Heartlight

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Tex glanced in the direction of her gaze and grinned. “Oh, well, ma’am, I’d guess they know what they’re smoking, wouldn’t you? That’s different.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Claire said reluctantly, though not as if she believed it.

  “We were at the auditorium this evening. Can you tell us anything about what Mr. Blackburn was trying to accomplish tonight on stage? It was fascinating,” Colin said.

  “That was some tay atra sack ray,” Tex said, his drawl mangling the French to the point that it took Colin a moment to figure out just what he’d said. Théâtre sacré. Sacred theater.

  “The first duty of the magician is to enact sacred theater,” Blackburn said, coming back into the room. He’d showered and changed, and now was wearing a garishly patterned dashiki over faded bell-bottoms. His damp hair was held back with a strip of buckskin and his feet were bare. He draped an arm companionably around Tex’s shoulders. “All the world’s a stage, an’ all that.”

  “But what purpose does it serve?” Claire asked, looking up at Blackburn. “Is it serious or not? The audience thinks it’s all for fun.”

  ‘“He who has eyes to see, let him hear,”’ Blackburn misquoted cryptically.

  Though he didn’t seem eager to promote his philosophy, Blackburn sat down on the floor at Claire’s feet and began to talk about the work he was doing in San Francisco. It all sounded like arrant moonshine to Colin, all the more so for containing a number of unlikely assertions: such as that Blackburn was over two centuries old, of nonhuman parentage, and come as a savior to bring about a golden age for mankind. Claire listened to all of this with commendable gravity.

  As for Jonathan and his intention of donating all his money to the Voice of Truth, Blackburn continued to point out, when challenged, that anyone who wished was free to follow him or not as they chose, and that all of them held their property in common.

  “The trouble with pure Communism is that it’s inefficient for a large-scale economy. We have to dismantle the nation-states and recreate society on the tribal level before we can truly say we have buried the evils of Capitalism,” Blackburn said sagely.

  Looking around, Colin had to admit that he didn’t see any particular evidence of wealth, though he supposed it was just barely possible that Blackburn had a large bank account stashed somewhere. Neither, beyond the doting attention of his women, was Blackburn being treated with the exaggerated deference that marked the leader of one of those insidious mind-control cults that were springing up all over the place like mushrooms after rain.

  In fact, Blackburn was a very slippery fellow altogether. Beneath all the glib patter there was a hint of something real—though what it might be remained as baffling to Colin now as it had been before he’d met Blackburn. And though the man was unfailingly polite, Colin could not escape the feeling that somehow Blackburn was laughing at him, like the Trickster-god Coyote laughing at the moon.

  “But I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Colin said finally. He could see that Claire had been bravely stifling yawns for the last half-hour or so, and in any event Colin didn’t think he’d learn anything more this evening. It was late, and by now most of the others had drifted off to bed, though two young dark-haired women—alike enough to be twins—remained, sitting unselfconsciously beside Blackburn on the floor.

  “Come again—we’re always here, except when we’ve left. And don’t worry about Johnnie, Colin—I promise I’ll make an unbeliever out of him before I’m done,” Blackburn said cheerily.

  And with that ambiguous promise, Colin would have to content himself, he supposed.

  Blackburn got to his feet, and—flanked by the girls, whose names Colin hadn’t learned—showed the two visitors down the steps to the door that opened on the street.

  “Do come and see us again, Claire,” Blackburn said at the door. “And do bring your husband next time.”

  “Is that supposed to impress me?” Claire responded with some asperity. “Would you like to guess his name and weight as well?”

  Blackburn smiled. “You’re wearing a ring; it wasn’t a tough guess. His name’s Peter, by the way, but maybe you’d better not bring him. Cops don’t approve of our little family for some reason.”

  He closed the door. Claire stared at it for a moment, a baffled expression on her face, and then it cleared.

  “Of course. Debbie told him about Peter. I must have mentioned him when I was talking to her.”

