Ghostwriting

by Traci Harding

  ‘Indeed it does.’ The Grand Master had paled, and he passed the piece in question to his most trusted advisor, who was seated on his right.

  ‘Good heavens,’ uttered the historian as he viewed the work. ‘This is an almost exact replica of an illustration found among the tattered remains of the ancient scrolls, which we have recently unearthed?’ He looked at the art collector, his face shrouded in confusion and worry.

  ‘Indeed,’ the young art collector confirmed, and his restrained pleasure was in vast contrast to the mood of his older colleagues. ‘And only this copy of it is in full colour and is complete, the pillars being inscribed with hieroglyphs.’

  ‘Have you checked these glyphs against the original work?’ the Grand Master wondered out loud.

  ‘Yes, I have.’ The art collector paused a moment to heighten the suspense. ‘The glyphs on the pillars are exact in every detail.’

  All present in the chamber gasped and whispered among themselves.

  ‘But … see here.’ The historian pointed to the archway that connected the two pillars in the picture. ‘There was nothing written here in the original.’

  ‘Yes, that is true, Master Historian,’ granted the art dealer. ‘But if you would be so kind as to translate this addition to the brethren, you might consider the message to have merit.’

  The old historian adjusted the glasses on his nose and examined the tiny symbols depicted in the print. ‘Whosoever seeks The Lost Word …’ he read and then paused, stunned, as he looked up to his breathless colleagues to convey the rest, ‘… shall find it herein.’

  The Grand Master appeared to be very perplexed by this. ‘Who is the artist? What is his name?’

  ‘Her name,’ the collector ventured, again shocking his entirely male audience, ‘is Karita Torelle.’

  ‘A woman!’ gasped the historian, outraged. ‘How can this be?’

  ‘Well, I have a theory,’ the art collector offered, and his superiors, eager to hear it, indicated he should proceed. ‘She could have found a copy of ancient texts that our excavations are currently unearthing both here in America and in Scotland. Or maybe we have the remains of a copy and this woman has found the original? The house in Sydney that this woman occupies was owned by one of our brethren early last century. His name was Tristan de Scott, and he rose through the ranks of our order before his insights into ancient doctrine made him of some interest to our brothers of the Inner Order.’

  ‘The Rosicrucians.’ the Grand Master stated and the young art collector nodded in confirmation.

  ‘Apparently, de Scott had started channelling information from a spirit claiming to be Francis Bacon, Roger Bacon, and Christian Rosencruz amongst other renowned forefathers of the society.’ And as you know there is speculation that Francis Bacon could well be the unknown creator of the original picture we have just unearthed in Scotland at the Rosslyn Chapel.’

  ‘I have read about this case.’ The Grand Master frowned as he recalled details. ‘I believe de Scott was blackballed from the RC and excommunicated from our order for disrespect to senior members.’

  ‘That is correct, Grand Master,’ the art dealer said, and although he knew his view might be frowned upon he voiced it nevertheless. ‘The senior members of that time had deemed de Scott’s channelling to be fraudulent, which perhaps might explain his condemning outbursts. However,’ he continued before anyone had the chance to counter his view, ‘if de Scott was channelling the identities he claimed he was, these famous brothers were likely to have seen the lost texts before they were hidden, and then lost.’

  ‘And you think de Scott is now somehow channelling through this girl?’ the old historian scoffed.

  ‘Well, de Scott was a rebel, and how better to offend the Brotherhood than to channel our sacred doctrine through a woman?’ suggested the collector. ‘There does seem to be a certain irony to that.’

  ‘De Scott was born in Scotland and perhaps he knew of, or even saw the text we have uncovered at Rosslyn, before he moved to Australia? Thus, it seems more likely …’ the Grand Master headed off an argument between the youngest and eldest members of the circle, ‘… that this woman has found whatever de Scott was referencing to get his information.’

  Now the old historian was shaking his head, looking as if he was about to have heart failure. ‘Well, we’d better get someone down under to find out, quick smart!’ he snapped, at his wit’s end.

