by Frank Lauria
"Good." Ahmehmet looked at the burning ember of kif in the curved clay bowl. "Then I will help you."
Ahmehmet said it casually, but Orient saw an immediate change come over Yousef. The boy’s formal manner relaxed and he smiled broadly at Orient.
"Go and prepare my workroom," Ahmehmet said.
Yousef bowed to Orient and left the table.
"You have decided then, Doctor?" Ahmehmet poured another glass of tea. "Yes. I want to travel to the Astral Plane. There I can see the nature of my friend’s illness."
"It will be dangerous."
Orient looked at Ahmehmet. "Perhaps it’s best that I travel to the Astral alone."
"As you wish. But I insist on linking my mind with yours in case of necessity."
Orient shook his head. "I can’t allow you to take the risk."
"Doctor," Ahmehmet said gently, "you must. This is the nature of your expansion to the second level. I can be your guide only. The candidate moves himself forward. It is not his knowledge but his use of it that brings him forth. I can help you only if you decide yourself to act. But now that your decision has been made it is my duty to assist you."
Oricnt looked at his wrinkled hands.
Ahmchmet puffed at his pipe. "Many men have knowledge," he said. "The choice of the knowledge determines the man. Your mandala is that of the Insani Kamil, the perfectly perfected man. Your choice has brought you to this path in your fate. I can accompany you only a short distance on this path, but you must find your own direction to expansion."
"So be it," Orient smiled. When they arrived at Ahmehmet’s workroom, a small library at thc very end of the apartments, they found Yousef waiting for them.
He had lit the large candles in the cramped but neat room that served as Ahmehmet’s laboratory. There was a long table covered with glass beakers and bottles filled with herbs and colored liquids.
Another table was heaped with stacks of books and papers. The walls were covered with charts and mathematical calculations. The floor was made of white stone.
Ahmehmet asked Yousef to fetch his charcoal and measuring cord, then told the boy to leave them alone in the room. He began drawing the precise lines of a perfect pentagram, murmuring to himself as he drew the figure on the floor with the charcoal.
He was constructing a Pentagram of Protection, blessing each stroke as he measured if off carefiflly with the cord. He drew the word BABYLON on the floor next to the pentagram, repeating the word out loud according to the ritual of Pythagoras. The ancient ritual of the Semitic wanderers of Astral Space.
Orient hoped that the measurements would prove to be correct. If a hypernatural presence was present on the Astral, his energy would be vulnerable. His only direction back to his body was the pentagram. Should he lose his balance on the Astral, his body would remain suspended between dimensions of life and death, while his consciousness tumbled lost in the winds of infinity.
When Ahmehmet was finished with the pentagram, he began to draw another one next to it, working slowly and patiently.
Orient tried to settle his breathing. The Astral Plane was the junction to all existence in the universe. He would know for certain what it was that was sucking at Presto’s life and threatening Raga.
Ahmehmet finished the second pentagram. Orient stepped inside the first figure and sat down cross-legged on the floor, taking care not to disturb any of the borders of the sign. Ahmehmet sat down facing him, writing the borders of the other pentagram.
Orient closed his eyes and began his breathing pattern that induced the trance sleep over his senses. As he inhaled and exhaled, he pressed his will on the energy that was gently separating from his body, charging his releasing consciousness with its quest.
He first perceived the plane as a whirling series of distinct images. The images kept shifting off focus and coming back to clarity in endless directions simultaneously. He saw a worm crawling across a leaf in the Mexican jungle, he saw a grain of sand in the Sahara, he saw a letter that a child was writing, he saw a landslide on the moon, he saw a section of vegetation on a distant planet, he saw a young girl lying sick in a room, he saw an island in the sea, he saw the yawning, boiling interior of a volcano, an insect flying toward a flower; he saw a book and understood every word, he saw the shimmering flight of music from a guitar...
When he became used to the perspectives, he saw that his own projection of energy was that of a young Negro boy dressed in a flowing black cape that covered his naked form.
