Denn die Todten reiten schnell

Friday, 11 June

Yesterday evening I received a phone call from an extremely over-exuberant Leonard who had returned from his trip to London. He was desperate for me to visit him as soon as possible and so I agreed to drop into Elmfield House at lunchtime today on my way home from the university. When I arrived at the house he seated me in the cream leather armchair and presented me with a purple gift bag and from the way that he stood at the opposite end of the room with his hands clasped excitedly together I expected that the bag would explode in my face when opened at the very least! The bag contained two individually gift-wrapped items: a thin rectangular shape and a small box. The first was a copy of Henri Matisse’s Jazz that Leonard had stumbled across at a book fair in London and the small box contained a silver ankh on a delicate chain that he had bought from the Egyptian exhibition at the British Museum. I chastised him for buying something so beautiful and expensive, to which he smiled and replied “well, I didn’t know what to get you. I was tempted to buy you a crucifix but I thought that would be a little…predictable.” He clipped the chain around my neck and made me promise never to take it off.

We sat in the workroom eating cheese sandwiches and talking about the traffic congestion in London, the interesting Egyptian exhibition that he had visited one afternoon and how Sophie has grown since he last saw her. He was particularly keen to show me the contents of a battered old box that he had bought for Sophie's next visit. At first I thought that the box contained a doll but upon closer inspection I discovered that it was an antique witch marionette with a shiny wooden head, cotton-wool hair and delicate, spindly limbs wrapped tightly in a web of multicoloured strings.

Leonard explained that Sophie has fallen in love with the old puppet named Fidelio that sits on a high shelf in the workroom and he had promised to buy her a puppet of her own one day. I hadn’t noticed the Punch-like face staring down at us from the corner of the room until Leonard pointed him out and I was surprised to learn that Luke has fallen for Fidelio’s charms too, so much so that he has written a poem about him. Luke? A poet? This was news to me and I refused to believe it until Leonard showed me a sketchpad with a pencil drawing of the puppet and a poem written underneath in Luke’s handwriting. Fortunately I was able to scribble a copy of the poem into my notebook when Leonard left the room to feed Hooter.

Fidelio the Marionette

Who makes you dance, handsome grotesque,
With your ruddy hooked nose
And thin-lipped grin?

You collapse with a clatter.
A bitter clown,
Wretched and frail,
Staring in vacant hope to the skies.

But we are free.
Garishly painted golems
Feeding on your heartbeat
And dancing for our queen.

I pity your bones
When the termites creep near

So let us cut more strings
And see who stands.

I find it very difficult to convey the nature of Luke’s character to you, my dear reader, but this poem encapsulates his personality far more successfully than any attempt that I have made so far. Luke is extremely eloquent and he has an impressively flamboyant vocabulary, but his language often takes a macabre and menacing tone which suggests that his gentlemanly facade is somewhat misleading. Although he is relaxed and good-humoured most of the time, his temperament is unpredictable and once in a while his face falls into the chilling stare of the strictest authoritarian, his speech takes on the condescending firmness of a school-master and he can become both physically and intellectually domineering when he feels that he is not in control of a situation. He also has a tendency to make outrageous sexual comments and jokes at the most inappropriate times and - although I’m certainly not a prude by any stretch of the imagination – these comments are quite shocking given his innocent appearance and I can see that they make Leonard feel uncomfortable. He might sound like a monster of a man, but in truth Luke is a glorious and terrifying jumble of contradictions, which makes him all the more appealing to me.

Right, I must dash because Alex is taking me out to dinner this evening. He thinks that my ‘pre-exam results anxiety’ is showing on me and I am in desperate need of a night out…and I’m not complaining!

All things seen and unseen

Wednesday, 9 June

I'm embarrassed to admit it but, as I have mentioned in previous posts, I have been experimenting with the contents of The Omega Course with - from what I can determine so far - varying degrees of success. So much for my deep-seated scepticism with regards to all things supernatural, eh? I have discovered that simple words, gestures and even magical ways of thinking can be easily incorporated into everyday tasks and I have tested out a number of minor charms such as the 'Spell of Attraction' on Luke and the 'Spell for Success and Good Favour' for my postgraduate application. I have memorised whole passages of the book in case the opportunity to test out my new-found skills should present itself and I am carrying all manner of magical paraphernalia to grant me good luck during my exams. I'm positively bristling with magic at the moment! 

