by Gary Jonas
“We waited for you to arrive before ordering,” Penick said as he took his seat. He tried to hide his irritation.
I eased myself into my chair and tossed an eye-roll out there for Penick to catch.
He did.
I smiled inwardly. He was so easy to manipulate, and I needed the win.
“We're here to discuss business,” Penick said. “I can bring a lot to the table.”
“After lunch, Carlton,” Henry said. “Uncle Jon likes to eat before we turn the discussion to business.”
This was a bit of manipulation as well because I didn’t care when we discussed business; it was just a minor power play to make Penick wait.
“To be honest, I don't understand why Mr. Easton needs to be here.”
“Because I trust his opinion about the quality of the magic any aspirants care to bring to my attention.”
“I think my work speaks for itself, and with all due respect, he looks like he should be at home waiting for the Visiting Nurses to show up and take care of him.”
“I didn't get much sleep last night,” I said, “but I'm still kicking.”
“You should be retired.”
“I'll retire in 1929,” I said.
“If you live that long.”
“What? You're not going to share your immortality spell with me? I'm crushed.”
“Old men trying to be funny are simply pathetic.”
“Tell that to George Carlin.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
“All right, you two,” Henry said, “can we please try to play nice?”
“We can try,” I said, “but I make no promises. I hate Prohibition.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Penick asked.
“Lunch with you would be much easier if I could have a stiff drink.”
He glared at me. Yes, easy to manipulate.
We made small talk through the meal, followed by coffee and cake afterward.
“Can we talk business now, or do you need to finish your cake?” Penick asked.
“Cake is good,” I said. “But I'm fine with expanding the conversation to business.”
“Excellent.” Penick patted his lips with a white napkin, dropped it on his plate, and leaned forward. “Henry, have you decided about my application?”
Henry furrowed his brow. “I'm not sure you're a good fit for the Thoth Hermes Temple,” he said. “You're reckless and you crave power for the wrong reasons.”
“Everyone craves power,” Penick said. “I already have more power than most, and I'm gaining more regardless. You don't think my spell will work?”
“I have no way of knowing that unless you share it.”
“My other spells all work. My magic is strong.”
“I don't believe you're that powerful,” I said pointing my fork at him. “Can you conjure up a spell to prove you can control your energy flow? From what we've uncovered in our research, you burned down your neighbor's house trying to create a fireball.”
“It didn't burn down,” Penick said. “I didn't anticipate a shift in the wind, but there was minimal damage, and nobody was hurt.”
“That time.”
“Careful, Mr. Easton. I've been cooperative to this point, but you don't want me as an enemy.”
“You going to hurt an old man?” I asked.
“Gentlemen,” Henry said. “We're here to work this out to our mutual benefit.”
“That's right,” Penick said. “You want my immortality spell, and I want membership in the temple. It's a fair trade. I should qualify on my merits as a wizard alone.”
“Prove it,” I said. “Work a spell to make me shut up for five minutes.”
“I doubt anyone has that much magic,” Henry said with a grin. “Carlton, may I at least see the spell in question?”
He hesitated. “Fine. I'll show you a copy from a rubbing I did of a tablet.” He reached into his suit coat, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to Henry.
The page had been rubbed with charcoal over a stone tablet. The markings looked familiar. Henry studied it for a moment and frowned.
“This is incomplete.”
“I'm not going to show you a complete spell without getting something in return,” Carlton said.
“What language is this?”
Carlton smiled. “It's not English or Latin, but I'm not telling you anything else until you grant my admission.”
“A spell to create immortality would require some special rituals and energies.”
“That's right and I don't have access to the energies I'd need to make it work for me.”
“What are they?”
“Why should I tell you that?”
“Because if what you tell me doesn't match up to what I know would be required, I'll assume you're not being honest with me.”
Carlton fumed. He slapped his hands on the table. My coffee sloshed in the porcelain cup, but I'd taken a few sips, so it didn't spill. “Why would I lie?” Carlton asked.
“To get into the temple,” I said.
“But if I lied about the spell, you'd know it as soon as you tried to work it.”
“And you might claim we were doing it wrong.”
“But . . .” He sounded hurt. “I'm a man of great power. You should want me in your group.”
“Your temperament leaves something to be desired,” Henry said, unflustered.
“Fine,” Carlton said. “You need life energy from the mother and father of the initiate who desires immortality. The ritual is pretty simple, but because of the power required, you'd need to do it underground in a strong bunker capable of withstanding the blast. You'd also need the complete chant from the tablet and a large block of clay or an iron tub, depending on the mass differential of where your body was in its prime state.”
“Which tablet is it?” I asked, expecting him to lie.
Carlton smiled and told the truth. “Tablets I discovered in Egypt. The Emerald Tablets of Thoth the Atlantean.”
“Atlantis?” I said with derision. I knew Plato probably had been talking about the Minoans, but I wanted to get under Penick's skin to keep him off guard.