He willed his form through the changing flashes of images until he saw Presto lying on his bed.
He approached the image and entered it. His projection was not alone there. His vision was partially obscured, but he could make out a milky, active mist around Presto’s bed. He could see that the boy’s body was saturated with the vapor of energy.
He moved closer, crossing the space tentatively, his sense of distance held in perspective only by his balance. As he neared, he could feel the gentle pressure of some faraway pleasure expanding the mist.
He felt for the origin of the pressure. Its source wasn’t in the room.
He went back, away from Presto, looking for the pole that was radiating that pleasant current. He moved slowly through the changing dimensions, using his faint sense of the mist to guide him.
Then he saw the island rising green out of a crystal sea. As he neared, he saw that part of it was covered by the same mist that pervaded Presto’s room. An opaque cloud vibrating insistent streams of energy, like an invisible hive. He saw his old friend Sordi sleeping fitfully on a rumpled bed. He could see a young girl playing near the water. He could see a fish at the bottom of the sea. But he could see nothing beyond the rhythms of the mist. The soothing pulse of emanation blocked out all form within it.
He found that he was moving slowly toward the clouded area, circling as if he were at the outer edge of a whirlpool. He tried to will his projection back. As his will opened, it was massaged by a languid breeze of warm energy and it failed to respond quickly enough. He continued to move closer to the mist.
A sudden vertigo swung him off his balance and he hurried through an ever increasing blur of images and reflections. He felt himself being smothered by the invisible weight of some soft, oily vapor. A slime of energy that began covering him as his balance shattered.
He tried desperately to check his spinning fall, but the ooze was feeding at his projection, draining his memory of direction. Just as he started falling and his consciousness blurred, he called out for Ahmehmet, his scream echoing noiselessly through the fragments of existence.
His fall was checked and, as his vision cleared, he saw that he was at the edge of the mist. And the cloud was compressing, moving away from him.
A figure came into view. The hood of his black robe made his face indistinct but he recognized the great curving sword of Amiyre that the figure held in his hand. The sword of the guardian of light. And he saw the figure heading directly into the mist.
A gust of wind wafted from the tingling sense of the cloud away from the hooded figure. Amiyre followed, his sword raised.
He started after the figure, but a silent tremor of warning sent him back through the rotating images, pushing him away toward the safety of his own body.
As he drifted back, he could feel the intensity of the struggle in the receding distance. The wide, silent strokes of Amiyre’s tireless sword slashing at the hovering vibration.
He saw an image of Presto trying to rise out of his bed.
A vicious gush of energy jostled his balance. He began to topple. He reached out, away from the formless vibration, stretching for his own solid soil of displacement. Just before he found it, and let its specific gravity draw him rapidly away from the Astral, he saw a last image.
Amiyre was sinking slowly to his knees. His hood was thrown back and he could see the figure’s dark, straining face. But he still couldn’t see the form of the rushing cloud that was settling over the exhausted warrior. Then Amiyre’s curved sw
ord dropped from his hand and the mist closed the figure from sight.
When Orient opened his eyes, he saw Ahmehmet sitting across from him. His eyes were closed and his face was sweating. His thin body seemed to be hunched over itself as if in great pain.
Orient realized that his teacher hadn’t yet withdrawn from the trance and he went quickly receptive, charging his bodily energies at the negative curve of his being. He secured the polarity and began to draw at Ahmehmet’s vibration, creating a direction in the void for his stricken protector.
Ahmehmet’s face relaxed and his eyes fluttered open.
Orient was relieved, but the relief wasn’t enough to dispel the empty frustration of some unnamed defeat booming through his brain.
Ahmehmet’s eyes conveyed the same sense of bruised, helpless exhaustion.
They hadn’t succeeded. The realization scratched at his raw anxiety. They had risked themselves and hadn’t even glimpsed the nature of the alien presence gorging on Presto. He gritted his teeth.
