The Birth of a new moon

by Laurie R. King

  Focus! she ordered fiercely. Think, you stupid woman. Listen to what he's saying, this modern alchemist who believes, with all the power of his stunted emotions and considerable intellect, that the very nature of matter can be transformed by the application of a precise set of changes, forces, circumstances. Listen to his words, pick out his key images and the central ideas that drive him; use them to nudge him toward where you want him to be. Yes, he's a goddamn genius, but even the brightest minds have their blind spots, and you are about to become his. You can do this. You have to.

  The path had cleared somewhat, and Ana walked just behind Jonas, her hands clasped behind her back, her head bent to catch his words, the perfect disciple. He was talking again about the stages of transformation that the prima materia goes through on its path to perfection into gold. She waited until he came to a resting point, and then she asked him a question.

  "I do see that is like the rising of the Kundalini through the chakras. Don't the Chinese call them chis?"

  That set him off on the topic of nerve centers and the rising of energies, sexual and otherwise, and the Indian/Chinese ties throughout history. Ana walked quietly, listening to his remarkably explicit descriptions of the frankly erotic discipline of Tantra and then asked him, struggling to keep the question matter-of-fact, "To what extent do you think the alchemists saw the Kundalini as a metaphorical idea rather than actual, physical Tantra yoga?"

  She might have been asking about rocks for all the overtones his answer held. "The alchemist always speaks on several levels at once: literal, then metaphorical, and then on the plane where the literal and the metaphorical are one. He who has ears to hear, let him hear." He then went on to speak about the role of the soror mystica, the mystical sister, during the course of which he left Ana in no doubt about the distinctly non-sisterly actions that Sami had performed for him, and in great doubt about why she had possibly thought of him as an asexual being. He seemed unconscious that she might be feeling any discomfort, but she was distinctly relieved when he finally abandoned the topic of the metaphysical energies aroused by various sexual positions and wandered on to discuss the nature of the "pure dew" that some medieval recipes specified was to be gathered for the process—was it actual on-the-leaves morning dew or, rather, a virgin's urine?—and then shifted into the esoteric objects used in various alchemical recipes. That kept him busy for a while, but eventually he mentioned, for the third time since they had met, the problem he was having with the current Work, and Ana knew she had to seize her opportunity. She summoned every scrap of sincerity and innocence that she could find and put it into her voice.

  "Um, Jonas? When you talk about the need of the alchemist to be in balance, both with the external universe and with the microcosm within the alembic, and also about the duality of the Stone, I just wondered if you'd ever considered pairing up for your Work with one of the high-ranking women initiates in Change, to give you the balance of duality? It's just a thought."

  There it was, presented to him by the tentative, always helpful, never threatening Ana Wakefield. With any luck, he would soon believe that he had thought of the solution himself.

  Just then however, he had something else on his mind. They had been walking in a rough circle and were now headed back toward the house and into the sunset, when the thick growth abruptly stopped, as it had that morning at the grotto. This open space, though, seemed somehow less restored than it did preserved, as if nothing but green grass had ever grown in a wide rectangular space around the low, crumbling walls of what had once been a sizable building. It was quiet there, but it was not the utter silence of lifelessness and strangulation; what she heard was the hush of content and respect.

  "Abby," said Jonas, to Ana's confusion and shock. When she did not answer, he turned and saw her strange expression, and frowned.

  "The abbey," he repeated. "This was a Benedictine abbey until the Dissolution of Henry the Eighth. This particular part of the estate is an historical preserve, or else I might have been tempted to do more restoration work. I'm glad I didn't: It took me years to discover that this is the energy center of the land around, and a line drawn from here to the house precisely bisects, at right angles, the line between Stonehenge and Glastonbury. Can't you feel the energy?"

  Ana nodded obediently, a bit too distracted to feel the subtle ley lines under her feet. It was, however, a very lovely spot, and she felt that she would like to return there under different circumstances.

  She walked forward into the cruciform ruins, entering at what had been the front doors of the building. In some places the stones of the nave walls were missing completely, and in others the grass and wildflowers grew up over the tumbled stonework to waist height. The remnants of the walls were taller at the end of the building where the altar had been; they rose past Ana's head, and the base of one of the windows could be seen, its decorative carving long weathered into soft shapelessness. Small ferns and wallflowers had rooted themselves among the cracks.

  Once away from the walls, the entire floor of the abbey was a smooth carpet of green turf set with tiny white wildflowers, but for one massive rectangular stone which, judging by its location, marked where the altar had stood. Someone had taken care to keep its surface clear of grass, trimming the edges back—in fact, the entire stone looked renewed, as if it had been lifted and relaid to keep it from sinking into the earth and disappearing entirely. It did not even have much moss on it. Jonas may have decided that this point marked his ley line, which would be an ironic variation on the ancient Christian tradition of building a church on the holy ground of its predecessors: the New Age reclaims a Christian site for its primal energy potentials. Ana stood with her toes nearly touching the revealed stone, looking up, trying to conjure up the ghostly outlines of the church that had once formed the center of this lively monastic community.