  At a pat on the hand from the Grand Master, the historian calmed. ‘Go to Australia immediately, Master Collector. Buy this work and every copy or print ever made of it.’

  The art collector nodded. He understood that money was not an issue in this case.

  ‘I shall inform the Imperator of the Inner Order of your findings and shall pass on to you any further instructions they may have via our network in Australia,’ the Grand Master concluded. ‘You have done well in bringing this emergency to our attention, Master Collector. Now, I trust you will head off a crisis by delivering this work into our hands … and the source of Ms Torelle’s inspiration as well. She must not be allowed to go public with this.’

  The art collector nodded. ‘Fear not, dear members. I have already told the dealer that I plan to make a substantial offer and have asked him to withdraw from the marketplace all prints, copies and promotional material associated with the work. He assured me that this was unnecessary as he contacted me first and was awaiting my bid before promoting the work further.’

  All in the room gave a sigh of relief, although the Grand Master was still wary. ‘Be very sure about that,’ he cautioned.

  The collector gave a slight bow in parting. ‘I shall.’

  2. For the Love of Spirit

  In the twilight hours, when she lay sleeping,

  a soul from yesteryear came creeping,

  to whisper wisdom from another age

  to splatter across her empty page.

  No great harm could come of it,

  he only ever wished her profit.

  He knew the work would be recognised,

  by those who saw through ancient eyes.

  As the cab drove off, Karita turned to admire her house, the exterior of which she’d had cleaned during her absence. She noted that the two tall chimney stacks on the roof looked rather more pitted now than they had before they’d been cleaned. ‘I must get them painted,’ she decided.

  The ringing of the phone urged her to haul her luggage on to the porch and she fumbled through her bag in haste to find the front door key. ‘Who could be calling me? Everyone knows I’m gone until the end of the month.’ She managed to unlock the door and in the middle of pulling the suitcase into her house, the phone ceased to ring. Karita was tempted to swear but resolved to wave it off. ‘I don’t feel like talking anyway.’ She flung the door closed.

  Her mobile phone rang and startled the life out of her. Karita retrieved it from her pocket, annoyed to be so jumpy. ‘It’s the jet lag,’ she decided, flicking a button on her mobile. ‘You’ve found me,’ she announced.

  Her art dealer, Aldo Azzi, was heard to cheer on the other end of the phone. ‘Just thought I’d take a chance. I was going to try email next. You’re home early. Didn’t you like the Middle East?’

  Karita groaned, disenchanted by the question. ‘I don’t know why I bother travelling any more —’

  ‘Sorry, sweets, you’ll have to speak up,’ Aldo interrupted. ‘You know what my hearing is like.’

  ‘I said, I don’t know why I bother travelling any more … since I moved into this place, I am more inspired here than anywhere. Maybe I’m just intimidated by everything I’m absorbing when I travel?’

  ‘I think I’ve sold “The Lost Word”,’ Aldo announced as Karita had started mumbling again.

  Karita gave an excited screech. It was one of her major pieces, which her dealer intended to sell for a small fortune.

  ‘Please, darling, my hearing.’ Aldo requested a little restraint from her.

  ‘Sorry, Aldo, I had to g
et that out. So, who is the interested party?’

  ‘An art collector from the US, who has a passion for Masonic symbolism,’ Aldo informed her, sounding impressed by his own efforts.

  ‘Why would a Mason be interested in my picture?’ Karita didn’t know anything about the society, except that it was all male.

  ‘I don’t know that he is a Mason.’ Aldo was quick to correct her misconception. ‘I only know he has a passion for their symbolism.’

  Karita hadn’t really considered that her rather ethereal dreamlike work would interest such an audience. ‘And he has seen the painting?’

  ‘Yes, indeedee,’ Aldo assured her. ‘And get this, he wants to buy all the prints, copies and promotional material as well.’

  ‘What?’ Karita found this news rather disturbing. ‘Why? Does this mean that my amazing work will never be seen by anyone else?’

  ‘Some private collectors are weird like that,’ Aldo brushed aside her worries, ‘but I don’t think you’ll care once this gentleman makes a bid.’

