by Alex Marcoux
“Steve was a special guy,” Rachel admitted. “In some ways, I was closer to him than any of the men I’ve ever dated, and yet, we never dated.”
Jessie realized that Rachel was the closest person in her life at the moment, and yet, she knew very little about her, personally. “What’s your story? Ever married?”
“No, never married. Never really been in a serious relationship…I don’t think I’ve ever really even fallen in love.”
The waiter returned with their soup. Jessie sipped her wine considering what Rachel had said. “I find that odd. I mean…you’re attractive, intelligent, have a great career, from what I’ve learned about you, Rachel, you’re a nice person. I would think that there would be a healthy line of gentlemen callers.”
Rachel plunged her spoon into the French onion soup, skimming cheese. She smiled. “I’m not saying I don’t have my fair share of dates. I just haven’t dated anyone special for any great length of time. Usually, we go out on a first and maybe a second date and then…things change.”
Jessie was a little uncomfortable suggesting it. “Are you, perhaps, picky?”
“No. It usually isn’t my choice to stop seeing them. Perhaps it’s my job, which does entail an incredible amount of time. I’ve wondered if it’s because I’ve placed my father on a pedestal, and maybe they feel that they just can’t compete with a ghost. Then there are times when I’ve guessed that they wanted to get me in bed, and then the challenge is over…” Rachel shrugged her shoulders, “Whatever the reason is—I just can’t take it personally.”
Jessie changed the subject. “How about you? Do you have any plans for the holidays?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow to visit my mother for a few days. She’s in Maryland.”
“I don’t think you’ve mentioned her before. Do you see her often?”
Rachel shook her head. “No,” her eyes fixed on a glass of water, avoided contact. “My mother hasn’t been the same since my father’s death.”
Jessie clearly saw Rachel’s pain, and instinctively placed her hand on top of Rachel’s. “I’m sorry, Rachel.” She lightly squeezed her hand and withdrew.
“She’s hospitalized. It breaks my heart seeing her, so…I don’t go very often. They think she’s crazy.”
“And you?” Jessie’s eyes softened.
Rachel sighed. “I think my father’s death traumatized her. She’s been in therapy since he died. And…about ten years ago, she started talking about seeing him.”
“Seeing your father?”
“Yeah. She said that he started visiting her and shared that with her therapist. I’m sure you can figure out the rest. She’s been institutionalized for close to ten years. I’ve tried to get her out, but whenever she makes progress, she has a setback.”
“Like what?”
“She sees him. So, they increase her medication. So she’s overmedicated.”
“I’m sorry, Rachel. What do you think? Do you think she’s crazy?”
Rachel shook her head. “No. I think she sees my father’s spirit. Perhaps he has not been able to transition because of the circumstances of his death. Maybe he’s stuck here until there’s closure.”
“You’ve always suspected foul play regarding his death. Now I have a better idea why this is so personal. If your suspicions are correct, this Freemason group is not only responsible for your losing your father…but also your mother.”
Rachel nodded.
* * *
The holidays passed. Between the loss of her brother, and being away from her partner, Jessie was terribly lonely. Taylor called her on Christmas day. She loved the necklace that Jessie had sent through Sidney Marcum. Taylor was scheduled to perform in New York City on her return to the states, in three weeks.
Jessie resumed her initiations after the first of the year. There were two more Sundays before she would graduate to thirty-two degrees of Freemasonry. The first Sunday passed without incident.
* * *
Jessie wrapped her coat collar around her neck to protect her from the bitter wind as she approached the Grand Lodge on Twenty-third Street. Once inside, Brennan was directed to the Chapter Room which had soaring ceilings and an aged chandelier. Drapes on both sides of the room were hung from ceiling to floor, and tied against the walls. Earthy tones and Egyptian decor added to the dated feeling of the room.
There were two rows of leather-upholstered benches along the longer sides of the room. Elevated staged areas were situated along the shorter walls, where three chairs were situated. A small altar centered the room.
Jessie, anxious to experience this final Masonic degree, arrived a few minutes early. She removed the trench coat and sat in the back row of the refinished benches. Soon, other candidates filtered in.
