The 37th mandala : a novel

by Laidlaw, Marc

  Even on all fours, crawling, he felt unstable, as if he were about to go spinning away. He threw himself flat, dug his fingers into the earth, and held on; but pressed flat like that, with his eyes closed, the sensation of whirling was even stronger. He could not lie there for long. He must rise. He should follow Lenore, hard as it seemed. She shouldn't be alone, in her condition.

  A storm ripped at him with invisible fingers; it felt like a maelstrom tugging him into its center. He looked up, wondering how to regain his feet, and saw that somehow he had slid or crawled closer to the cliff's edge, in the very tracks of the Beetle. He was close enough to see how the weeds and brush had been crushed and snapped by tires; how the sandstone edge had crumbled under the car's weight. He could see the ocean, gray as the fog, ruffled up by the wind—but it was not the wind he felt dragging him toward the edge, hauling him over.

  He squeezed his eyes shut again, though it made his dizziness worse. Blind, he could no longer tell which way he was facing, or where he was being pulled. In a way it was better not to know.

  He made a conscious effort to calm himself, to clear his mind. It was obvious that if things went on this way, he was going to die very soon. He must be sure he understood that and kept his thoughts calm, so he could meet his death face-on, fully conscious, bringing to it everything he knew, everything he had learned, everything he could possibly manage to hold onto.

  Michael believed in no particular god. He didn't expect any divinities to come running if he put out a psychic SOS. Prayer was calming but too complicated. And desperate prayer would only add to his anguish and terror and confusion. He didn't have salt or water; no athame, bells, or chalices. He could chant mantras or visualize the Clear Light or rack his brain trying to remember some Sufi songs. But none of those things came naturally to him.

  Instead, he cast a circle.

  He had only to think of it and it was there, surrounding him. A circle of white fire, like the ones he had drawn in his temple room. Those had failed to keep the mandalas out, but then, keeping things out was not the true purpose of a circle. Magic circles were meant to keep things in, to concentrate and focus whatever energy was summoned. And right now Michael was concerned with keeping himself together, in one psychic piece, so that if the worst happened he wouldn't be scattered all over the place at the moment of transition.

  He felt remarkably calm. He felt, in fact, like a compass needle: bobbing, floating, weightless. The circle spun around him, a thin white wire, severing him from whatever force was trying to murder him. He felt detached from everything, as if sitting on a high rock in the midst of a raging current.

  I don't have to go anywhere, he thought. I'm at the center of this circle, and this circle is at the center of the universe, because every point is equally the center.

  The vertigo passed. He opened his eyes, half expecting to see the line of white fire burning and sizzling around him in the damp weeds. He was several feet from the cliff, lying in the drag marks his body had made between the tire tracks. Merely raising his head seemed to call up the astral wind again. It tried to catch him by the jaw and pry him up and pull him all the way over....

  He concentrated on the circle, concentrated on hanging in suspension like a compass needle—or like a weather vane, pivoting to keep aligned with the wind but unmoved. Gradually he got to his knees, and then to his feet, crouching, hunching, rising upright. Nothing else seemed to be affected by the wind. The branches of the shrubs and trees bobbed gently in a normal coastal breeze. The "wind" he felt would have torn the needles from the pines had it been real. The thing to do now was to move straight into it. He bowed his head, thinking of the circle, and pushed forward. In this manner he came to the asphalt road and crossed that; then climbed an embankment leading up into parkland, the cat-piss smell of eucalyptus enveloping him. It got easier as he went on, and he began to mistrust his navigation. The wind might read his intention and still steer him into disaster.

  He veered off at a shallow angle, as an experiment, and found that he could deviate slightly from directly opposing the force. He lurched a few yards and clung to a tree; from there he dashed to the next, and then to the next. Eventually he crossed another road, staggering. Several cyclists whirred past, politely averting their eyes. But by the time he reached the edge of the park, the worst had passed. He could walk steadily whichever way he chose. It was easy to find the way he was not supposed to go, for that remained the most difficult. But by zigzagging across the streets and sidewalks like a meandering drunk, he managed to tack against the resistance; and in this manner he passed among apartment buildings and shops, down a long avenue that brought him once more to parkland. He feared he had circled around on himself somehow, but this place was different, full of people.