  Colin was looking up the street toward his car. Even from here he could see the white banner of a parking ticket fluttering on his windshield, though the VW bus parked right in front of him didn’t seem to be similarly flagged.

  “It’s the first rule of the psychic fraud,” he agreed slowly. “Always have a good intelligence network. But Blackburn doesn’t strike me as your usual sort of fraud. What did you think of him, Claire? Honestly?”

  “I’m not sure.” Claire’s voice was troubled and thoughtful. “He’s charming, of course. And knows it. And he doesn’t seem to be an out-and-out charlatan, for what that’s worth. He seems to be doing something, though I’ll be blessed if I can figure out exactly what.”

  INTERLUDE #3

  JUNE 1965

  WHAT IS THERE LEFT TO SAY ABOUT THORNE BLACKBURN, NOW that a quarter of a century has already passed its judgment? When I met him, it was as what my generation still called “a young matron,” happily married and happy with myself for the first time—so to a certain extent, I was insulated from Thorne’s indisputable charisma, about which so much—fair and otherwise—has been written.

  He charmed everyone he met—even Colin, though I know it went much against Colin’s instincts. I think he did it because Thorne loved tricks and pranks of all kinds, though there was very little malice in him; his delight in his own jokes stemmed more from an appreciation of their technical difficulty than from any distress they may have caused.

  It was hard to stay angry with Thorne at the worst of times; he loved to tease, and eventually you would realize you were simply tired of being exasperated with him—and it was too much trouble to stay mad, anyway.

  The dark side of that charm was that Thorne Blackburn listened as little to good advice as he did to anything else. He was convinced that once other people understood his philosophy they would agree with it, and nothing Colin or I could say would ever change his mind.

  I’ve always been a very prosaic person—I suppose it is the inevitable result of the Gift that seems to run in my bloodline: when so much that seems strange and wonderful to other people comes so easily to you, you tend to become very matter-of-fact about everything. The only thing that ever truly astounded me was discovering that people were willing to take me on trust and believe in my sanity: once I had accepted that gift, nothing else that the world had to offer was ever quite so surprising.

  And so perhaps I was not as surprised by Thorne and what he was trying to accomplish as perhaps I should have been. It is only looking back across a gulf of years that I realize how extraordinary his ambitions were, even for the time he lived in. At the time—that vivid, turbulent time—what he was doing seemed as if it were only one more wonder in an era crammed full of wonders. But Thorne wanted more than to amuse, dazzle, and delight.

  Thorne Blackburn meant to change the world.

  SIX

  BERKELEY, OCTOBER 1966

  The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire.

  —ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  THROUGH THE AUTUMN OF ’65 AND THE FOLLOWING SPRING, THE embattled university administration, increasingly under fire from all sides, began responding to the unceasing attacks on its authority by wave after wave of draconian measures directed against the only group over which it had any semblance of control: the faculty.

  The message Colin MacLaren received was clear: stop teaching Berkeley students mumbo-jumbo. Toe the line. Preach the status quo. But even if he had been no more than a conventional academic, Colin would not have been able to do that. His s
tudents were hungry for a meaning that would replace the conventional piety of their parents’ generation. They searched for it in drugs, in politics, in mysticism of every shade and stripe. When they asked Colin his opinion, there was little he could offer them but his honesty—something that brought him increasingly into conflict with the trustees of the university.

  The Vietnam War appalled him, even as it forced a generation to choose between the letter of the law and the spirit of a country. As the Outer Planes were the reflection of the Inner, Colin could not refrain from that fight. He fought, as he always had, for the Spirit.

  The visit from General Jonathan Griswold Ashwell II had not improved matters. Just as he had said he would, Jonathan had dropped out of school and gone to live in Thorne Blackburn’s commune in San Francisco. Jonathan’s father had come to Colin’s office at the beginning of the fall term demanding that Colin—Jonathan’s teacher and advisor—produce his son at once. When Colin’s answers had not satisfied him, the general had gone to the president of the college.