  When Jonas's hands came down on her shoulders she nearly leapt out of her skin. He heard her gasp and slid his grip down to her upper arms. He squeezed once, and then moved around to the other side of the altar stone, taking care not to step on the stone itself. She lifted her eyes to his, and could not pull them away as he began to speak.

  "The Philosopher's Stone, the object of alchemical labors that provides immortality and turns base metal to gold, is also called The Hermaphrodite. It is the union of all opposites. Male and female, hot and cool," he said, his words like a chant. "The dry and the wet, the wise and the innocent, the red of the sulphur and the silver of mercury, the generative power of the sun and the reflective forces of the moon. Alchemical drawings depict this union as a king and a queen lying together in the coffin of their alembic. The Absolute, the Brahman, the Stone, the Tincture, is a union of Shiva and Shakti, destruction and nurturing, the seed and the blood, the male and the female. It is the stage beyond the gold, and it renders the participants immortal.

  "Since the first blacksmith discovered iron, man has been applying fire to dull stone and creating miracles. The unrefined human being, rocklike and dumb, is no different from gold-bearing ore. It takes only the right technique—the right knowledge—the proper manipulation of forces, to transmute a mere man into something greater, something miraculous. My Parsi master took me to meet immortals, men who could pierce themselves and not bleed, be bitten by cobras and not die. My teacher himself is three hundred and twelve years old, and looks to be sixty. Immortality and the power to heal, those are the characteristics of the human Philosopher's Stones I have met.

  "It is also what my entire life has been leading to. I learned to walk on burning coals without feeling pain, that I might become a Master of Fire. That was one of the titles the alchemists used of themselves, did you know that, Ana? Master of Fire. The next step, my transmutation into a human Philosopher's Stone, a walking tincture, also involves, as you yourself interpreted from my vision, a walk not over fire, but through it. Amusing to think that I have spent twelve years of my life studying the patterns of transformation in this laboratory of mine, and you should
come here and tell me something that is plain before my eyes. Your hidden talent, indeed, to see what is needed. I must remember to thank Steven." He chuckled, a rumble deep in his chest that reminded Ana of a waking bear.

  His gaze held her, locked her to the turf, quaking to her bones. The most terrifying thing was the man's complete rationality, the impression he gave that what he believed and what he proposed—whatever it was he was proposing—was utterly reasonable. Ana tried to speak, cleared her throat, and tried again in a strangled voice.

  "What do you want me to do?"

  He smiled at her engagingly, even sweetly, and with complete patience and confidence in her. "That's the beauty of it. You don't need to do anything, not until the very last part of the process. You just need to be yourself, the cool, wet, innocent moon-woman, as male and female join together in the furnace and conjoin into immortality."

  If Jonas had moved so much as a muscle in her direction, Ana would have broken and fled shrieking into the green woods. Instead, he looked down at the altar stone at their feet, studying its rough surface as if deciphering some secret text carved into its surface. He dropped to his heels and tickled his blunt fingertips delicately back and forth over the scrubbed stone, a thoughtful, sensuous gesture that Ana felt as a caress up her spine. She flushed at the disturbing ghostly sensation, and Jonas smiled to himself, patted the stone as if it were an old friend, and then in an abrupt and characteristic return to the prosaic, he stood up, glanced at the lowering sun, and said, "We're going to miss dinner if we don't hurry." He clambered over a low place in the walls, dislodging several stones in the process, and made off in the direction of the house.

  She was sorely tempted to let him go, even it it meant spending the night on the altar stone. She might easily have remained behind, frozen there among the abbey ruins, had it not been for the knowledge that Jonas was moving back toward the house where Jason and Dulcie were sheltering. She could not leave them alone with him. With infinite reluctance she took a step in the direction he had gone, and then another.

  She who has ears to hear, let her hear.

  And Ana heard. Another woman might have picked up the nuances of spirituality in his words and been pleased with her understanding, but Ana had seen, had literally been witness to, the extreme behavior that people were capable of in the pursuit of religious truth, and her ears told her that this was no metaphor. Whatever it was Jonas did in his alchemical laboratory, he had convinced himself and Steven and all the others that he and they could change matter into gold. But it did not stop with the walls of the actual laboratory, not for a man with Jonas Seraph's massive intellect and self-absorption. The estate itself, bought with his inheritance, had become in his mind his laboratory, from the grotto where his curiosity about fire's purification had been thwarted to the current inhabitants and their peculiarities and characteristics. Jonas thought of this place as his workroom, where he might observe the principles of Change functioning. Which made Ana and everyone else here, in effect, his personal prima materia.

  That kind of godlike vision of the world, ironically, depends on the adoration of others, to bring the venerated one food and carry out his wishes. Samantha Dooley had gotten tired of it and passed on, only to have her shoes filled by a born personal assistant to this small universe's CEO. Marc Bennett could strut and crow and order people about to his heart's desire, and Jonas would continue to treat him as a piece of furniture, because in Jonas's mind, that was what all people were.

  Ana pulled her coat around her, feeling the cold as the sun went down and as the sudden thought hit her that perhaps Sami Dooley had not tired of her role; perhaps she had been pushed too far.