The two men sat there for a long time, remaining within the charcoal borders of their pentagram. The silence in the room was magnified by the sound of their breathing.
Then Orient felt a sense of absence in the room. As if a piece of furniture had been removed.
It occurred to Orient that the drums in the marketplace were still.
CHAPTER 16
When Orient arrived at the hospital the next morning, he was prepared for the news that Presto was dead.
Doctor Hamid’s round face was marked with the same deep lines of helplessness and exhaustion that Orient had seen on Ahmehmet’s face. The same ldnd of empty weariness that he had himself felt since fleeing the Astral.
"I tried oxygen last night," Hamid explained quietly as he walked with Orient to Presto’s room. "He came out of the coma for a moment and sat up. He tried to speak but then he just died."
"Just died." Hamid repeated. He shrugged his shoulders in mute reflection of Orient’s own resignation and futile sense of failure. "All we can do now is run an autopsy. Mandatory in these cases."
Orient entered the room. The window was closed and there was no sound in the tiny space. He noticed that his mind could still taste the alien fume lingering around the bed even though the active vibration was gone. There was nothing in the room.
Presto’s body had no heartbeat and his eye was dulled. The pinpoint blaze of energy in his pupils had been snuffed.
"Will you sign the certificate?" Hamid asked softly.
Orient straightened up. "Of course."
"The autopsy will be performed this afternoon. The certificate will be ready after that." Hamid looked up at Orient. "Do you know the address of his relatives?"
"No. Were there any effects?"
Hamid went over to the cupboard near the door. "Just his motorcycle and this knapsack."
Orient looked inside the khaki bag. There were two still cameras inside.
"Is this all?" Orient murmured. He remembered the many pieces of equipment Presto was carrying. His movie camera and lenses. His rolls of film. None of it was there.
"Everything as we received it, Doctor," Hamid said anxiously.
Orient looked at him. He felt sure that Hamid was telling the truth. Someone must have taken Presto’s gear before he was brought to the hospital. He hefted the bag in his hand. "I suppose it would be best if you held the motorcycle against the medical bills until his relatives can be located."
Hamid shrugged. "All right." He looked at Orient. "Will you be leaving Marrakesh?"
Orient nodded.
"Will you take the bag then and try to contact the boy’s people? It is difficult for us here. We’re rather remote."
Orient agreed reluctantly. He was anxious to get back to Raga. He could place a call to the hotel in Tangier and check if there had been any messages from her. But even if there wasn’t any word from Raga, he was going directly from Marrakesh to Naples. He had seen Sordi on the island during his Astral voyage. And he knew that Doctor Six was headed for the same place where Sordi lived. The island of Ischia.
But nowhere in those myriads of images where all time and existence converged in the same space had he seen Doctor Six, Raga, or Pia.
"There was only one other matter," Doctor Hamid was saying. He walked over to the night table.
Orient looked at the portable oxygen tent standing near the door waiting to be wheeled away, along with Presto’s body.
"The boy was out of coma for a few minutes," Hamid said.
"Did he say anything at all?"
"No." Hamid returned with a piece of paper. "But he wrote this. He managed to point to my pen." He fingered the metal clip on the pocket of his smock.
Orient looked at the paper. There were three wavery Xs written on the sheet. Nothing else. "I thought perhaps they had some American or English significance," Hamid suggested.
Orient shook his head and handed Hamid back the paper. "Nothing I know of," he sighed. "I’ll be back to sign the certificate after you get the results of your autopsy."
"Very good." Hamid walked to the door with Orient. "I hope we can discover the cause of your friend’s illness."
"I hope so," Orient said. He knew it was a slim chance.
Going to a hotel across the street from the hospital, he placed a call to Tangier. There was no message. He went to the reservations desk and checked the flights to Italy. There was a nonstop to Paris from Casablanca that evening. Orient made arrangements to be on it.