  Colin had called Thorne to warn him.

  The two men had continued to meet after that first night, and looking back on that first evening—odd as it had been—Colin sometimes thought nostalgically of it as the last island of peace in a life grown increasingly turbulent and free of signposts.

  He deplored what Thorne was doing, of course: the Voice of Truth was a hopeless farrago of New Age jargon, Eastern philosophy, metaphysics, Mystery School teachings, and Thorne’s own brand of peculiar edification. Thorne preached the gospel of High Magick at every opportunity—a magick without limits, without the safeguards that Colin had been taught were absolutely necessary to its practice. Reckless endangerment—as the Order had charged—indeed.

  But despite his disapproval of all that Thorne stood for, Colin could not help but like the man himself, and hope that maturity would temper the young Magus’ youthful exuberance. For his part, Thorne recognized in Colin a like mind, one for whom he did not have to explain his concepts, only justify them. It was an odd friendship, built on differences, and one with surprisingly strong bonds.

  The phone rang late in the day, summoning Colin MacLaren’s attention from the pile of papers before him. The paperwork seemed to increase with every year; after five years at Berkeley, he was no longer teaching introductory courses, but the advanced students seemed to generate as much in the way of paper, if not more.

  “MacLaren,” Colin said curtly into the phone.

  “Colin? It’s Thorne,” a familiar voice said cheerfully.

  “Thorne? What can I do for you?” Colin asked cautiously. After his last appearance on the Berkeley campus, Thorne Blackburn was persona non grata within its gates.

  “Well,” Thorne said amiably, “this is my one phone call. So I was kind of hoping you’d come down and bail me out.”

  “Which station?” Colin said, reaching for a pad and pencil.

  Colin reached the station house ninety minutes later. This was hardly the first time Thorne Blackburn had been arrested, even in the few months Colin had known him, but so far he had not been convicted of any offense that carried with it a jail term.

  This time might be different. Thorne had been arrested for assaulting a police officer at an antiwar demonstration earlier today. Though a bail bondsman—as planned—had been waiting at the station to help demonstrators effect their release, Thorne hadn’t been able to arrange bail.

  The inside of the station smelled like disinfectant and tear gas; the combination made Colin’s nose prickle. Once he’d explained what he’d come for, the paperwork was quickly completed, and after a few minutes Thorne was brought out.

  His appearance was startling. Dried blood from a split lip was smeared across his jaw and throat, and his shirt—decorated with the Stars and Stripes, and thus a red flag to the riot police—was ripped at the shoulder and missing most of its buttons.

  “Good Lord,” Colin said mildly.

  Thorne grinned cockily and winced. “Fell getting into the van,” he said, with a mocking glance at the officer behind him. The man’s face was set in a rigid mask of distaste, making Colin wonder for a brief, shocked moment what he might have done if Colin weren’t here as witness.

  “Well, let’s get you out of here,” Colin said harshly. “Are we free to go?” he asked.

  “Sure, buddy. He’s all yours.”

  A short stop to recover the rest of Thorne’s personal effects—including the broken remnants of a picket sign with a photo of LBJ on it—and they were in the outside air once more.

  “My camera. They broke my camera,” Thorne groaned, holding the battered remains of what had once been a Leica cupped in his hands as they walked toward his car. He was limping slightly. Colin wasn’t surprised that Thorne had brought a camera to the rally—Thorne was an enthusiastic amateur photographer, and liked to document everything. “Maybe I can at least save the film.”

  “What really happened?” Colin asked suspiciously. While he was no stranger to institutionalized brutality, it was odd and unsettling to realize that the practice was so entrenched in America that even its victims were matter-of-fact about it. When had America become a police state?

  “You sure you really want to know?” Thorne asked. “Oh, before I forget—here’s your money back.” He tucked the shattered camera tenderly into his knapsack and then dug into his wallet to pull out a wad of twenties, holding them out to Colin.