  When was that large amount of nitrate fertilizer bought? She couldn't remember, but she was certain it had been for Britain, not Boston. Was it purchased shortly before the arguments started between Jonas and Sami? The two things might have nothing to do with each other, but she could feel the disquieting possibility of that fertilizer's purpose nibbling at the edges of her mind.

  She knew Jonas had to have a human-sized alembic in the cellars, behind one of those three locked doors. What else could he use as his "power nexus" for the conjoining with his moon-woman? What concerned her more, though, was the question of how he intended to apply the necessary heat. Would it be from six small brick furnaces such as those that had kept Jason warm during his solitary trial under Steven? Or was Jonas insane enough to think of something bigger, something more suited to the dramatic transformation of a man into a Philosopher's Stone? Something as explosive on the outside of the alembic as what was due to go on in the inside?

  It was insane, sure, but Ana could not keep from wondering: Just how big a fire it would take to transmute a man into an immortal?

  She had been right her first night here, terribly close to the truth: This really was Texas revisited, and Utah. Here she was again, with two young hostages in the hands of her enemy and the responsibility for the entire community on her shoulders; the difference was, this time she knew it. In Texas another woman, a far different Ana, had selfishly walked away from the only people who mattered to her, so engrossed in her own problems that she was blind to the signs, deaf to the warning bells, dangerously, murderously ignorant.

  No more. She could see this man playing with his vision, turning it over in his big, hard hands, changing and shaping it until it matched his idea of perfection. A moment's fear, a sudden conviction that "they" had infiltrated to his bosom and were about to take his Work away from him, and he would move instantly to set the final Transformation in motion. She could all but smell the danger, and her ears rang with the ghostly echo of gunfire, her nostrils twitched with the remembered stink of fresh blood and old death.

  Her only hope was to keep her wits about her and to get help.

  On her own, she could do little more than seize Jason and Dulcie and flee, evading the camouflage-clad guard and hoping to make it as far as the main road and the arms of the constabulary. But what then, when their abrupt departure was discovered and Jonas realized that his chance for immortality was slipping away from him? Would he grab out for another and set off on his ultimate quest? And if so, who would be Ana's substitute? The innocent Sara? Or perhaps young, blonde Dierdre? And what would it do to Jason and Dulcie when they eventually found out what their salvation had cost? What does it profit a man, that he gain his life and lose the world?

  Ana could not both protect the two children and keep an eye on Jonas, not for long. She had to have help. She could try to break into the phone system, call Glen—but had he even received her last letter yet? And how long would it take him to set up a response in a foreign country? A long time, knowing governments; longer even than it would take her, a private citizen of a foreign country, to work her way through the local authorities until she found someone… Too long. Furthermore, although she longed to hear Glen's cold and competent voice, craved his presence with a lust stronger than sex, a single man on a white horse was not about to make much difference.

  Once, long long ago, she had thought that fear was the energy that kept her persona together, a potential resource like pain or desperation that with acceptance and rigid concentration could be shaped and used. Not this kind of fear. This fear was too deep to be grasped, too slippery to be handled, too disorienting to be accepted; it left her utterly alone and directionless, wishing she could crumple into a corner and weep like a child.

  That was not possible. She just had to pull herself together—the ghosts of murders past were getting in her way, obscuring her vision of what was and what she must do. Her only option was the same one she had been following since she arrived here, that of watch and wait. This was no time to lose control, and the all too obvious fact that she had no business being here, that she was no longer capable of doing this work, could not be helped. She would just have to shove her panic back into its box and do her best: there was no one else.

  And think about it: Jonas wanted her voluntarily, which meant that he
either had no wish to drag her into the alembic with him or, more likely, he could not envision the necessity. She needed to see the basement, to examine the alembic itself and to see if there was any sign of a nitrate bomb. She would have to convince him of her need to see his workshop, just as she had convinced him that he needed her as the key to his great transformation. Work herself in to his side, hope he left open his telephone or—better—that modemed computer, and get a message to Glen.

  Yes, she had to have help. Agreed, there was no way she could do this alone for more than another few days. The best way of obtaining that help was the same way she always did: write a journal entry for Glen.

  Only this time she'd have to make damned certain that nobody found it, because there would be no pretty subterfuge here. Write down the truth, in all its detail, and then she would either get herself a map of the estate and sneak off to a mailbox, or feed the pages through Jonas's scanner and slap the result into an e-mail to Glen. That would take less time than Jonas had been gone to urinate.

  Buy time, call for help, act normal.

  And the hardest of these is normality.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  proposed article on theological synthesis

  titles: Dream Logic

  Signs and Portents

  The Apocalyptic Mind

  Intro: One of the eearier more frightening sides of religious synthesis is the apparent lack of rational thought, the willingness of the participants to embrace wildly disparate ideas and images and then to make great leaps in interpretation and meaning. To the apocalyptic mind, signs and portents abound, messages wait in the most obscure places, and the whole of creation pulsates with Meaning, for the one who can truly See. There is no coincidence, no casual link in the universe: everything is connected.