“Believe what you want, old man. The Emerald Tablets are real.”
“And we're supposed to believe you've translated them and that they hold the secret to eternal life?”
“I haven't translated them completely,” Penick said. “It's not like they're written in any known language, and I don't have a Rosetta Stone to help work things out.”
“It's all right, Carlton,” Henry said. “Jon just wants to make sure we're not wasting our time and yours.”
“You have the ability to translate the tablets completely?”
“I can put together a team to translate them,” Henry said with a nod. “It might take a few months.”
Weeks for a team. As for Henry, I'd seen a different version of him translate the tablets back in ancient Egypt in a matter of days. They were full of gobbledygook about the Halls of Amenti and other such nonsense, but buried within the poetry was some true magic and hints at what it would take to grant eternal life. Rebirth, actually. The truth is that as with the Zoroastrian religion and the Christian copy, resurrection required death before eternal life could be attained. This held true in the religion of the ancient Egyptians as well, and as one of the few nonfamily members to attend a mummification ritual performed by the Men of Anubis, I knew they believed rebirth was possible. In the view of many occultists, the problem with the Egyptians was that they had a propensity for scrambling the brains and pouring them out of the skull. The Egyptians believed the soul resided in the heart, while the occult practitioners with real power believed it was in the brain. Different times, different beliefs.
Over the years, I'd done enough research to know both were probably wrong.
I had a much different belief now. I'd come to it from seeing ghosts and reanimated corpses. One in particular had clearly died and been brought back, but with m
ud, twigs, and straw stuffing his skull instead of a brain. Yet he was able to carry on a conversation as though he were a regular man. His name was Ben Crawford, and from what I'd learned, Henry's father had seen Crawford killed and had performed a ritual to bring him back to life not as a regular man, but as a golem. Crawford had been especially difficult to dispatch.
My theory ran more along the lines of something fringe researchers were talking about in the twenty-teens. That our sentience, our soul, and everything we are, is like a radio signal, and if you tune in to the right frequency, it's there. Without being tuned in to our bodies, it's still there, but it's not wearing the meat suits we walk around in. Evidence pointed to it, but I hadn't been able to properly test it, and I wasn't sure how to go about running a test like that beyond bringing someone back from the dead without a brain or a heart to see if they're still them. Because the ghosts of people are able to think and reason, it seemed to me that a body tuned to them would simply give them a physical manifestation.
All of that was pie in the sky, but with Penick's unknowing help, I planned to put it to the test. Of course we couldn't just let him in. If access to the temple were too easy, he wouldn't value it. Also, the harder he worked to win our trust, the more likely he'd believe it when we granted him what he sought. I'd still have to keep an eye on him. We'd been stringing him along for months now, and while I wanted it to take longer, we were out of time. Today was Henry Winslow's last day among the living. He would return. That much was already set in motion and beyond my control.
Henry talked about how he and his team would work to translate the tablets, but he knew it wasn't going to happen that way. He knew that if he didn't play it as if he had a future, he wouldn't have one at all.
Penick could barely contain his enthusiasm. “Grant me admission, and I'll work with you. Maybe we can both attain immortality.”
“Leaving me out of it?” I asked.
“I don't mean to offend you, Mr. Easton, but I have great magic, and as such, I can detect other people who also carry that energy with them. Mr. Winslow has great power. You, sir, have nothing.”
“Oh, Mr. Penick,” I said. “You're failing your admission test. If you can't detect my power, perhaps you are unworthy of our organization.”
He slowly turned toward me and took his time reaching out with his senses to try to detect any magic he may have missed. He shook his head and smiled. “You have zero magic, Mr. Easton.”
Henry smiled. “Not quite true, Mr. Penick. Look again.”
Penick frowned and leaned toward me. “Give me your hand,” he said.
I held out my hand. He took it and held on to it, closing his eyes to try to focus as intently as possible with all of his senses.
“Do you feel it?” I asked.
He hesitated. He knew a wrong answer would mean he was done. Finally he let go of my hand and faced Henry. He smiled. “It's a trick question,” he said.
“How do you figure?” Henry asked.
“You're wanting to see if I'll lie to gain access to the inner circle.”
“Will you?” I asked.
The look he gave me would melt steel. “You, sir, have no magic at all. I stand by my initial assessment, and regardless of what you decide, I do not doubt my ability to detect magic in all its forms. Especially when I'm truly focused. You are a regular old man, and if I were a gambling man, I'd bet you're into the final four years of your life. Assuming you don't have a fatal accident or end up the victim of a homicide, you'll be dead before 1930 of natural causes.”
Henry put on a serious face. “What do you think, Uncle Jon?”
“I think telling someone in their eighties that they're going to die soon is rude, but it doesn't require any kind of special power or magic.”
“Do you approve of Mr. Penick as an applicant?”
I leaned back in my chair. “I do not like Mr. Penick. I think he's a power-hungry imbecile who places himself above the rest of mankind.”
Penick glared at me.