I realise that the rituals and techniques in The Omega Course require a considerable amount of further study and I am very much an amateur at this stage, but if I am honest I have been disappointed that there is no immediate ‘bang-whoosh’ response to reassure me that a charm or spell has taken effect. Patience has never been my strongest virtue, however events this weekend have succeeded in sustaining my attention for a little longer.

Perhaps choosing St Bartholomew’s Church on a busy Sunday afternoon as the stage for my magical experimentations was foolish and I should have been more respectful to my surroundings, but I have been so deeply preoccupied with these charms and spells recently that it was inevitable that they would enter into my mind at some point that afternoon. The service was a baptism and these are invariably much more casual and light-hearted affairs than the standard Eucharist mass; the order of service is flexible, the vicar is noticeably relaxed and minor hiccoughs in proceedings are met with laugher rather than nervous tension. No-one cares if the baby burps at the vicar or falls headfirst into the font, or both. Aside from the occasional pedantic parent who is keen to follow the service to exact form, all the participants are eager to go through the motions as quickly and painlessly as possible and the church descends into a raucous social club or unruly school assembly for an hour or so. 

Unfortunately the joviality of this particular baptism was failing to disperse my melancholy state. I spent the entire first half of the service watching a beautiful butterfly repeatedly bash its head into the stained glass window in the organ loft and I was starting to sympathise with its pain and frustration. I was terribly bored and it was only the ear-piercing screams of the children in the congregation that kept me awake and attentive to the vicar’s directions throughout the proceedings. Church is not the interesting and educational environment that it used to be and my apathy grows a little more each time I listen to a visiting priest banging on about the saving power of the divine Jesus while smiling politely and biting my tongue until it bleeds. Church is not the place to ask questions. Save it for the lecture theatre. 

The vicar announced the next hymn and I instantly kicked into gear, shunting the coupler stop on the Great and plodding through the introductory bars of the hymn in a painfully tedious and perfunctory fashion. The congregation droned along with the first verse:

‘At the Lamb's high feast we sing,

Praise to our victorious King,

Who hath washed us in the tide

Flowing from his piercèd side.’

A myriad of thoughts pass through my mind when I am playing the organ and certain hymn tunes - particularly the popular ones that are churned out time and time again for weddings, funerals and baptisms - have become so deeply ingrained within me that I find myself playing on auto-pilot while at the same time planning my outfit for a party or considering what to eat for lunch. On this particular Sunday afternoon I was preoccupied by my proposal for postgraduate study and the charm that I have placed under the books on my desk. I have always been a highly sceptical individual and, as I have mentioned before, I have an uncontrollable tendency to ridicule all things relating to the supernatural, so why should I suddenly find myself seriously considering the authenticity of magic spells and resorting to using them to influence major events in my life? Surely if a scholarship grant is awarded to me then this decision will be based purely upon the academic content of the proposal and not as a direct result of a series of nonsensical words and archaic, childlike drawings that have been scribbled on a scrap of paper and hidden beneath a pile of dusty old books?

 
‘Where the Paschal blood is poured,

Death's dark angel sheathes his sword.’

The congregation folded their service sheets as the hymn came to a close and I flicked through my music book to the next hymn and rested back on the organ bench, waiting for the sermon to start. Baptism sermons - much like wedding sermons and funeral sermons now I come to think about it - are agonisingly predictable and most often the celebrant will recount the exact same sermon absolutely verbatim at each service, so having heard the same sermons hundreds of times over I am often forced to seek out some form of vigorous mental stimulation in order to preserve my sanity until the next hymn is announced. I usually carry a novel in my music bag for this purpose, however when I am in full view of the congregation (as is the case at this particular church) it would appear rude to entertain myself with a good book and instead I feel obliged to listen to the sermon with interest and laugh at the appointed times at the priest’s jokes. This looks very professional from the congregation's point of view, but it is astonishingly boring and my mind invariably wanders and I am distracted by trivial things within my immediate field of vision. The congregation provide stimulating entertainment at times - particularly if they are bewildered non-church types staring wide-eyed up at the rafters and juggling unruly children and service sheets - however it is most often the case that my eye will roam around the interior of the church itself and I will occupy myself by spotting odd architectural features about the building that I have not noticed before.

