Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel)

by Frank Lauria

  Yousef came in with the table. He placed it in front of them and turned to go. "Prepare yourself," Ahmehmet said to him. "And bring the black mirror." The wiry shopkeeper began to pour the tea as the boy left the room.

  "A man can go through many lifetimes before he becomes a candidate for expansion," Ahmehmet said, sighing. He looked at his glass. "Or he could pass through many expansions in one existence."

  Orient took a sip of the warm, sweet tea. He was calmer now but not entirely. The urge to be on his way to Raga was pricking at his composure. He began to regulate his breath, going deeper into a receptive state.

  "Here then are the words of power." Ahmehmet’s voice came to him from very far away. "They are to be used only as an ultimate and they can be opened only by the key. Their power remains locked until the object of your judgment is correctly named by the key."

  The words didn’t appear in Orient’s mind. Rather they were plowed up from some soil lying fallow in his memory. He saw and felt their shuddering connections as each one was released. "Nabmab, Samanta, Vajranam chanda maharoshana Sphataya hum traka ham ma—I dedicate myself to the Universal Diamond be this raging fury destroyed..."

  He opened his eyes. Ahmehmet was drinking his tea. The shopkeeper put the glass down as Yousef entered the room. "Put on your ring," he suggested softly to Orient. Orient slipped the ring on his middle finger. It fit perfectly. "Please tell our guest what you see in the mirror," Ahmehmet said to the boy.

  Yousef held the mirror at arm’s length. It was a section of curved, glazed obsidian. The rounded piece of glass was dark and polished against its carved silver backing. As Yousef stared into it, Orient felt a dim scent of recognition, bitter and sluggish. His mind prickled as he watched the boy evoking the alien mist, trying to read it. He wanted to yell out a warning.

  "Enough," Ahmehmet’s voice cut through the quiet.

  The boy snatched the mirror away from his face. He appeared unmoved, but Orient saw that he was trying to quell a sudden fright.

  "What did you see for the doctor?" Ahmehmet asked after a few moments.

  Yousef took a deep breath. "I could see nothing for him. Only a large cloud." He looked at Orient. "And a path that became four trails that led into the cloud. Nothing else." He glanced at Ahmehmet. "The cloud frightened me for a moment."

  "Then you should have put the mirror down before I told you. The man must not hesitate," Ahmehmet said quietly, "when he knows the object of his judgment."

  The boy didn’t answer.

  "Go now and return the mirror to its place," Ahmehmet said, stroking his chin. The boy turned and left the room.

  "I have given you the words of power but not the key," Ahmehmet said, peering at Orient. "I had hoped that the boy would show me the word. For the key to the words of power is but a single word..." Orient heard Ahmehmet’s words rising in his brain, a melodic, chanting line that filled his consciousness. He looked up. Ahmehmet was staring at him. "... and the word," Ahmehmet was saying, "is two seven seven."

  CHAPTER 17

  Ischia, 1970

  Orient shivered as he stood at the dock waiting for the helicopter that would take him from Naples to the island of Ischia. The morning was chilly and his circulation was numbed from hours of waiting rooms and disconnected travel.

  The day before, he had signed his second death certificate in four weeks, then taken a train to Casablanca. The flight to Paris had been delayed, causing him to miss an early flight to Rome. After many hours there was another plane, then another long wait before he caught the twin-engine mail plane from Rome to Naples.

  The dawn was dear and Orient could see the pink slopes of Mount Vesuvius across the black, oil-slicked bay. Since he’d left Marrakesh his only concern had been Raga. He didn’t know if she wanted to see him or how he could explain his fears to her. He looked around.

  Naples seemed grimy and unmajestic in the dim morning light. Just another iron-twisted dock with listing ships rusting at the water’s edge. A shabby contrast to the opulence of its legend. The city was said to have been created by Virgil through the means of occult experiments. Orient tried to loosen the muscles in his stiff neck. Virgil was also an Insani Kamil, the perfectly perfected man of Arab occult sdence. He knew many secrets and had performed countless miracles. But he had failed short of his major experiment. The rejuvenation of his own life.