Throughout the Scottish Rite levels, Jessie had been led to believe that she would find the light in subsequent degrees. Here, she was in the thirty-second degree, and this afternoon, she expected to find the light.
Jessie no longer feared that she would be forced to remove her clothes during an initiation. Her anxiety was finally gone. In the higher-level initiations, a Degree Master and degree cast were prearranged to perform the complex rituals. The candidates observed but did not directly participate in the ceremonies.
As she waited, she found herself drawn to cobra figures that lined the wall across from her. It was then she realized the snake sculptures surrounded the room.
“Hello, Brennan,” a vaguely familiar voice called to her.
Michael Whitman stood in front of her. She rose, extended her hand, and their handshake transitioned into the Master Mason pass grip. “Mr. Whitman. It’s nice to see you again.” Her speculation about Whitman’s association with Freemasonry had been answered.
“I enjoyed your feature story last month. Well done.”
Michael’s dark eyes had a mesmerizing effect on her. She couldn’t focus. Though she knew she must bring her attention back, it was a monumental task. She shook her head, attempting to shake off the stupor. “Thank you. I wish you the best in the senate race.” She hoped that her trance had been inconspicuous.
“Good luck, Brennan. I hope you find the lecture…enlightening.” A sinister smile came to his lips, and then he disappeared outside the hall.
The meeting room slowly filled with other candidates. Observers, wearing white or black Masonic caps, also sat. Then two cast members sat on the east stage. Jessie couldn’t see their faces, but they were dressed in full costume, with robes, caps, broad collar trinkets, and regalia.
One of the cast members stood and addressed the audience. “Good morning, gentlemen. I have some disappointing news. Our Thirty-Second Degree Master has become ill.” Sighs of disappointment echoed throughout the large hall. “But we’re fortunate to be in New York City, where a former Thirty-Second Degree Master resides. Mr. Michael Whitman has graciously agreed to deliver the lecture this morning.”
The man in the center chair stood, and moved to the platform’s edge. It was Whitman in full costume, including a violet cap. “Good morning.”
The lights dimmed, and a spotlight illuminated him as he read the pages of the thirty-second degree lecture. “You are here to learn, if you can learn, and to remember what you have been taught. In the Scottish Rite you will be taught that our ancient ancestors who knew all the mysteries left enough traces so that we today, with diligent labor and teaching, may renew them and bring them to light for your enlightenment.” He lingered a moment, then, “We now come to the great symbol of Pythagoras.”
Suddenly, directly above Michael, a three-dimensional triangle in black light emerged. Its appearance was subtle, yet gripping. “Our symbols have descended to us from the Aryans, and many were invented by Pythagoras, who studied in Egypt and Babylon.”
The black light faded and the triangle transformed into a pentagram, a five-pointed star. “In order to preserve the great truths learned from the profane, there were invented some of our symbols that represent the profoundest of truths des
cended to us from our white ancestors.”
The pentagram swiftly changed to a six-pointed then seven-pointed star. The stars faded, then Masonic symbols appeared in black light: the square and compass, the Bible, the letter “G,” and the Hebrew letter “yod.”
The collective effect of Whitman’s mesmerizing voice and the visuals of the Masonic symbols had a hypnotizing effect on Jessie. She closed her eyes, only for a second, to shed the stupor that had fallen upon her in that second, the darkness swallowed her, and with her mind’s eye she saw the geometric patterns. At first they appeared rapidly, then they slowed, this time seeming more familiar than the last time.
* * *
At sixteen, Lukeman fled his father’s home. The notion that his mother had lived in that dungeon, isolated, for six years haunted him. She had been alone and sick. He would never forgive his father for punishing her so. But, he would never exonerate himself for not questioning his father more about his mother’s disappearance.
It upset him to leave his sister, Dalila, but he knew she was safe with his father’s second wife. Besides, she had grown fond of Zuka, Lukeman’s half-brother, who had just turned five.