My attention drifted in this fashion during Sunday’s service and I fixated on the large Paschal candle that stands next to the font at the front of the church. The Paschal candle is a favourite distraction of mine because I love to watch a flame dance and the glow of a candle in church always reminds me of Christmas-time. I was studying the markings on the candle when I heard the liturgy of the baptism service begin and the parents and godparents stepped forward with screaming children in tow and gathered around the font.

‘In baptism, God calls us out of darkness into his marvellous light.

To follow Christ means dying to sin and rising to new life with him.’

I’m not entirely sure why my mind started to race at that point. It seems ridiculous to think of it now, but as I stared obsessively at the Paschal candle I was possessed by an urge to bend the flame with my mind. I stared at the flame for a few seconds before realising that I was being silly (and looking a little crazy) and so I turned my attention back to the organ console. Then I had another thought. What if Leonard is right and the restless dead can hear and obey us? Maybe they could bend the flame? The more that I seriously considered this idea, the more the realisation hit me that I had neglected the spiritual aspects of Leonard’s teachings. There are pages and pages of rituals in The Omega Course that instruct the reader on how to employ the spirits of the dead for a variety of magical operations and I had previously shied away from these magical texts for fear of meddling with paranormal forces. Scribbling pictures on paper and burning a few herbs is one thing, but dabbling with vengeful ghosts and the spirits of the dead is a different matter. But what better location could I find to test these techniques than on the safe and hallowed ground of a church?

If the service had been a funeral then there was absolutely doubt in my mind that I would have appealed to the spirit of the deceased to test this theory, but this was a celebration of new life rather than death and everyone in the church was, from outward appearances at least, very much alive. And then I thought to myself, what about my brother Daniel? Could Daniel hear me if I called out to him? It was a perverse thought I agree, but Daniel fits perfectly into the category of spirits that was most frequently employed by the magician; a young man who had been violently killed. Besides, if any spirit was likely to be near me, to hear me and to oblige me, then it would be Daniel.

I glanced over once again at the Paschal candle and concentrated on the flame until it burned with a piercing white light before my eyes. I pushed harder and harder, maintaining steady eye contact with the flame and recalling every word from the relevant passages that I had read in The Omega Course. The chatter of the congregation and the monotonous drone of the vicar faded into a haze of background noise and my peripheral vision began to implode inwards towards the flame. ‘Daniel, if you can hear me, answer me.’ 

I’m not entirely sure what I expected to achieve but, rather disappointingly, the only response that I received was an entirely self-inflicted headache. I felt ridiculous staring mindlessly at the candle and so I turned my attention back to the hymn book on the music rack, but as my eye left the candle I saw the flame flicker for a brief second. It was only a momentary flicker, but it was substantial enough to send a small puff of black smoke rising high into the church roof. I almost leapt off the organ bench and a surge of rational thoughts flooded into my mind to stem the swell of panic and excitement. A door may have closed nearby, but no sound could be heard. A piece of wax could have fallen onto the flame, but the candle is cleaned by the churchwarden before each service. I calmed myself by repeating that it was a coincidence. Just a coincidence. Nothing more. But nevertheless I was too afraid to look back at the candle and I spent the remainder of the service staring down at the pedal board and scolding myself for being so childish.

Now, what am I to think? Did I cause the flame to flicker? Or am I just being silly?

The scarlet lady

Saturday, 5 June

Sophie is coming.

Since Leonard has been so fiercely determined to avoid contact with me until he returns from London, the arrival of a medium-sized envelope this morning that was addressed in his handwriting was of immediate concern. When I opened the envelope I was relieved to find one of Leonard’s usual postcards and a hand-written letter - clearly he cannot wait to tell me his exciting news and there is too much information to fit on a regular-sized postcard! The postcard is from an Egyptian exhibition at the British Museum and the picture on the front is a statue of Sekhmet, the lion-headed Egyptian goddess. On the reverse side of the card he has written an extract from W. B. Yeats’ poem Oil and Blood:

‘In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli

Bodies of holy men and women exude

Miraculous oil, odour of violet.’