  Orient tried to remember what Doctor Six had told him about his own work. It was very little. He went back over the details of Presto’s autopsy. The body was normal except that his fluids seemed to have been somewhat evaporated. His blood, liver, and gland secretions were minimal. Death had been attributed to natural causes.

  Orient jammed his hands into his pockets and searched the sky for a sign of the helicopter. He would have to ask Doctor Six point-blank to explain the nature of his work. There was no evidence available to confront him. He shrugged his shoulders and waited.

  And Presto’s last message. XXX. It could refer to some kind of poison, but no trace of foreign substances had been found in his body. The message was as incomprehensible as the key to the words of power Ahmehmet had given him. Two seven seven.

  Orient repeated the number to himself. It was probably a reference to the Abjad notation system, the scientific code of Arabic and Hebrew magic in which every letter had a numerical value. But there were many possible combinations to the sum two seven seven. Ahmehmet had given him a weapon he couldn’t use.

  He heard the helicopter coming, then saw its rotors glinting in the red-streaked sky. As it approached, Orient recalled something about the city of Naples. Virgil had constructed two gates to the city. One gave a traveler good fortune, the other bad. He wondered which way his taxi had turned when it took him to the helicopter platform.

  When the helicopter rose slowly from the dock, Orient could see how Naples was able to inspire divine fables. It spread lazily and gracefully over the rugged coastline. He saw baroque palazzas next to green trees, small suburban houses, and the Arabic spires of mosques left behind by invading Moors and now capped with Christian crosses in the crumbling maze of the slums behind the docks. The sea around the city was brown instead of blue, its high-rise, cliffside apartments were grayed with smoke from festering clumps of factories, but the city still conveyed the repressed vitality of the volcano across the bay.

  As the helicopter leaned away from the city and skimmed a high current of air above the dark sea, Orient wondered if Sordi had received the telegram he had sent from Casablanca.

  Sordi had been waiting for Orient since four that morning when the first helicopter had arrived from Naples. He had watched five flights come in without his friend. He looked at his watch and wondered if

  he should drive to the port and check to see if the doctor had come in by ferryboat.

  Instead, he adjusted the silk scarf around his neck, settled back in his chair, and looked out across the blue water. Everything had changed on the island during the time he’d been away, but at least they hadn’t ruined the water. Yet. Give the idiots time and they’d manage even that, Sordi decided.

  He wasn’t pleased with the place he’d come home to. The traffic had jammed, the thick green forests and fertile farms were being plastered with asphalt, and the people had become money-crazy. Most of Sordi’s old family friends were now tourist moguls with no thought of preserving their unique environment.

  His memories of a placid island in the sea, an extinct volcano where everything grew ripe and sweet, a haven where he could be close to the earth among simple, honest people—it was all gone. Sordi sighed. At least the sun was unspoiled.

  He peered anxiously into the brightening sky, then looked down and flicked a speck of dust from his cashmere sweater. He speculated on what had made the doctor decide to visit Ischia. Whatever the reason, he was happy about it. Maybe the doctor wanted to set up his lab again and needed his services. It would be good to see him again. Especially now with Francesca so sick.

  Sordi shook his head. His
cousin Nino and his wife were really scared about their daughter. But they were stubborn. Maybe Doctor Orient could talk some sense into them.

  When he heard the low whirring coming from across the water, he jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth on the small platform, his thin frame erect with a mixture of nervousness and enthusiasm.

  As the helicopter descended, Sordi elbowed his way to the head of the line of cab drivers and departing passengers who were waiting at the gate.

  He craned his neck as the craft unloaded but could only see the regular assortment of German, English, and American tourists. He had another fleeting thought of getting into his car and driving down to meet the ferry before the taxis glutted the narrow road to the port. The thought disintegrated as the sight of the familiar, gaunt face and white-streaked black hair let loose his pent-up emotions and he yelled out.

  But as the tall figure approached, Sordi’s joy turned to concern. Doctor Orient’s wide shoulders were stooped and his face was gray with fatigue under his tanned skin. But he did look better than the last time he’d seen him. Then the doctor had seemed frail and unhealthy. But even though he looked tired now, he still looked alert. And his smile when he heard Sordi’s voice was real and strong.

