“You mentioned an exception.”
She laughed. “Oh, that. Yes, well, it seems that in the year 415 BC a series of profanations occurred. Apparently, the ‘jet set’ crowd in Athens managed to acquire some of the hallucinogenic compounds used at Eleusis. In the rites the mushrooms were usually taken in a liquid form, the famous kykeon. The result was a major scandal. The Athenian swingers began using the stuff for their own personal entertainment. Apparently there were wild and debauched parties, and when this became known it triggered a national scandal. The authorities cracked down and meted out harsh penalties. The Greeks did not look kindly upon profanations of sacred ceremonial rites. They made a stern example of the offenders. You will find this covered in O’Sullivan’s book. Contrary to our uninformed modern perception, the ancients were neither stupid nor ignorant. Sacred substances were not forbidden. But their use was strictly regulated, and for good reason.”
“Why regulated?”
“To protect the family and society. In those days hallucinogenic substances could be legally gathered and administered only by temple priests or priestesses; and the hierophants had to undergo years of training and preparation. They were also bound by solemn vows. Their lives were dedicated to the service of the goddess. The male priests were often eunuchs, just to give you some idea of the level of commitment. We only know about the scandal thanks to several references in classical literature. Plutarch mentions it. Also, we have a fragment of a comedy by the playwright Eupolis written shortly after the scandal. In one key scene an informant gives testimony in a courtroom. The witness explains to the judge how he knew for certain that the accused had in fact been using the illicit substance. Evidently, the accused man had attempted to bribe the witness to say that he had only eaten porridge. But the informer knew it was a lie because the man had purple barley groats on his mustache. At Eleusis, you see, the potion’s active ingredient was the extract of an ergot, a kind of fungus that grows on barley and has a well-known characteristic: it stains purple. In the comedy the punch line involved a play on words. In classical Greek ‘crumbs of barley’ could also mean ‘purples of barley.’ No doubt, the line produced howls of laughter among the initiates in the audience, to anyone who was in-the-know.”
From Mary’s tone it was apparent that she had little enthusiasm for the mushroom, whatever its historical significance.
“And you are satisfied with O’Sullivan’s account?”
“Oh yes. His book is a most impressive piece of research. O’Sullivan is the best type of scholar. By that I mean he is relentless. He pursues the trail of evidence through a mountain of classical material, indeed, with all the rigor of an archaeologist excavating a tel. What more can one ask of a scholar? Not many of them have that kind of courage. It takes nerve to follow the evidence no matter where it leads. O’Sullivan’s near unfailing intuition is also impressive. He follows his proverbial nose. To be sure, he does rely heavily on previous detective work by several other no less competent scholars, men such as Gordon Wasson, Albert Hofman, and Carl A.P. Ruck. In case you don’t know, Wasson and his wife were the innovators who created the new field of ethnomycology; based on their researches into the psychoactive mushrooms of Mexico and Central America. Hofman was the pioneering chemist who in 1943 accidentally discovered lysergic acid, LSD; although it is more accurate to say he rediscovered it. And Ruck was a very able classicist. O’Sullivan built on the work of these capable individuals, and so, was able to confirm the role of the mushroom in the lesser mysteries at Eleusis. And, well, I think that just about covers it.”
“I gather you are not particularly enamored of the whole business.”
“You mean the mushroom?”
“Yes.”
“Perfectly right. I am not ‘enamored,’ as you say. If you ask me...”
He cut her off with a missile. “But why condemn something you haven’t tried? I mean, if you haven’t done it yourself...how could you possibly know?”
Her benevolent smile never wavered. “Tom, Tom,” she said, “You are jumping to conclusions. I am more sympathetic to your point of view than you seem to think.”
“Huh?”
“Who said I didn’t try it? I never said that.”
“But you said...”
“No, on the contrary...”
“You mean...”
“I am not uninitiated. Several years ago I did use the sacred mushroom. The muscaria variety. Indeed, on several occasions.”
“You did? No kidding?”
She nodded.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“So what did you think? Were you blown away?”
“I’ve told you, it was a case of honest curiosity.”
“But...”
“Allow me to finish. I make it a habit, at least I hope I do, not to speak from ignorance. Narrowly opinionated people drive me to distraction, especially the Christian moralizers. They’re the absolute worst. That’s how my father was, you see. He was the stereotypic stiff-necked fire-breathing Christian minister of the Baptist persuasion. It probably explains why I cannot abide missionaries. I suppose it’s also why I go to such lengths in the other direction, a compensatory habit of mine. As I said, we’ve seen the fruiting bodies, many times, here on the ranch. The species is not uncommon. I may be forty-seven, but I do speak from personal knowledge. Direct experience. The mushroom high was, how shall I say, quite remarkable. Yes. In its...amazing way. Remarkable. I have no regrets about using it. Understand, I am not opposed in principle to ‘getting high.’ I happen to believe that the human drive to experience altered and higher states of consciousness is a natural and healthy part of our nature. But I would go even farther. I suspect that “getting high” is an essential part of the human condition. Rooted in history and human consciousness. It’s a human need, and may even have a biological basis. Something genetic, built into us. No, my reservations are of an entirely different sort.”