The accompanying letter reads:

‘My Dear Helen,

By the time you open this letter I will be firmly ensconced in London with my son, grand-daughter and various 'mummies'. When we meet again to resume our model-sculptor//sculptor-model partnership we will continue with our work, our delightful theological discussions and our own [‘Alpha’ crossed out] Omega Course!

Sophie is, as usual, Sophie. But, because she knows my stage-photographs of your pastel portrait, she has sought my advice – amid many whispers – on whether she should curtsey to you…because she agrees with me about your beauty…and a natural for our sculpture. She is anxious to ‘get it right’ when you both meet, as I hope you will. You already rate frequent words at her school and her father promises that they will visit very soon…

The bust-peg for your terracotta portrait, as well as smaller armatures for Saxophonist, etc., are ready for your appearance…I too am dying to start…but then you know that already.

I promise to be with you in spirit during your forthcoming exams…wishing you all you wish for yourself. I will ring nearer next week-end.

With my love, L’

Leonard has spoken at great length about Sophie but I have no idea what to expect when we finally meet. He has no photographs of her and he is always evasive when I ask questions about her, making broad and sweeping statements such as ‘she has a lovely smile’ or ‘her father dresses her beautifully’. I find these vague generalisations to be extremely frustrating because I prefer to be well prepared when meeting someone for the first time and briefed on topics of conversation to avoid and any strange accents/facial features/nervous ticks that might reduce me to hysterical laughter upon the very second that the individual enters the room. But Sophie is an unknown. All that I can do is wait and see for myself.

In Crimson Colors Came

Tuesday, 1 June

The exam period has been very busy indeed and my head is a terribly disorganised mess at the moment. Leonard called on Friday evening to inform me that he would be leaving Birmingham first thing on Saturday morning for a short stay in London so that he is not tempted to disturb me during my final set of exams, which is a very sweet thought. He will use the opportunity to tour some exhibitions in the city and, most importantly, to visit his son and his granddaughter Sophie. 

Leonard regularly takes the train to London at weekends to visit the British Library or to speak to his financial advisors and, although he by no means leads an affluent lifestyle, I have gathered from these frequent business trips and the obsessive manner with which he follows the share index in the newspapers that he has a healthy financial portfolio or substantial cash savings hidden away in the depths of a bank vault somewhere at the very least. I often wonder whether this hint of a significant financial standing is the reason why Luke indulges him so obediently. Leonard tends to travel late at night or very early in the morning in order to avoid the rush-hour crowds and I recall him once telling me that he sleeps for only three or four hours each night because his body does not need to rest for any longer and 'sleep is a waste of painting time'. He does not drive because it feels ‘unnatural’ and he detests air travel because it makes him seriously ill so he travels by train or coach whenever possible (‘I like to maintain my grounding with mother earth at all times’, he once explained). I realise that I have only known him for six months but I worry that something dreadful will happen to him during one of these trips to London. He is a vulnerable elderly man after all...no matter how much he protests!

During our phone conversation I accidentally let slip that I would be grateful for a short break from our sessions because I was followed home by a stranger after my last visit to Elmfield House and this has made me somewhat nervous when leaving my flat. Leonard was extremely distressed by this revelation and he asked a number of questions about the man who had followed me home, but there was very little that I could tell him. He apologised profusely for keeping me at the house so late in the day and he insisted that he paid for taxis from this point onwards, but I reassured him that I was fine and pointed out that Alex would undoubtedly ask questions if I started taking taxis home and I did not want Alex to think that our work together was putting me in danger. 

Our conversation must have dominated Leonard’s thoughts for the remainder of that evening as the postcard that arrived yesterday morning was date-stamped in Birmingham and it mentioned nothing of Leonard’s plans for his visit to London, but instead it contained a reassuring message and a quotation from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

‘Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows, a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread…’

Keep yourself safe, Helen. I will not be gone long.

Love, L’