  He came across a party in a grassy grove, a ring of people dancing to music played on a bone marimba. Michael's path, the safest path, led right through them, and he followed it in a trance. They parted for him, spiraling around to close him in again, unwinding to release him on the far side of the grove. He went on through matted ivy clotted with trash, a man sleeping in a blanket caked with dried mud, and came out of the trees to see buildings again, and above them a distant row of hills. Atop those hills stood a strange geometrical skeleton, all in fine red and white, straddling the city, shredding the mists. He remembered it from earlier that day, rising above the occult store. He realized then where he must go.

  Michael headed down the street, with the cold sea wind at his back and the not-wind at his cheek. He felt cut loose, floating free as a piece of debris blown skipping down the avenue. He moved in wide arcs, spiraling in on his destination. He advanced while appearing to avoid. Thus he slid down the sidewalk until he finally glanced up to discover he was on Haight Street.

  Punks and hippies and grungers and bikers and beggars crowded the street like guests at a great masquerade party. Faces drifted toward him, mouths muttering, wild eyes watching, and then past. At first he only stared at these apparitions as if they were weird balloons blowing by; but gradually he realized that they were speaking to him: "Greenbud-acid-crystal-meth-crack." All run together, like the faces themselves. He grabbed a bearded kid by the sleeve, searching the air above his head for something he didn't really expect to see, although he knew by now that to see nothing meant nothing. He didn't have the eyes for that kind of sight ... not always.

  "Hey," the guy said, "what, you want meth? Best on the street, right here."

  "I'm looking for some rocks," Michael said.

  "Oh, sure." The kid looked around briefly, then nodded toward a doorway. "I can get you rock. Show me your cash."

  "No, rocks. I saw them on a hill, a bunch of big rocks."

  The kid looked at him in surprise. "What? You mean, like, rocks? Rock rocks?"

  "Yeah, red rocks. Sort of like Stonehenge."

  "You must mean Corona Heights. Indian Rocks, sure. You going up there tonight? Watch out for poison oak. You want acid? I got a few tabs of Hello Kitty."

  "I want to get to the bottom of that hill, under those rocks."

  "Yeah, okay. Take Haight down to Divizz—take a right. Go a few blocks and you'll see 'em."

  "Thanks," Michael said, moving on.

  "Sure you don't want anything? Even a joint?"

  "I have to stay pure," he said, and he was flying again, through the street party, through the violet dark, everything luminous and laughing. Despite his fear and his dread of what might have become of Lenore, he felt a strange exuberance. He descended a dark grade to a street called Divisadero, turned right and followed it along a tall cement wall. He stopped dead as the headlights picked out an enormous mandala stenciled in spray-paint above the street, with two smaller circles flanking it like sundogs. Under them, someone had painted an elaborate, stylized "37."

  He nearly stepped back into traffic. Horns sent him running.

  When he looked up again, he saw the dark bulk of the hill above him and the jumbled shadow of its rocky crown. He looked d
ownhill toward a distant crossroads, and there he saw the corner beam of a Thai pagoda.

  He realized he couldn't feel a breath of wind.

  35

  In a still moment, as he lay on his bed drinking (not having called the police, the answering machine shut off in case anyone should call, such as Bob Maltzman, expressing concern over this latest threat to the popularity of the mandalas), Derek could hear himself crying: May ....

  I love you, May ....

  But that really meant nothing now. Soon he would get to stop crying. If trouble wanted him, he would give himself up to it completely. If he didn't survive the reckoning, then at least the pitiful voice inside him would be silenced. The whimpering thing that had made others suffer would itself be put out of its misery.

  "Come on, then," he said. "Come on!" Staggering upright, going to the closet, and kicking hard at the box inside. "Come and get me!"