  ‘A big spender, hey?’ Karita joked, and her amusement was momentarily choked as she sensed the great expectation in her dealer’s voice.

  ‘Let me put it to you this way. He’s just hopped on his private jet and is on his way to take collection as we speak.’

  ‘He’s that confident of buying it?’ Karita’s voice had gone all squeaky and weak.

  ‘Put the bubbly on ice, my precious,’ Aldo said confidently. ‘I trust you’ll make yourself available to meet with us this evening?’

  ‘Tonight?’ Karita came down from her cloud abruptly. ‘I feel like hell, Aldo. I’ve just travelled halfway around the world —’

  ‘So has he,’ Aldo pointed out. ‘So, around seven at the gallery should suit. Cheers, bella.’ He blew her a kiss and hung up.

  ‘I thought I was supposed to be calling the shots in this relationship.’ She clicked her phone closed and tossed it on to the lounge. ‘Well,’ Karita smiled as she thought about a large cash influx, ‘I suppose I should grab a nap then.’

  The unpacking could wait until tomorrow and her large, familiar bed was so inviting. ‘Home!’ She took a running jump to land belly down upon her mattress and gave a deep, satisfied sigh as she snuggled in for a snooze.

  Oh, but she was lovely — and home early too.

  Karita had the look of a Middle Eastern beauty: dark eyes, olive skin and a mass of long, thick, black hair. To some extent, the western culture into which she’d been born was reflected in her strong independent nature and her highly stylish dress sense. Her small, slender frame leant itself to body-hugging attire, which heightened her trendy image — ‘as skinny as a rake’ was the in thing.

  Did you miss me, Karita? Tristan asked as he floated alongside the sleeping female, who grinned in response to his question. Torture me with tales of the men you seduced in your travels. Did you meet anyone special this trip? Tristan hoped not; he hated the idea of a man moving into the house with them.

  Karita, still in a deep, blissful sleep, slowly shook her head. ‘No,’ she mumbled, ‘they all manage to bore me senseless before they get anywhere near me.’

  Tristan gave a delighted chuckle. Tell me all your news. The brothers have sent someone to acquire our picture, I hear?

  ‘Aldo isn’t sure the buyer is a Mason,’ Karita mumbled, unaware that she was having this conversation.

  Oh, he is a Mason, sure enough, Tristan warranted. And he’ll pay handsomely for the picture, so make sure you hold out for his best offer … a million, at least!

  Karita laughed out loud at this and nearly woke herself up.

  I know you think I’m a naive, old has-been, but I know what I’m talking about in this case.

  A knock on the door woke Karita.

  Surprisingly enough she felt rather chipper after her short rest. The knock on the door was repeated, and as she was still fully dressed, Karita moved to answer it. ‘Yeah … who is it?’

  No response.

  ‘Hello?’ Karita reached the door and hesitated to open it.

  ‘Are you Karita Torelle?’ a pleasant male voice responded.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ She looked through the peephole, but the fellow had his head down and she couldn’t see his face, only his shoulder-length light brown hair.

  ‘I’m interested in a picture you’ve painted,’ he explained without looking up. ‘The Lost Word.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Karita couldn’t believe it. ‘You’re the buyer?’ She opened the door at once, and although the man was not the jetsetting big spender she’d imagined, he seemed pleasant enough.

  ‘You don’t know me,’ he smiled, to reassure her. ‘My name is Logan de Scott.’

  De Scott! Tristan was shocked by the visitor’s claim. Could it be?

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Karita was thankful that he’d introduced himself, as she’d forgotten to ask the buyer’s name when she’d discussed the sale earlier with Aldo. ‘Won’t you come in?’

  Logan shook her hand and stepped inside, his eyes darting about the large house as if searching for something.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess.’ Karita referred to her luggage, still piled in the lounge room. ‘I’ve just got back from OS.’ Then she noted Logan was looking at her artworks and not the state of her house. ‘The picture you’re interested in is at the gallery,’ she advised Logan, but his eyes continued to roam the house.

  ‘This house has a history,’ Logan explained, his roving eyes still at last.