“Your reservations?”
“Certainly.”
“Of a different sort?”
Mary reflected for a moment. “You’ve heard of Richard Alpert?”
“Ram dass.”
“Yes. Formerly, a member of the psychology department at Harvard, where he was an associate of Timothy Leary, the so-called LSD guru.”
“It was Leary who said: ‘Turn on, tune in, drop out...’”
“Yes, a somewhat regrettable phrase. Well, in one of his books, Alpert, I prefer to use his original name, relates an interesting story, one relevant to your question. It seems that soon after he departed the Harvard LSD scene, Alpert traveled to India. At that time in his life he was a self-described seeker after wisdom, a hippie in search of the Higher Self. Enlightenment. Call it what you will. Well, it seems that while in India, by luck or chance, Alpert happened to meet an authentic holy man, a Hindu saint, one of the numberless adepts who, though they remain almost unknown in the West, have for millennia made India the spiritual powerhouse of the planet. In his book Alpert describes the meeting with this great sage and how it changed his life. The way he tells it, the change was permanent, which to my way of thinking is the acid test.” Mary covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.
Tom chuckled with her.
“Oh dear. Please pardon the pun. In any event, Alpert claims this saintly man read his most private thoughts, told him intimate things about his own mother, things no stranger could possibly have known. Well, as you might expect, this got Alpert’s immediate and undivided attention. Soon after, the saint asked him for ‘the medicine.’ At first, Alpert did not understand what the yogi was talking about. But, eventually it dawned on him that the man wanted the LSD. At the time, Alpert was carrying on his person a major cache of hallucinogens, LSD of great purity...”
“Maybe windowpane.”
“Possibly. I have no idea. The point is that when he produced ‘the medicine’ the saint promptly downed the entire vial. Enough LSD to unhinge a pachyderm.”
“What hap
pened?”
“That’s precisely the point. Nothing happened.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s the way Alpert tells it. Absolutely nothing. And I see no reason to question the veracity of his account.”
“But...”
“Zero. Nought. According to Alpert the saint was totally unfazed by the most massive dose. And, unless I am mistaken, this was the intended message. And, to my way of thinking, that pretty much disposes of your question about the mushroom. Of course, I grant you, it is possible that Alpert fabricated the whole story. Made it up. It’s even possible that his brain had been addled by the drug. He might have confused fantasy with reality. Possible, but in my view not likely. No, I tend to believe him. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. You see, we are free beings, burdened, so to speak, with free will. The point, Tom, is that one can choose to remain a bullfrog croaking in a puddle. Or...” She paused.
“Or?”
“Or, one can reckon with the sea...”
The words rocked him. Suddenly, he was listening to his own windy thoughts through the clapboards. For a brief moment his thoughts seemed like ripples on a vast millpond. When he looked up she was smiling mysteriously.
FORTY THREE
For a dozen miles he played peek-a-boo with the Never Summer Range. The storm had spent its fury but the weather would not make up its mind. The sky above the mountains was a mixing bowl, dark and light, a patchwork of clouds tumbling sideways in a hurry.
His head was awash. The events at Bowen Gulch were too fresh to have any real perspective, yet.
The highway north to Willow Creek Pass was like a tunnel. The high country was never far away, only a few miles east of the road. But the highway followed the snaking stream, lined with willows; hence the name, and the nearest ridges blocked his field of view. The mountains were mostly hidden. Occasionally though as he rounded a turn, he caught a glimpse of one of the high peaks dusted with new snow. Each glimpse was a thrill.
It occurred to him that he lived for such moments, that most of his young life had been spent anticipating, tantalized by the next peak. Another pun.
They don’t call them peaks for nothing.
This rekindled the philosopher in him, and he took up the matter. Were not “waiting” and “glimpsing” closely related, two different parts of the same picture, like the “figure” and “ground” of a gestalt? Yes, but which was the figure, and which the ground? No need to reason it out. He knew the answer. All of his life, even before taking up philosophy at the university, he had been a hard-core glimpse addict. Was not the glimpse the thing? Yes, the meaning was in the glimpse. The peak. Still, he found the answer dissatisfying, somehow cold and disturbing; for he could not shake what this implied, the plain and undeniable fact that the average human spends most of his or her life in meaningless tedium, awaiting the next fleeting moment of joy and happiness. Years of waiting for a few seconds of pleasure, a glimpse of happiness. It did not seem like near enough. He was still thinking about it when Park View Mountain came into view, capped by fresh snow. At the sight he tabled the silly dialogue in his head.
Rubbish.
She had finally opened to him that day in the cafe, over lunch, told him about Luther and the rest of the story about San Francisco; how during her months there she had consulted with specialists at the University of California Medical Center about the migraines. The doctors ordered a battery of medical tests. But it was the detailed history they took that led to the breakthrough. They discovered that her migraines were always preceded by what they called a “prodromal sign,” in her case flashes of red light that appeared in her peripheral vision. She found that if she caught this in time she could head off an attack by using a certain relaxation exercise that she learned from one of the doctors. Suddenly, she was holding her own, keeping the darkness at bay. She had not suffered a full-blown migraine, since. Although the chronic pain continued she found it was manageable. She could deal with it.
