Strange Eons (11 page)

Kay smiled self-consciously. How quickly she’d become inured to her present life-style!
If Albert knew what I was thinking he’d turn over in his grave.

Her smile faded as swiftly as it had come. Albert would never know anything again, and he wasn’t even in a grave. He was thousands of miles away, thousands of feet below the sea, and the fish—

Quickly Kay tugged at the doorknob. It held firm; the door was locked. Perhaps this was an omen and she could leave now with a clear conscience. Then, ready to turn away, she saw the buzzer set beside the door frame.
Duty calls.

She pressed the buzzer and waited.

A chime sounded faintly from somewhere within the building. A sharp click of the lock echoed in response.

Kay grasped the knob; it turned now and the door opened. She stepped into a dark entryway extending to a curtained inner chamber. Beside it, to her left, a stairwell slanted upward. From above a male voice sounded.

“Mrs. Keith?”

“Yes.”

“Please come up.”

A light flooded the stairway.

Kay climbed the flight, peering ahead for a glimpse of the man who had called her. But the hall at the head of the landing above was empty. To the right of the stairs additional light fanned forth from an open doorway.

“I’m in here,” said the man.

And he was.

Kay entered the small office, marveling at its musty clutter. All four walls were flanked with bookshelves and their contents had overflowed onto the uncarpeted floor. Cartons of hardbound volumes and paperbacks, magazines and newspapers, stood in the corners and ranged in random rows on either side of the desk at the center of the room.

The bookworm seated behind the desk nodded a greeting.

“Peace and wisdom to you,” he said softly. His voice had a lilting accent she couldn’t quite place.

“Reverend Nye?”

He rose, holding out a white-gloved hand.

Kay shook it, wondering if her surprise was noticeable; apparently so, because he smiled.

“The gentleman at the agency should have told you,” he said. “You didn’t expect me to be black.”

That, Kay decided, was the understatement of the year. And even if Max Colbin had told her, she wouldn’t have been prepared—not for this.

Because the Reverend Nye was
cliché-
black, as in coal, or the ace of spades. The accent could be West Indian, probably Jamaican. But with his jet coloring, dark suit and the incongruous white gloves he looked like the end-man in an oldtime minstrel show.

Kay managed to return his smile. “The gentleman at the agency should have told
you
something,” she said. “He happens to be black too.”

“Touché.”
Reverend Nye chuckled. “Well, one lives and learns.” He stepped around the desk and pushed a large cardboard carton of books to one side, revealing a small cushioned stool that had been hidden behind it. He gestured to Kay and she seated herself.

“Sorry about the accommodations,” he said. “I keep promising myself to get this place straightened up but there never seems to be enough time. Too busy living and learning.” Reverend Nye moved back and eased himself into his seat again. “A pity we must make the distinction. Living and learning should be one and the same thing, don’t you agree?”

“I’ve never thought about it.”

“Few ever do.” He nodded soberly. “They must be enlightened, and that is the purpose of my ministry. Are you familiar with the teachings of the Starry Wisdom?”

The question caught Kay offguard. “Not really. I mean there are so many new movements these days—Hare Krishna, Scientology—”

The soft chuckle sounded again. “I assure you there is no resemblance. And the Starry Wisdom is not new. Its ancient teachings antedate all other living faiths. But that’s the point, of course—other faiths aren’t actually living, because they aren’t learning. They’re dead and done for, victims of today’s technology. What did the Buddha know about electricity? Did Mohammed prepare us for the Space Age? Could Christ cope with the computer?

“The Bible, the Koran, the Talmud are all outmoded. Their lore and laws were suited to the life-style of desert nomads leading an earthbound existence with no thought of cosmic realities beyond. Today we scan their pages and find nothing pertinent to present problems.

“That’s why these new movements, as you call them, are arising. But most of them offer the same old answers in different terms. Meaningless answers. The complexities of today’s existence require mediation, but they teach meditation. And all their metaphysical trappings and psychological frills add up to the weary platitude—
Know Thyself.
But even if that were possible—and it isn’t, not in any meaningful sense—what’s the point of self-awareness? Our sole hope of salvation lies in knowing the world outside ourselves, the world of space and the stars. Don’t you agree?”