  His foot tore through cardboard. The old carton burst along its seams, and the black and red notebooks spilled out on the floor; but the skin still hid within. It was shy and had to be coaxed.

  "Come out, you ugly bastard," he said, reaching down into the box. Picking it up and shaking it, literally, by the scruff of the neck. "It's just you and me now. This is between us."

  And then ... and then ... he was standing before the mirror on the back of his bedroom door, listing slightly in the poor light, wondering how it had gotten so dark, how long he'd been drinking, why he was so fucking cold....

  Oh, yeah ... he was naked. He had stripped off everything except his black stockings. Notebooks lay scattered all over the room, but there was no sign of the skin. He was swimming in murk; ugly gray things stirred the air near the ceiling. He'd drunk enough to destroy his vision. Drunk so much that the spots danced before his eyes, whirling and spinning and having a wonderful time. When he moved, spots came down and clung to his skin.

  He put a hand to his arm and felt the flesh crackle. Another to his chest—felt it all crackly-rubber and repellent.

  The skin ...

  ... clung to him stickily. He had drawn it on, and now it felt affixed by sweat and suction, as if it were melting into him. He couldn't writhe out of it. It must have stretched to accommodate him. It had always looked like such a small skin, but it was sufficient. It lay upon his shoulders like a mantle; the seam ran up his belly, between his nipples, and otherwise it was as seamless as Derek himself. He wondered why he didn't feel more surprised, more horrified.

  Probably, he thought, because you did it to yourself. If you did it to yourself, you can't possibly find the thing too unattractive.

  But notice, you had to be good and drunk before you really found the wherewithal to do such a thing. You had to get yourself to black out before it was really possible.

  And now that you're here ... what?

  What ... ?

  The answer came slowly, but it came. He smirked at himself in the mirror, dancing sideways, twisting around to watch the mandalas spinning on his back. He was still very drunk. He pulled on his underwear, careful not to wrinkle the skin; the elastic band snapped tight on his waist, sealing the hide to him further. Then a clean shirt, crisp and slightly stiff, though he couldn't much feel it. There was a layer between him and the rest of the world now, a comforting protective barrier. He tucked the tail of his shirt into a pair of pressed slacks he'd picked up from the cleaners only yesterday, in preparation for the grand opening.

  That's why you didn't call the police, he said, as if it had ever been an issue. You had to get ready for the Mandala Ball. And now you're ready. You're dressed to the teeth. You even have your long Johns on. Although Etienne's father surely wasn't named John. Maybe they were long Jeans.

  He was not the sort to laugh at his own jokes. It required grim determination to get his shoes on, to tie the laces. His hair was in very bad shape, but he felt convinced that no one would care. And a good thing too, because now the buzzer was buzzing. There had been just enough time to accomplish what he had. So, yes, it had been a very busy day after all, even though most of the time was occupied in lying here getting drunk enough to do what needed to be done.

  The buzzer buzzed and buzzed. Imitating the sound in his throat, Derek went into the hall. He was halfway down the stairs when he thought about his door and how much time it would have taken to lock the deadbolts. It really was not possible to go back up and do all that when he was right in the middle of his grand descent.

  He flew out the front gate and onto the street, and there was Etienne standing by the rear door of the limousine, holding it open for him. Inside, Nina was patting the seat beside her, so he knew just where to go. And here came Lenore Renzler, rushing up between Derek and the car, coming so fast out of nowhere that he plunged right into her and the two of them tumbled forward into the compartment, falling onto the soft red leather, their arms and legs tangled, everyone breathless and laughing.

  Etienne bent to look inside the car, and Nina gazed at Lenore with fascination. They both stared at the mandala in the middle of her forehead; they seemed quite enchanted with it.

  "Well!" Etienne said happily. "It looks like you belong with us!' "How wonderful!" said Nina. "Mr. Crowe is bringing a date!'

  36

  Michael was relieved to see Crowe's friend, Lilith Allure, still at the register, stuffing parcels into a bag. She glanced up as he closed the door behind him and called out, "We're closing in five minutes, so make it snappy. Actually, could you flip that sign behind you?"

