister enough here to provide an angle for a Hallowe’en article; but this was an interesting group of people indulging in an unusual practice. Was it worth more than a two-thousand word piece in
Foxy
mag? An Irish anthropologist had once made a killing writing a book about the time she spent practising as a witch with a coven in Chicago. Was there a book in this? Could I investigate these people, learn what motivated them, write an interesting account that would sell well in hardback?
Two questions plagued me: was it ethical, and what kind of advance would it be worth?
“You have a lot to think about,” Neal said to me later, unwittingly hitting on the very reason I had become distant and quiet.
“Yes, I have,” I said.
“We’re very happy to have you as an initiate in our Lodge,” Chloe said, “but it’s loads of work.”
“You’d have to learn the godforms,” Deirdre said, blinking rapidly, “and the Sephiroth, and the Hebrew alphabet.”
I nodded. “It’s what I really want to do.”
“Neal is a great teacher,” Chloe said, sliding a proud arm around her husband.
“I’m eager to learn.”
“It’s decided then,” said Neal. “I’ll give you some reading material, and you can work towards your initiation. Welcome, Sophie. You’re one of us.”
I began to learn. This involved daily thought exercises and meditations. It meant beginning to understand the complex chains of correspondences which revolved around Hebrew letters and the ten stations on the Tree of Life. My contact with the “unseen” world up until this point was limited. My Catholic father and Protestant mother had dealt with the problem of religion by introducing me to neither faith and hoping I would one day choose a side for myself. I wasn’t even sure what star sign I was, given that some horoscope columns said that I was Capricorn, and some said I was Aquarius. I had a lot of information to fit into my brain, and it took up a lot of my time. Luckily, I have a good memory, so when Neal insisted on meeting me for lunch in Soho midway through the week, I could recite back to him some information about the Sephiroth and which pillars they were on.
“Good, good,” he said. “Your enthusiasm is paying off already.”
I curled some fettuccine onto my fork. We were sitting in a grubby trattoria on Old Compton Road. “How long have you been involved in the Lodge?” I asked.
“Let me see … four years with the Seven
“The current password is known to all but one,” Mandy said.
“Sister,” Neal said, addressing me, “you are witnessing a great and secret tradition. Do you agree not to share what you see and hear tonight?”
“Yes,” I said, with all due circumstance. I was lying,of course. I thought I may never see these people again, so it hardly mattered what kind of promises I made.
Neal looked around at the others, waited a few moments. “Brothers and sisters, let us invoke the Higher.”
Much muttering and mumbling followed, accompanied by a thorough censing of the room in sandalwood, and a bit of water from a silver goblet being splashed about. They walked right and then left in a circular pattern, held hands, drew pentagrams in the air, called out spells, invoked deities long-since discredited, and paraded about like self-important extras in a B-grade fifties Biblical epic. I admit, I wholly admit, that I took none of it in the least seriously. I watched and I listened, and I drew my conclusions. Despite their ridiculous behaviour, and despite the studied seriousness they all cultivated, it was abundantly clear that they were having the time of their lives. This was a cubbyhouse gang for grown-ups.
As the ritual wore on, I started to consider my options. There was nothing sinister enough here to provide an angle for a Hallowe’en article; but this was an interesting group of people indulging in an unusual practice. Was it worth more than a two-thousand word piece in
Foxy
mag? An Irish anthropologist had once made a killing writing a book about the time she spent practising as a witch with a coven in Chicago. Was there a book in this? Could I investigate these people, learn what motivated them, write an interesting account that would sell well in hardback?
Two questions plagued me: was it ethical, and what kind of advance would it be worth?
“You have a lot to think about,” Neal said to me later, unwittingly hitting on the very reason I had become distant and quiet.
“Yes, I have,” I said.
“We’re very happy to have you as an initiate in our Lodge,” Chloe said, “but it’s loads of work.”
“You’d have to learn the godforms,” Deirdre said, blinking rapidly, “and the Sephiroth, and the Hebrew alphabet.”
I nodded. “It’s what I really want to do.”
“Neal is a great teacher,” Chloe said, sliding a proud arm around her husband.
“I’m eager to learn.”
“It’s decided then,” said Neal. “I’ll give you some reading material, and you can work towards your initiation. Welcome, Sophie. You’re one of us.”
I began to learn. This involved daily thought exercises and meditations. It meant beginning to understand the complex chains of correspondences which revolved around Hebrew letters and the ten stations on the Tree of Life. My contact with the “unseen” world up until this point was limited. My Catholic father and Protestant mother had dealt with the problem of religion by introducing me to neither faith and hoping I would one day choose a side for myself. I wasn’t even sure what star sign I was, given that some horoscope columns said that I was Capricorn, and some said I was Aquarius. I had a lot of information to fit into my brain, and it took up a lot of my time. Luckily, I have a good memory, so when Neal insisted on meeting me for lunch in Soho midway through the week, I could recite back to him some information about the Sephiroth and which pillars they were on.
“Good, good,” he said. “Your enthusiasm is paying off already.”
I curled some fettuccine onto my fork. We were sitting in a grubby trattoria on Old Compton Road. “How long have you been involved in the Lodge?” I asked.
“Let me see … four years with the Seven
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