  At Colin’s blank expression he laughed. “So why did I call you when I had the money for my bail? Just a little matter of having to pay my bail before I could get my hands on it. They do that all the time. It’s harassment, but it’s legal. They want us off the streets; that’s no secret.”

  “Perhaps if you weren’t so antagonistic …” Colin took the money and folded it into his pocket.

  “Like we were last fall, when the Angels came down on us and the cops just stood back and watched? Wake up, Colin—there’s a war on for the soul of America, and it’s being fought in the streets. Which side are you on?”

  It was a question Colin had answered long ago: he was pledged to serve the Light. Only when he had made that pledge, the world had been a simpler place. Today, he was not certain that any of the sides he could identify were of the Light, if things like this could happen here in America.

  “I suppose you’re convinced there have to be sides?” Colin asked, temporizing. “And that you know which one’s right?” They’d reached the car; Colin opened the passenger door and Thorne climbed in.

  “Hell, yes!” Thorne burst out. “If a bunch of guys who can’t even vote yet are frying babies under orders over in ’Nam, what am I supposed to do—sit back and say that napalm is an instrument of national policy? They’re the bad guys—they want to turn the United States of Amerika-with-a-K into a police state so they can skim off the profits. Lockheed and Dow Chemical are hand in hand with the Pentagon—you can’t sit this one out, man! It’s a rat race, and the rats are winning. You have to take a stand—you’re on the Berkeley faculty; if you speak out, it would count for a lot.”

  In fact Colin had already spoken out, but political activism was the least of the things that Thorne advocated, and much of his philosophy Colin could not agree with.

  “I don’t want to argue with you now, Thorne,” Colin said, starting the engine. While he honored his friend’s political views—and honored the American tradition of dissent as well—what he could not stomach was the cavalier way Thorne squandered his birthright and training to make a mockery of the things Colin held most dear.

  “You don’t want to argue with me ever,” Thorne complained. “Not down in the trenches where it counts. Damn it, you didn’t even tell me you were one of us.”

  Colin flicked his glance sideways, and saw Thorne make that same curious half-salute that Toller Hasloch had made years before. With an effort of will, he forced himself to ignore it. None of the Order was ever to acknowledge the Initiate it had cast out.

  “I’m not
one of you, Thorne,” Colin said evenly. “Whatever it is that you think you are. Now. Where shall I take you? Back to my place?”

  “The Bellflower Clinic over on College,” Thorne said unexpectedly. “Claire’s there. Kate’s with her; we were supposed to meet back there after I got out of jail, anyway.” Like many experienced activists, Thorne expected—in fact, actively sought—to be arrested each time he participated in a demonstration.

  “Katie’s preg, so I didn’t want her out in the streets today. Good thing, too. The pigs were vicious.”

  Colin wondered why Thorne hadn’t called Claire to bail him out if she was already involved with the demonstrators, then decided he must not want to implicate her. Asking a policeman’s wife to come and bail out a hippie peacenik was something that might be embarrassing for Peter. Thorne’s sense of tact surfaced at the oddest moments.

  “Congratulations. I don’t suppose you two would think of getting married,” Colin said in a tone of resignation.

  “Why should I marry Kate in particular?” Thorne seemed honestly surprised. “I—ouch,” he said, squirming around in the seat.

  “Are you sure you don’t need a hospital?” Colin said.

  “Claire’s a nurse,” Thorne reminded him.

  There was silence for a while as Colin drove toward the free clinic on College.

  “You can’t just assume the government is the good guys forever,” Thorne said after a few minutes. “You’ve already been presented with the evidence. You have a responsibility—”

  “You’re a fine one to lecture me on responsibility,” Colin said in exasperation. “You claim to have the ultimate secrets of life and death—and you’re prostituting those arts to make yourself into a media circus. No one takes you seriously, Thorne—haven’t you noticed? For all that you claim to venerate it, you’re turning the occult into a sideshow, a joke.”