  He knows, Tristan feared.

  ‘Really?’ Karita wondered how a buyer from America would have knowledge of an obscure old house in Sydney, Australia? Now that she came to think about it, he didn’t sound American at all, but rather, as Australian as she was.

  ‘A rather infamous Mason once lived here,’ he advised.

  No, don’t tell her! Tristan begged in vain.

  ‘A Mason!’ Karita was shocked at hearing the secret organisation mentioned twice in one day. Still, if this guy was a Mason himself, then that might explain his knowledge of the house. ‘How do you know this, Mr de Scott?’

  He smiled, warily. ‘The man in question was my great-grandfather, Tristan de Scott.’

  So … finally someone in my family will admit that I existed. Tristan was angry at being suddenly confronted by a long-lost great-grandson.

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Karita could hardly believe his claim. ‘What a coincidence?’

  Logan’s smile, although well intentioned, seemed to be mocking her somehow; or maybe ‘testing her’ was a more accurate description. ‘My grandfather claimed to be the channel for a highly evolved planetary Master.’ He paused to gauge her reaction to the news.

  Karita cringed, not knowing how to respond. ‘I had an aunt who thought she was Cleopatra,’ she commented sympathetically and Logan began to laugh.

  ‘The thing is,’ he became serious again, ‘it was believed that my great-grandfather was a fraud and that the secret knowledge he claimed to channel through this spirit was actually acquired from a very old, very valuable and very sought-after text … which may still be concealed in this very house.’

  Logan took a step toward Karita, and the intense expression on his face caused a chill down her spine. A loud crash in her bedroom gave Karita an excuse to back away from the man. ‘Probably the damn cat,’ she explained, even though she didn’t have a cat, and ran quickly down the hall.

  In her bedroom she took deep breaths to recover from the scare. Maybe she’d just imagined that expression on his face?

  She noted a whole pile of things had been swept from her dressing table on to the wooden chair that sat in front of it; she didn’t understand how this had happened and right now she didn’t much care.

  Don’t trust him, Karita, Tristan warned. Call the police.

  ‘He’s creepy.’ She decided she didn’t like being alone with Logan. ‘I’ll just tell him to meet me at the gallery to discuss this.’

  Karita roused her courage to
confront her guest once more and was spooked to find that he’d already departed.

  ‘Too weird,’ she decided, having checked all the rooms and closets.

  I never thought they’d link you to me. Tristan regretted inspiring this girl with his knowledge. If they believe you have possession of the lost doctrine, as they believed I did, then you are in great danger. He cursed his desire to take revenge on the Masons and mock them from beyond the grave. He’d hoped that the order would recognise this woman for the exceptional channel she was and be forced to humble themselves before her and pay her to acquire the knowledge they sought. I should have known they’d suspect fraud before the simple truth.

  3. The Oldest Tongue

  Via Enoch, Hermes, Solomon and Hiram,

  a sacred language was taught to man.

  Its key word, the cause of a hundred wars,

  was hidden far from any shore.

  The ancient tongue passed through the ages

  all the way down to modern sages.

  This text was the key to find the expression,

  that would grant mankind power over heaven.

  Karita wasn’t that keen about meeting Logan again, but as Aldo was expecting her, she made herself presentable and drove down to the gallery. It felt wonderful to be driving her own car; she’d really missed her little MGB when she was overseas.

  The gallery was in the inner city suburb of Paddington and had private off-street parking. Beside Aldo’s black SAAB was parked a white stretch limousine, and try as she might, Karita just couldn’t imagine Logan de Scott climbing out of the luxurious vehicle.

  Inside the gallery, Karita found Aldo speaking with a very distinguished-looking gentleman, who was much more the buyer she had imagined. When Aldo had finished hugging her, he turned and introduced Karita to Preston Molay, the potential buyer.

  Although Karita was relieved not to be dealing with Logan de Scott, she could feel the heat of her fear burning her up. What business had Logan de Scott had at her house today, if he was not the buyer? How did he know so much about her? And she’d been stupid enough to invite him into her house!