After living in the comfort of the Great House, Lukeman left the fortress for the Memphis streets. Soon, rumors circulated that the vizier’s undisciplined son had left the nest of his rightful legacy. Many nights he slept in the alleyways of the workers’ village, and days passed without food, as people feared repercussions from Oba if they helped Lukeman.
* * *
Asim was exhausted. His muscles ached from the toil of a long and difficult day. As he left the Great House, thoughts of his family lured him through the Memphis streets, back to the workers’ dwellings. Today was his ninth day of work. Tomorrow he rested. With that thought, he smiled.
It was faint. At first Asim thought nothing of it, but then it repeated, and he stopped. He cocked his head, listening for the groan. A distressed cry was coming from a narrow alleyway.
It was approaching sundown, and the alley’s walls blocked the remaining rays of sunlight. When Asim’s eyes adjusted to the dark alley, he saw a figure against the far wall. He drew to the shadow, and recognized the vizier’s son. He had heard gossip about the young man but could never turn his back on a person in need.
“Are you hurt?” he asked softly. “Can you walk?” With that he pulled Lukeman to his feet, wrapping his arm snugly around Lukeman’s waist. Slowly, he carried him from the dark alleyway.
* * *
Lukeman was close to starvation when Asim found him that night. Asim, being the kind and gentle soul that he was, welcomed Lukeman into his home. To Lukeman, Asim had the ideal family. He was a loving husband who had a devoted wife and four children, three teenage boys, and a five-year-old girl named Jamila.
Lukeman was grateful to Asim, and as soon as he was strong enough, he searched for work. Since Asim and his sons worked in the palace kitchen, Asim introduced Lukeman to his superior, Mosi.
Mosi, of course, recognized Lukeman and consulted with his superior. Eventually, the plea for work advanced to Oba. Unknown to Lukeman, he was granted work after Oba sanctioned the request.
Memphis was situated along the Nile, in Lower Egypt. Away from the palace and grand courtyard was the crowded village. Here the working caste lived and died in small, barrack-like compartments strung together, with narrow alleys separating the clay-brick dwellings.
Asim’s home was in the center of a ten-unit cluster. There were three rooms to his quarters, and in the front, goats were sheltered. A small kitchen and storage area was in the rear, and a reception area was in the center. Here, Asim, his wife Femi, and Jamila slept while Lukeman slept with Asim’s boys on the rooftop, where the family also ate and cooked.
Although the living accommodations were overcrowded, Lukeman was touched that Asim’s family welcomed him. Asim’s boys revered Lukeman as an older brother, while Jamila shadowed Lukeman, longing for his attention. Eventually, a small chamber opened across the alley from Asim’s dwelling and Lukeman moved.
* * *
Lukeman crushed the pestle against the mortar. Scrapes and abrasions marred his knuckles, making it painful to grind the grain, but he continued pressing. He still wasn’t accustomed to the workload expected of him from his superiors. He was exhausted. While living at the palace, he had never realized how difficult it was for the lower class. Lukeman labored for nine days, on the tenth day he rested, then the cycle began again. He was compensated for his hard work with grain, and Asim taught him how to barter to satisfy his other needs.
As Lukeman applied pressure on the pestle, his sore knuckles slammed into the side of the mortar. He shrieked and hastily shook his hand. Lukeman heard the tread of sandals from behind. He glanced at the worker across from him, whose eyes were focused over Lukeman’s shoulder, confirming that someone had entered the kitchen. Anticipating his superior, Lukeman returned to work, ignoring his pain.
“This is not your destiny, Lukeman,” An unfamiliar voice resounded behind him.
Lukeman turned. A tall man loomed over him. Dressed in a long, white, hooded robe, the man’s eyes bored into his soul. He was unlike most Egyptians. His skin color was less red and his eyes had an unusual bluish tint.
Eyes of the Nile, Lukeman thought.
Stubble grew in the recess of his chin, creating a shadow of facial hair, which was uncommon for Egyptian men.
Lukeman knew Kek only by reputation. As the founder of the great brotherhood, Kek would have been his teacher if he were still living the life of a chosen one. Out of respect, Lukeman bowed his head, but returned to his work.