Kay nodded, wondering what he was driving at. Reverend Nye was a preacher, no doubt about it, but why preach to her?

“Once, long ago, mankind knew the truth about itself, about our place in the universe. Are you familiar with Wegener’s hypothesis that at one time all of earth’s land masses formed a single continent, which fragmented and drifted apart over the ages? It’s considered a relatively new concept, but the Starry Wisdom knew the truth long ago. Just as they knew the reality behind so-called UFO phenomena, and what we term radio signals from outer space—”

A flying-saucer nut,
Kay told herself.
This man’s not a preacher, he’s a fanatic.

Once more the soft chuckle sounded. “Sorry, Mrs. Keith. I tend to get carried away.”

By the men in the white jackets.
Kay’s thoughts echoed a completion of the sentence, but that was not what Reverend Nye had in mind.

“It’s merely that familiarizing yourself with our postulates will be of help to you in your assignment,” he was saying.

“I was told you just need some straight portrait shots,” Kay said. “Newspaper ads, I assume.”

“Correct.” The man behind the desk gestured with a white-gloved hand. “But needs are one thing; wants are another. And I want something more than mere photographs of an attractive, smiling face. I want that face to mirror sincerity, enlightenment, real understanding.”

Kay nodded, painfully aware that her face mirrored none of these things at the moment. The musty smell of old books rose around her, and this kinky character in the white gloves was really turning her off. But
—duty calls.

“Al Bedard’s a good man with a camera,” she said. “I’m sure he can deliver.”

“Only if your own eyes are open and aware,” said Reverend Nye. He leaned forward, studying her. “For that reason, I’ve a request to make. There will be a Starry Wisdom lecture in the Temple this evening at eight. You’ll have an opportunity to listen and learn, an opportunity to understand. Will you come here again, tonight?”

No way,
Kay told herself, rising quickly.

But when she spoke aloud, the words were different. “Of course I will,” she said.

Somehow she got out of the office, down the stairs, through the doorway, into her car. Even as she drove off into the slanting sunlight, everything still seemed blurred.

Everything, that is, except the vision of what had caused her to abruptly change her mind about returning—what she glimpsed when she stood up and glanced down at the carton of books beside the desk.

The title of the topmost volume meant nothing to her
—The Outsider and Others.
But the author’s name was H.P. Lovecraft.

“You gotta be kidding.” Al Bedard squinted sourly through the grimy windshield as he steered his VW on a clattering course down South Normandie with Kay beside him on the sagging seat. “Dragging me down into a place like this after dark. It’s not safe—”

As if to confirm his words, a pile of rubble loomed ahead, barricaded by yellow sawhorses to indicate ongoing street repairs in the aftermath of last month’s earthquake.

Bedard swung out to pass the obstruction on the left, shaking his head disgustedly.

Kay smiled at him, “You wouldn’t want me to come alone, would you?”

“I don’t see you coming at all,” Bedard told her. “What’s your cut on this job—two-three hundred, maybe? It’s not worth the aggravation.”

“Trust me,” Kay said. She nodded toward the curbing at her right. “You can pull in here.”

“I don’t trust anybody in this neighborhood,” Bedard muttered. “They’ll have the car stripped five minutes after we park.”

But he angled into a space alongside the curb and rolled up the windows as Kay stepped out onto the sidewalk. Locking the doors, he joined her as she stood staring at the building across the street.

The drapes were still drawn tightly to mask the windows, but the front door was open. Light from within illuminated the wooden sign above the entrance.

Bedard peered up at it as they crossed the street.

“Starry Wisdom Temple,” he said. “What is this, some kind of revival meeting?”

“We’ll see.” Kay glanced at her watch. “Come on, it’s past eight. They’ve already started.”

Approaching the doorway she was aware that sound as well as sight poured forth from within—a shrill piping which seemed vaguely familiar. Then, as deeper bass notes mingled with the melody, Kay recognized the theme. It was something from Holst
—The Planets Suite,
the movement called
Uranus, the Magician.
Hardly the musical setting for a revival meeting.