I grinned. “However,” I said, “the question wasn't whether or not I like him; it's whether or not he qualifies to be initiated.”
Henry nodded. “Exactly. I'm prepared to give him my approval, but the final decision lies with you as you are in charge of all admissions.”
Penick held up his right index finger. “May I ask a question?”
“You just did,” I said.
“I'd like to pose another, then.”
“Good save. Ask your question, Mr. Penick.”
“Why is it that you, a man with no magic, has so much sway over a hermetic order of magicians and wizards?”
“Keep asking that question, Mr. Penick. If you ever figure out the answer, you'll be in a position to take over Mr. Winslow's office.”
“I don't understand.”
“I doubt you ever will but you're young. How old are you?”
“I'm twenty-six.”
“Very young,” I said. “You have time. I won't be around much longer, and when I'm gone, a game of musical chairs will elevate every worthy member a level or two. If I have to answer your question, you won't be among them. If you accept the fact that I'm a prime member of the group, you'll come to understand why in due time.”
Penick nodded. “As I grow older, I appreciate the mysteries in life more and more.”
“Good answer.”
“And,” Henry said, “I suspect it's the right answer.”
Penick smiled but then forced his facial muscles to relax. He turned to me. “Was my answer correct?”
“It was,” I said and hesitated for dramatic effect, “acceptable.”
Penick relaxed. “Outstanding,” he said.
Henry extended his hand, and Penick went to shake it, but I caught both of them by their forearms. They looked at me.
“He needs to know before he accepts,” I said.
“You're right,” Henry said.
“I need to know what?” Penick asked.
“We'll need you to deliver the Emerald Tablets of Thoth to our office before three o'clock this afternoon, or you won't be admitted.”
“That's less than two hours from now.”
“And you'll need to leave them there. We'll transport them to the temple this evening. You'll have full access to them along with the team, but they must remain at the temple.”
“I'll have full access?”
“And a special dispensation. You'll be accorded a high-ranking position in the temple with additional privileges for your service.”
“What privileges?”
“You're aware of the fertility rites performed three nights a week?”
He shifted around in his chair as if a mouse had just crawled under his seat. “I've heard rumors.”
“You'll have right of first choice with the women on your initiation night.”
He smiled and I suspected he wouldn't be able to stand up without embarrassment for a few minutes.
I smiled back at him. “There is a catch to that, of course.”
“What catch?”
“Everything must be consensual.”
“Meaning?”
“Each woman you choose has to be willing.”
“Will they be?”
“I'm not here to give you advice on how to talk to women.”
“That's not what I mean. Are these women there simply to tell me no?”
“You'll be in a position of power, so unless you're a complete loser who can't close the deal, it's unlikely any will refuse you. But if anyone says no, you must honor his or her decision.”
“His?”
I shrugged. “I'm not judging. I just sense that you might swing both ways.”
“I . . . prefer women,” he said.
“Do you accept the terms?”
“Before I accept, may I ask why you need the tablets today?”
“I'll answer that only after you accept. If you decline the invitation, you won't need to know.”
He took a deep breath.
“Of course I accept. This is the culmination of a lifetime of striving toward excellence in the occult circles.”
“Very good. Hold out your right arm.”
He took a deep breath and extended his arm. I pulled a small dagger and a glass vial from my coat. He started to pull away because he knew that I was going to take some of his blood, and it's not wise to allow your blood to be bottled where wizards can get to it. But he really wanted to be admitted to the club, so he tensed but held steady as I made a small cut to his wrist and let a bit of blood pour into the vial.
“Why today before three?” he asked as he pressed a napkin to his cut.
I tucked the vial into my pocket then met and held Carlton's gaze. “Because today between five o'clock and six o'clock, a man named Jonathan Shade will murder Henry Winslow.”
***
At precisely 2:59, Carlton J. Penick stepped into our office and approached Esther's desk. He carried a heavy canvas-wrapped package tied with ropes. He cleared his throat, but Esther didn't look up. She kept her eyes on the handwritten manuscript beside her and kept typing.
“Excuse me,” Carlton said.
Esther still didn't look up. She continued typing as if she hadn't heard him.
“This is heavy,” he said.
“Then set it down,” Esther said and kept typing.
I grinned and kept watching from my office.
“I'm here to see Henry.”
Esther removed her hands from the keyboard and finally deigned to look up. “He's not here right now and you're disturbing me.”
“You're a receptionist,” he said. “You're supposed to greet me and see what I need.”
“What you need is to take a course in manners.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!”
“You might want to look into taking a Dale Carnegie Human Relations class. I hear they're the berries these days.”
I could have let it go on, but we needed those tablets and I didn't want Carlton to get so mad that he changed his mind. I pushed myself to my feet and went out into the main greeting area. “Hello, Mr. Penick,” I said. “Henry will be back soon, but we can put the package on his desk.”
“This woman should be fired.”
“She's not a receptionist,” I said. “She was hired to type Henry's book, not to greet people.”