“Lukeman, walk with me,” the man instructed.
“But I can’t. If I don’t produce my part, I will not earn my grain.”
Kek reached for Lukeman’s sore hand. Warmth emanated from his touch. “Walk with me. Today, you have earned your keep.”
Lukeman returned the tool to the bowl and followed Kek from the kitchen. They exited into an expansive courtyard bordered by soaring brick walls. The intense sun beat on them as Kek strolled the court, with Lukeman on his heels. Nearing a boundary wall, a sizeable shadow was cast, and here, Kek found relief from the scorching afternoon sun. He stopped, turned, and his eyes meandered over Lukeman. He removed his hood, revealing the shaven head.
There was something about Kek’s presence that Lukeman didn’t understand. He was atypical from most Egyptian men. Although attractive, there was an entrancing quality that drew people to him.
“You are not destined to be a servant, Lukeman.”
Lukeman heed the charismatic words. “It is the only way I know to get fed.”
“Go home. Your father would still welcome you.”
“I will never return to my father.”
“Lukeman, I know you have the vision. You know your destiny is to become a high priest. How can you fulfill it if you live among the profane? How are you to become the great teacher that you are predestined to be?”
“Worshipful Master,” Lukeman bowed his head. “There is nothing that I want more than to attend the mystery school. I am at a loss as to how I can do it.”
Kek eyed the young man. He knew that the boy’s stubbornness could preempt his fate, impacting the brotherhood. “You will work in the kitchen, mornings as usual, for your grain. You are more valuable to the pharaoh if you become a priest.” Kek placed his hand on Lukeman’s shoulder. “You will study the mysteries with me in the afternoons and evenings. You will become a priest. This is how you will pay the pharaoh’s tax.”
For the first time in weeks, Lukeman felt something that was foreign to him. It took him a moment to comprehend what it was. Then he realized—it was hope. Lukeman bowed his head to the benevolent offer. “How can I repay you?”
“Never disappoint me. And never betray me.”
Kek’s words echoed in Lukeman’s ears.
* * *
Lukeman’s life became meaningful. In the mornings he toiled in the kitchen. During
the afternoon and evenings he studied with Kek. Lukeman quickly advanced and in no time was initiated into the mysteries.
He knew the brotherhood was exclusive a privilege to partake. It had become Egyptian tradition that the mysteries be entrusted to the chosen ones. Only the pharaoh, his heirs, the priests, and a select few were privy to the secrets of divine wisdom. But also, one of the fundamental directives was that the secrets were never to be shared with the uninitiated or profane. The penalty for such was death.
The sanctuary was set away from the Great House and cramped village. As in the human body, the temple consisted of three chambers: the abdominal, pulmonary and cranial cavities. The chambers represented the three states of consciousness: conscious, subconscious, and superconscious, along with the three dimensions of life: physical, mental, and spiritual.
As the abdomen, the courtyard was open and used for ritual purity, eliminating self-centered thoughts and desires. Symbolizing the ribs of a pulmonary cavity, huge pillars bordered the hypostyle hall off the courtyard. Within this passageway, a priest or priestess elevated their meditations from the conscious to the subconscious. From the narrow passage they emerged into the sanctuary, which, like the brain, was divided into two sections: the holy place and the holy of holies. In the holy place, the priest further prepared for spiritual enlightenment, so they were worthy to meet God in the Holy of Holies, where a shrine for Ptah, god of Memphis, was housed.
After Lukeman was ordained, he served religious duty at the temple four times a year. During each one-month stint, he shaved off all bodily hair, including eyebrows, and abstained from sexual activity. He was allowed to dress only in white linen cloth and papyrus sandals, as animal products were unclean. Normally, priests spent the remainder of their year in their natural professions. Lukeman, however, studied full-time with Kek the rest of the year.
Shortly after Lukeman was initiated into the priesthood, the pharaoh pressured him to leave his diminutive living quarters for the comfort of the Great House. As long as Oba remained alive, however, Lukeman refused to live at the palace. It was Kek who reasoned with the pharaoh when Lukeman disobeyed the request and continued living among the uninitiated.