  He turned the sign on the door so that open/abierto faced into the room. He wandered forward, ready to collapse. With no struggle to sustain him, he did not know which way to turn. He put his palms on a display case and leaned there, looking down upon rows of carved crystals, glass eyes, amulets etched in metal and inscribed on scraps of parchment, rolled into tiny scrolls. Aleister Crowley's Thoth deck was fanned out across the lower shelf, the huge cards alive with grotesque, exaggerated figures in lurid colors. He stared at the Death card, the skeletal king with a reaper's blade, and thought of the one comment every modern reader felt obliged to make when that card came up: "The Death card doesn't mean death." No, of course not. It signified change, the end of a cycle, transformation, making way for something new; it could refer to a relationship, a way of life, an attitude—to almost anything other than the end of a life span, the demise of a corporeal body.

  But sometimes, Michael thought, Death meant death.

  He wheeled around, choking on the incense that drifted through the shop—wheeled and saw posters of Kundalini serpents forming helixes inside a meditator's body; an enormous lotus with an OM syllable at its center; John Dee's elaborate Sigil of Aemeth; and a Tibetan mandala whose rings of concentric colors were a frightening reminder of his present situation. The Vajrayana Buddhists said the entire cosmos was a mandala, a sacred circle. Of course, they were not referring to the mandalas that had recently destroyed his life. But there was something in the night, in the oblique path he had described across the city, that reminded him the mandalas were not everything. They were circles inside of greater circles.

  He could hear an old black woman talking to Lilith, just down the counter: "... and this demon, see, it bite me. Every time I move a way it don't like, every time I think a thought I not s'posed t'have, you know, I feel it bitin' my shoulder. It on there all the time, ridin' me. You see it? That aura reader, she tell me she see it, but she want too much money get rid of it. So I tell her I comin' to you. You see it, don't you?"

  "Look," Lilith said, "I'm already late for closing."

  He imagined how his own story would sound to her, no matter how carefully he framed it. She, who listened to the litanies of the mad all day long, would treat him just like any other, sending him on his way with candles and amulets. That's ten dollars. Blessed Be, and come again.

  But then, she was Ms. A. She had spoken to the mandalas. Spoken for them. She would understand the situation.

  When he caught her eye, she stiffened a litt
le. Michael smiled.

  Finally she ushered her last customer out and turned to Michael, who was waiting near the door.

  "Make it fast," she said. "I've got a ritual to get to."

  "Are you ... is it true that you're Ms. A?"

  "Oh, Jesus Christ," she said, moving quickly back. "Just get out, all right?"

  "Please, I—I'm a friend of Derek Crowe's."

  "I'm not Ms. A. Can't you people get that through your heads? I don't hang out with Derek Crowe, I didn't know him when he wrote his book, and he sure as hell never hypnotized me."

  Michael sagged with disappointment, all his fear and fatigue welling up in him in that instant. He could feel his eyes tearing; suddenly his hopes, his optimism, seemed worthless.

  "Someone said ..."

  "If you're really Derek's friend, ask him to introduce you to Ms. A. And please give her my regards." She opened the door to him, holding her keys in the lock. He didn't move. "What? What's the matter?"

  He found he couldn't move. The wind again—the tugging. He grabbed onto the doorframe, knowing he must move properly to avoid it; he must strike like a jeweler's chisel cutting into diamond, finding the one and only path that would extricate him from this moment.

  "Why are you crying?" she said, her voice carrying to him as if through a roaring wind. He swabbed his eyes with his sleeve.

  "I just ... I came so far," he found himself saying. "Can I please—can I get some water?"

  She stared at him, rigid, then rolled her eyes and swirled her tongue in her cheek. "Come on," she said. "Back here."

  He lurched gratefully after her, into a hall leading off the shop. She led him to a small kitchen cluttered with boxes and packing materials. She filled a paper cup from a rusty faucet, and watched while he drank.

  "Uh ... have you got a bathroom?" he asked.