  He took the doctor’s outstretched hand and pumped it vigorously; shouting at him until he realized that he’d asked the doctor three questions without waiting for an answer. He dropped Orient’s hand and picked up his bag. "Maybe I better give you a chance to get rested and eat something before I start the questions," he grinned. None of it made any difference. The doctor was here.

  "How’ve you been?" Orient said, grinning back at Sordi.

  "Great," Sordi lied. "Best thing in the world."

  "That’s good to hear, I need a vacation," Orient stopped when he saw where Sordi was heading with his bag. "So you took this monstrosity with you after all," he said in mock surprise.

  "Of course." Sordi gazed at the gleaming 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible. "You don’t think I was going to leave it behind?" He opened the door. "Never needs a day’s repair. Besides," he said as he walked around the car to the driver’s side, "I like the way she looks."

  As Sordi drove along the winding road through the town of Lacco Ameno toward the far side of the island, he kept glancing at Orient. The doctor was talking in his slow, quiet way as usual, but there was something different about him. He was sitting back relaxed in the front seat, but his green eyes were glistening with some kind of inner excitement.

  "Where’ve you been?" Sordi asked. "I got worried when two letters I sent to New York came back. Nothing important, but you should let somebody know where you are."

  Orient smiled, "I decided to do some traveling suddenly. To Morocco."

  "Morocco?" Sordi said. "Where’s that, Africa?"

  Orient nodded.

  Sordi shook his head. "I’ll bet you haven’t eaten a decent meal since I left."

  "That’s right. And I think that’s exactly what I need right now."

  Orient looked at Sordi. "Are you still the best-dressed chef in town or did somebody swipe that title?"

  Sordi grunted. "Nobody swipes no cooking titles from me." He swung the car around a small uphill curve, narrowly but deftly avoiding an oncoming Mercedes.

  "This car is too big for these country roads," Orient remarked drily. "What you need is a Topolino Fiat."

  "That car you used to have was twice as big as this," Sordi reminded him. "But it didn’t have styling." He slowed the car down as the road passed a small cove of blue water between two overhanging cliffs. A number of yachts, sailboats and motorboats were floating calmly off the sandy beach.

  "That’s very nice," Orient said, looking back.

  Sordi wasn’t impressed. "The water’s full of gasoline from the boats and beach is too crowded. I’ll show you a nice beach. How long are you going to stay, Doctor?"

  Orient continued to admire the scenery. "Don’t know yet. But I want to find an apartment or studio for a few weeks at least. Someplace private."

  Sordi smiled. "That’s perfect. My house is right on a beach and there’s only two other houses around."

  Orient hesitated. Sordi wondered if he was uncomfortable about accepting his hospitality. "I’m not there most of the time," he added. "I spend a lot of time with my cousin and his family. Plus I have another place farther up on the mountain."

  Orient grinned. "Thanks, Sordi. That sounds fine."

  "Wait till you see it. You won’t want to go back to Morocco so fast. My land gets the best tomatoes on the island. And they know how to grow tomatoes here."

  The road curved away from the shore, through a cobblestoned old village and past a few medieval stone towers. "This is Forio," Sordi announced. "My place is a few miles up the coast." The car rolled through the little town and then followed the road seaward again.

  "Ischia’s a big island," Orient said.

  "Not big enough. Citarra, the place where I live, is the only part where the tourists aren’t overrunning the sand. And even there they have a big health spa that takes up part of the beach."

  "Health spa?"

  "Yeah. You know, mineral baths and radioactive mud treatments. Ischia’s on top of an old volcano so the place is naturally radioactive. My place is on the side of an old crater. And the beach and water in front have hot springs."

  "What have you been doing with yourself?"

  The question caught Sordi off guard. He had an impulse to blurt out the truth, that since he’d left the doctor’s service he’d been at loose ends. That he couldn’t decide what to do. That he wasn’t happy in Italy, because he missed being useful, being needed for something. That he’d gotten used to New York and that, as terrible as the city was, at least a man could enjoy himself.

