Decline in Prophets Read Free

exchanging suggestive witticisms with the Hoffman sisters, who were cruising to celebrate their recently
acquired status as widows. There were four Hoffmans, so their simultaneous bereavement seemed an alarming coincidence, but by all accounts it was a happy one. In his mid-thirties, Van Hook was a
native of Chicago, and one of the Theosophical movement’s inner circle, though he seemed to prefer his spirits in a glass. He had a fondness for cards and consequently, was often in their
company.
    “I’m in,” Rowland replied with a quick glance at Milton. Baccarat was a habit they had picked up on the Continent where it was a most fashionable pastime. Milton looked towards
Edna who was speaking to Jiddu Krishnamurti of her work. The sculptress liked to go dancing in the evenings. As Rowland was still unable to do so, and Clyde loathed dancing, she relied on Milton to
escort her… initially at least.
    Milton’s eyes moved briefly to Orville Urquhart. “I’m coming,” he announced, deciding that Urquhart could take Edna onto the dance floor if she really had to go.
Otherwise she could spend the evening counting chakras with the once World Prophet.
    “I demand that we be relocated, forthwith!”
    Rowland’s head snapped up towards the minor commotion at the next table.
    A heavy-set man of the cloth was remonstrating with the harried purser who was doing his best to minimise the unfortunate scene.
    “It’s bad enough that his kind is allowed aboard, but I will not dine within arm’s reach—it is an affront… to me and the Church!”
    The purser tried valiantly in the awkward silence that followed to resolve the issue with the least amount of fuss and embarrassment. The bishop and his party were directed to an alternative
table well on the other side of the dining room.
    Annie Besant was the first to speak. “Ignorant buffoon!”
    “Come now, Amma,” Jiddu Krishnamurti soothed. “The ignorant are more in need of understanding than those whose minds are open…”
    Annie Besant snorted. “You are right of course, Jiddu.”
    Krishnamurti expanded and expounded on his message of tolerance and love for one’s fellow man, regardless of whether it was reciprocated. Milton caught Rowland’s eye and grimaced.
They all liked the Indian holy man, but he did have a tendency to go on. Annie Besant noticed Rowland’s fleeting smile and returned her hand to his knee.
    “Jiddu is a good man,” she said quietly. “In the end he was too good to fulfil his destiny.”
    Rowland turned towards her once again. He knew that Krishnamurti had been the Theosophical movement’s anointed world leader, thought to be a reincarnation of Christ. He had been discovered
in India as a small boy and raised by Annie Besant herself. And then, just a couple of years before he was expected to take the mantle of world teacher, he had repudiated the title and left the
movement, though apparently his ties with its leaders were still strong.
    “Jiddu feels that the individual must come to enlightenment through his own realisation and not through the teachings of another. For this reason he walked away from the Society.”
She sighed as she reflected. “Not everyone took it well.”
    Rowland nodded. Few religions would take the loss of their prophet well. “It must have been disappointing,” he muttered.
    Annie nodded and patted his knee. “We had been preparing for so long, you see. Even in your Sydney, our Mr. Leadbeater had everything ready. But perhaps that is what Jiddu had to teach
us… that we must go on ourselves.”
    Suddenly she gasped. The hand on his knee clutched. Rowland stiffened in response and regarded the matriarch with concern. The colour had drained from her face.
    “Are you unwell, Annie?”
    She said nothing for a moment, breathless, and then, “The veil was opened again… just briefly… so briefly. I caught a glimpse of what your life holds, dear boy,” she
said, fortifying herself from the wineglass