As he waited for the clerk to complete the call to the airport to confirm his seat, Orient’s restlessness became a nagging apprehension. It would take him at least a day to reach Raga. He had to see her. He had to find out what Doctor Six knew about Presto’s death. He still didn’t know what it was that had consumed Presto’s life. There was only the memory of the smothering mist obscuring all sight. He still didn’t know how to protect Raga.
After booking his flight, he crossed the square and slowly made his way back to Ahmehmet’s shop to say goodbye. As he pushed his way through the press of people jamming the outdoor arena, the drums rippled mockingly through his thoughts. His candidacy to the second level had become a motion of failure. And he had endangered the life of his teacher. For nothing at all.
When he entered Ahmehmet’s shop, he saw that the small shopkeeper’s skinny frame was sagging under the bright-beaded shirt he wore. He was talking to the man in the red fez who came every day to haggle with him. Ahmehmet shook his head, looking at the necklace in his hand. The man insisted.
"I will come back tomorrow to see if you change your mind," the man was saying.
Ahmehmet hesitated. "Take it then," he said. "I will suffer the loss of some money and then gain the fortune of a quiet shop." He placed the magnificent amber-and-emerald necklace on the desk.
The man wheeled. "What?" he said incredulously.
"Take the necklace and give me your money," Ahmehmet sighed.
He seemed too broken with weariness to argue any longer.
The man in the red fez took a wallet from the inside pocket of his robe and slapped some bills on the desk while Ahmehmet slowly wrapped the necklace in tissue paper.
Orient felt even more depressed as he saw Ahmehmet giving in. The wiry shopkeeper seemed to have lost his zest for his dealings today.
Yousef was sitting in a corner, glowering at Orient as if his presence had infected his teacher with some wasting disease.
Ahmehmet rang up the deal on the NO SALE button.
"He paid too little," Yousef said angrily after the man was gone.
Ahmehmet smiled sadly. "We made a profit."
"Not enough." Yousef glanced at Orient. "Why?"
Ahmehmet stroked his chin. "When he goes home with his necklace he will think he has made a bargain. But then he will think that Ahmehmet gave in too easily. Why? He will ask himself. Why has Ahmehmet refused to take full profit?" He paused and looked at Yousef. "Then the man will think, Ahmehmet has tricked me. That could be the only
reason. He will come back to the shop and try to buy something else. After a hundred days I will let him buy it. I will be very firm. I will take a double profit. And then the man will be sure I tricked him. He will insist I take the necklace back. At first I will argue, but then I will take it back." Ahmehmet shook his head. "Now do not presume to advise your teacher. Go and bring our guest refreshment." He looked at Orient. "Come," he said gently, "let us go inside."
Orient followed Yousef into the inner room and sat down heavily on a pillow. Ahmehmet remained standing, watching him.
"I must leave here, Ahmehmet." Orient rubbed his burning eyes.
"I know," the small shopkeeper nodded. "You must go alone. Our paths divide." He put his hand into the pocket of his velvet trousers, took out a blue object, and gave it to Orient.
Orient looked at the plain silver ring crudely mounted by an unpolished lapis. The pitted glaze of the stone glowed a dull, flat blue.
"It is yours," Ahmchmet said. "My gift to the candidate for expansion."
Orient stared at the ring. "I thought our experiment was a failure."
Ahmehmct sat down next to Orient. "The marketplace brought me the news of your friend this morning, but last night I knew he could not be saved. It was his fate." He leaned forward. "Each man has many fates. Each choice produces a different path. Each path another choice. So be it. When a man has found his way through the maze of many lifetimes he will find harmony. Or he will remain in chaos lost in the maze. His choice alone determines."
Orient nodded. For some reason he thought of the completeness he had found with Raga. The harmony of their love.
"The grip of the Nine Unknown Men of the universe is not strong," Ahmehmet continued. "It is like the balance of the acrobats in the square, trying to perform on a hill of ice." He paused and looked at Orient. "Your choice is the weight of our balance. Your failure another wind that threatens our harmony."