But then, as they passed through the entryway and the opening between the curtains beyond, it became instantly obvious that this was no ordinary gathering of Born-Again Christians.

Kay had formed no preconceptions; even if she had, there was no way for her to have anticipated what waited within.

The meeting hall was larger than one would have guessed; an inner chamber extending the full length of the building, with walls completely covered by black, velvet-textured drapery from ceiling to floor. Perhaps it had come originally from a church, along with the heavy old pews of dark oak that served to seat the audience. Certainly a church-supply house was the source of the incense that burned in tall wrought-iron braziers set along the side walls, suffusing the air with a cloying, sickly scent that evoked a disturbing association.

Al Bedard noticed it too, and his nose wrinkled. “Smells like a funeral parlor,” he murmured.

Kay nodded, eyeing the occupants of the pews. The presence of blacks came as no surprise, but she was puzzled by the large number of Latin-Americans and Orientals; the ethnic groups seldom mingled for any reason, let alone religious observance.

In the back of her mind she sensed some common denominator here and tried to identify it. Not economic status, surely—some of these attendees were conservatively well-dressed and others were tank-topped street people. Then she realized the single attribute all shared in common: it was youth. A high proportion of the group seemed to be teen-agers, and no one looked older than thirty.

Oddly enough, the crowd was decorous, with no evidence of the noisy restlessness generally associated with a gathering of young militants. One and all sat listening intently to the music pouring from overhead speakers, staring through the faint radiance that emanated from a row of dimmed spotlights set on both sides of the elevated stage at the far end of the hall.

The stage itself was curtained on either side of a central narrow opening, which revealed the presence of a large lectern. The area behind the lectern was steeped in shadow.

Bedard gestured to Kay. “Let’s sit over here,” he murmured, indicating the vacant rear row of pews. Kay nodded and they took their places near the central aisle.

As they did so the music changed. Once more she was surprised to recognize the source, as Holst gave way to Vaughan Williams—the final movement of his
Sixth Symphony.

Perhaps Reverend Nye was right about her coming here to listen and learn. In so doing, she’d already discovered that he knew something about music—and its effects. The eerie quality of muted strings evoked images of other worlds, lifeless planets, dead and distant suns, moving like motes of dust in the empty infinity of outer space, which in itself was dying. This is the way the world ends—not with a bang, not even with a whimper, but with a whisper. A whisper lost in darkness.

Then, in the silence, the lights went out.

There was a rustling, a murmuring from the crowd. They too had felt the touch of eternal emptiness and now, for an instant, they were a part of it.

But only for an instant.

The clang of a gong shattered eternity, and the livid light blazed forth above the platform as the red-robed figure stepped forth from the shadows.

“Peace and wisdom to you!”

Reverend Nye’s voice boomed. He raised his arms from beneath the scarlet cloak and evoked the echo from the audience.

“Peace and wisdom!”

“Starry Wisdom!”

“Starry Wisdom,” came the echo.

Invocation and response.
Why, it’s just showbiz,
Kay told herself.

But it worked.

Worked like magic, because it
was
magic. Music and incense, darkness and light, robes and ritual—it worked now and it had always worked. Wizards and warlocks chanted their spells at the Sabbat, druids recited their runes before the dolmens, witch doctors gibbered in the jungles, and magic
happened.

Reverend Nye, in his red robe, was no witch doctor. But when he raised his white-gloved hands in an ancient gesture before a modern microphone, there was a happening. Individuals became merged into the greater whole of an audience; audience became followers; followers became believers.

He spoke, and Kay saw it happen, heard it happen. Again, as in the aftermath of her interview of the afternoon, sight and sound seemed oddly blurred.

But though the precise substance of his words often eluded her, the sense was crystal-clear, evoked in images which flared fitfully through the blur and summoned by the deep drone of his voice.

Azazoth. Yog-Sothoth. Shub-Niggurath.
The words were nonsense syllables, but the nonsense syllables were names; names formed by human lips in feeble effort to identify the realities they represented.