The new measure of control that she regained over her life was revelatory, because the issue of control, or rather its lack, had always been her main trigger. The issue was closely linked to her difficulties with men, and no doubt traced to the anorexia of her youth. For the first time in years, life was full of hope. She looked forward to getting up each morning.
The breakthrough had given her a new lease, that is, until further testing revealed a tiny aneurysm deep in her brain. The specialist told her that a surgical repair was not possible due to the location. It was inoperable, a death sentence. There was no clear or obvious link to the migraines.
“I’m sorry, but there is nothing more we can do for you,” the specialist told her. He also declined to give an estimate about how long she could expect to live. Weeks? Years? Months? “There’s no way to tell,” he told her. “It would only be a guess.” He tried to reassure her. “The best advice I can give you is to try to forget about the aneurysm and just move on with your life. You might live for years.”
It was why she had not written sooner. What was the point? Each day was like Russian roulette, a roll of the die. She did not know when she got up in the morning whether or not she would live to see the sun set. It seemed pointless to look ahead, or to make plans; and there was another factor. She felt it would not be fair to involve Tom in her tragic life. She did not want to hurt him, any more than she already had.
“I should have told you straight out, first thing.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t change how I feel.”
As time passed her views had evolved. Eventually she reached a fatal acceptance of her likely imminent demise and decided that she must not allow this to prevent her from living fully in whatever time she had left. She would not retreat from life she would go for it.
“I’m living on borrowed time. I can drop dead at any moment.”
“Then we’ll have to make every second count, won’t we.”
He was listening to Mary in the kitchen when he realized from something she said that she did not know. For whatever reason Tallie had not yet told her.
They heard her moving around upstairs. “She’s up.”
He went up to tell her the meal was ready, and found her singing in the shower in a foreign language. It sounded French but he was not sure. He pulled back a corner of the shower curtain and copped a peek. She was enveloped in steam, her head covered with soap and suds. She giggled at him. The girl had no shame.
“Is that French?”
“Oui” she said, as a rivulet streamed off the end of her nose. More giggling. She yanked the drape closed. “Hey, you’re letting the cold in!”
What a loopy girl.
“We’ll eat when you’re ready.”
OK, she was fluent in French. Now as he thought about it he recalled that in Florida she had been reading Madame Bovary in French. As he went back downstairs he wondered how many other languages she knew.
“Oh, it runs in the family,” Mary told him. “Her father was a linguist. Tallie picks up languages with the same ease that she learned to ride. She speaks Italian, German, and Spanish that I know of. I’m not sure what else.”
Mary had set a plate before him loaded with turkey and other good things when Tallie glided in, barefoot as usual. Before he could take a bite she planted herself in his lap and wrapped her thin arms around his neck. She was freshly scrubbed, her hair still wet, fragrant with soap and shampoo. She laid her forehead against his and looked in his eyes.
“I’m proud of you, Tom Lacey.”
“Why?”
“For what you did.”
“What did I do?”
“The right thing. I knew you would.”
Mary was by the stove. “We are both proud of you, Tom,” she said.
He stroked her cheek. “Are you going to join us?
Mary laughed. “Hey, the turkey was her idea. She’ll probably eat enough to feed a battalion.”
“I wove cranberry,” she said, playing with the words, her eyes spa
rkling, but when he looked closer he saw something else, something that unnerved him: exhaustion.
Now, he crested the pass. Before starting down the north side he pulled off at an overlook and cut the engine. The site commanded a sweeping vista of North Park. The 8,000-foot high valley sprawled below for many miles, north to the Wyoming border. In the Northwest, beyond the sage flatlands, rose the distant ramparts of the Park Range. But he hardly noticed. He was staring vacant-eyed through the windshield. He had already wept himself dry; he had no more tears. In a million years he could not have described how he felt in that moment, inert somehow, stripped of substance and emotion, even sadness. He was in a null place, a dead zone, hollow, empty as the valley below. His only feeling was an overwhelming sense of loss. He knew he was on the brink.
What was life but a labyrinth of fucked up days and cruel nights, conceived for some unknowable purpose? Why are we here? To endure one slap in the face after another, before passing out of existence, back wherever it was we came from, the far country.
Yes, life was a death sentence, the butt of some twisted joke. One great cosmic rebuke. He lifted his eyes to the gray-scrabble sky. Out of the emptiness came a movement or maybe a murmur. He was at a loss to know which, or to identify the source. Somehow though he sensed it was not outside, not out there. It seemed to be moving through him. Suddenly he knew he was listening to the throbbing of his own heart, hearing his pulse in one ear.
He felt tremendous heat. Suddenly he was burning up. On impulse he grabbed a pen, then, ransacked the front seat and the glove box for a scrap of paper, something, anything to write on. He found an envelope and scribbled a few lines on the back. He worked in a fever. Words, no, phrases, fully formed ideas, images, spilled out of him. When he had used up one side he continued on the back in the same fashion. He rearranged a few lines. Somehow he knew what changes to make. He completed a last draft. He could scarcely believe what he had written:
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