  He suppressed the impulse. "I’ve just been taking it easy for a while, Doctor. Lots of swimming and cooking."

  "La dolce vita on a Mediterranean paradise."

  "Sure." Sordi glanced at Orient. "But I might take a little trip back to New York. In the fall. Just to look around."

  The car pulled around a bend and Sordi slowed down so that Orient could get a good look as they reached a rise. A hundred feet below them was the crystal-blue water of a large natural harbor dug out of a bowl of flinty rock. The steep boulders around the long sandy beach were green and thick with vegetation, lushly colored in contrast to the limpid tints of the water.

  "It’s beautiful!" Orient said.

  Sordi noted his exclamation with satisfaction. "This is it," he said casually. "Citarra, where you live now."

  When Sordi parked the car, Orient got out and took his bag from the back seat, swinging it easily over the door. Sordi was glad to see that the doctor had retained his athletic grace. And he thought he detected a new authority in Orient’s walk. A sort of confidence. But later, as he watched Orient pick at his herb and cheese salad, he changed his mind about his friend’s state.

  There was something eating at him. He couldn’t seem to unwind. He was calm and soft-spoken as always, but the light in his eyes was unnaturally bright. While they were talking, Sordi got the feeling that his attention was on something else, deep inside.

  Even after dinner, as they sat in the big leather chairs in front of the picture window overlooking the sea, the feeling that the doctor was tense and overtired persisted.

  "Maybe you’d like to take a shower and get some rest," Sordi suggested. "You’ve had a long trip."

  "The shower sounds great, but I don’t know if I want to go to bed just yet. There’s somebody on the island I want to look up." Orient looked at his hands. "A doctor."

  Sordi nodded. "Where?" Orient shook his head and stared out the window. "I don’t know exactly."

  "That might take some time. There are eight districts on the island. And people coming and going all the time."

  Orient didn’t answer.

  "Tell you what," Sordi said finally. "I’ve got to go see my cousin now. You take your shower and I’ll be back i
n a while and we can drive around and see if we can locate your friend."

  Orient smiled. "You don’t have to go to all this trouble..."

  "No trouble, Doctor," Sordi interrupted. "My cousin lives just above here. On the mountain. Next to my other house. They don’t have much room at their place with other kids so my niece is staying at my place." He stood up. "She’s sick."

  Orient looked at him.

  "My cousin is a nice guy but he’s stubborn," Sordi muttered. His temper flared as he thought of Nino. "He makes a good living but he don’t want to send his kids to school. And he don’t want Francesca to go to the hospital."

  "You mean your niece?" Orient asked.

  Sordi nodded. "He’s just stubborn. He’s got one way of doing things, the old way. You can’t tell him anything else. He’s even got some old strega woman with Francesca instead of a nurse." Sordi grit his teeth. "I almost punched him in the nose the other day." He looked at Orient. "Maybe you could talk to Nino. Tomorrow. He might listen to you."

  "Sure, if you think it will help. What’s wrong with Francesca?"

  "I don’t know. Some kind of sleeping sickness. The doctor wants to take her to the hospital in Naples. At least to the hospital here at the port. But Nino won’t let him."

  Orient stood up. "What do you mean, sleeping sickness?" he asked softly.

  Sordi was disturbed by the intense expression in the doctor’s face. His slanting green eyes glittered with the strain that lined his high forehead and hollow cheeks. "She just sleeps. She’s very weak. The doctor said that if my cousin don’t change his mind, he’s going to call the police. Francesca can’t even eat."

  "How long has she been like that?"

  Sordi shrugged. "Three, maybe four days."

  Orient frowned. "Give me some time to have a fast shower and change clothes. Then I’ll go with you to your house. I’d like to look at Francesca."

  As Sordi sat waiting for Orient, he felt apprehensive. If the doctor thought it was serious, Francesca might be sicker than everyone thought. He decided to tell Nino’s wife that Francesca would have to go to the hospital right away. He looked around the room. And there was something troubling Orient. He hadn’t even noticed the way the house looked. Sordi was disappointed. He had designed the interior himself. Had the walls taken down and the windows enlarged.