Heartlight

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  When you find yourself killing for killers—

  At the end of the second verse the band headed into an extended bridge, and Thorne climbed up on the stage, moving carefully because of his costume. Colin was momentarily nonplussed, jarred from the music’s violent spell.

  Thorne was wearing the robes of an Adept; the robes he had been entitled to as a member of the Inner Order. If that had been all, matters would have been bad enough, but he’d made some additions to his costume. Over his shoulders he wore a sort of fur capelet—Colin thought it might be wolf fur—and on his head he wore an antler crown with the sun-disk set in the middle. He’d doused himself liberally with glitter, and it shook loose from the costume in a constant gentle sprinkling. Now that his expressed desire to work together with the other Magickal Orders in the Bay Area had been defeated by his own flamboyance, Colin had hoped that Thorne would modify his behavior.

  No such luck.

  The bridge ended. The lead guitarist gestured toward a second microphone, grinning, and now Thorne was singing, too.

  Dying light makes it darker every day—

  If Thorne had wanted to alienate any of the occultists who’d remained sympathetic to his cause, he was off to a great start.

  Get down on your knees remember how to pray—

  “Good heavens,” Claire said, rising up on tiptoe to shout in Colin’s ear. “What’s he got up as?”

  Just follow orders that old-fashioned way—

  Colin didn’t wonder how she’d found him; Claire had that knack.

  “Something he has no right to be, ever again,” Colin answered, raising his voice as well to be heard over the band.

  And find yourself killing for killers—

  Narzain Kui hammered into the end of the song; by now most of the audience was singing—or chanting—along with them.

  Killing for killers—It doesn’t stop there

  Killing for killers—The war’s everywhere

  Killing for killers—Just do what is right

  Or find yourself killing for killers—

  The audience was cheering by the time the song was over; Thorne hugged the lead guitarist and the cheers got louder. The band remained on stage as Thorne waited for things to quiet down a little. When they did, he lifted his microphone from its stand and whipped the cord back and forth.

  “Hey-y-y-y, Epopts and Illuminati,” Thorne crooned. “Who wants to change the world?”

  “We do!” the audience screamed back. The drummer hit a lick and there was a feedback squeal.

  Thorne took the energy from the music and built on it, goading the crowd into a frenzy that Colin was afraid would turn them into a mindless mob. Was that what he had in mind—was that the wellspring his rituals came from?

  In the cheering all around him, Colin now heard the howling of the Beast.

  “Look, Colin—isn’t that Simon Anstey?” Claire said suddenly, a worried tone in her voice.

  Colin tore his gaze away from the stage and saw Simon. He felt a faint pang of relief—whatever Simon was here for, it would abort the monstrous birth that Thorne was engineering.

  Simon was dressed in a dark business suit, and looked even more out of place here than Colin or Claire. He was pushing his way determinedly through the crowd toward Thorne, and there were two U.S. marshals with him.

  Thorne had seen him, too. He lowered his arms reluctantly and tried to take control of the situation.

  “Well, look who’s here. It’s Simon Anstey, well-known concert pianist and arbiter of truth. Come down here to give all us hippies music lessons, Simon?”

  The keyed-up crowd laughed, parting reluctantly for Simon as he moved toward the stage. Colin and Claire were shoved backward by those making room for him; both of them could feel the incipient violence in the bodies around them.

  “This is one time that you aren’t going to get what you want by ignoring everyone else, Blackburn! You and your scraggly hippies can just pack up and get out of here,” Simon shouted.

  “I’ve got a permit,” Thorne drawled in his most irritating voice. He mugged for the crowd, and they laughed.

  Simon sneered. “Well, I’ve got a restraining order. You’re a public nuisance, Blackburn, and I’m shutting you down.”

  Simon stood in front of the stage, waving the document. He threw it at Thorne’s feet. Thorne looked stunned, as if he had not expected this.

  “What do you want, Anstey?” he finally asked.

  “I’ve come to expose you for what you are, Blackburn—a fraud! A clown! An insult to the very teachings you claim to impart!” Simon shouted.

  “Well, then—by all means do it!” Thorne said into the microphone in front of him. His amplified voice boomed out from the speakers at the sides of the stage. He stepped back, tossing the microphone down to Simon.

  Simon had the sense—or showmanship equal to Thorne’s—not to use it; that would have brought the whole affair down to the level of two stand-up comics trying to upstage one another. He tossed the microphone back onto the stage; it hit with a thump and an electronic howl. One of the members of the band jumped to yank the microphone jack out of the amplifier.

  “Give up and go home, Blackburn—nobody wants you here,” Simon said. “Personally, I’m sick and tired of you parading your ego and your ridiculous claims to power! Aren’t there enough frauds in the world preying on the helpless? The sad part is that anyone believes you and your con game,” Simon said.

  Thorne turned away from Simon to face out over the audience.

  “If you want a con game, Anstey, for my money it’s this Path that you—and Colin MacLaren—” Thorne added, looking directly toward where Colin stood in the crowd “—and all the rest of you black-robed white light monks keep trying to push on anyone looking for answers. Your Path is a con game, Simon Magus, a delusion put up by generations of old men in white nightgowns to keep their adherents from trying to make a difference in the real world! And it ends here!” Thorne shouted, flinging his arms out in a theatrical gesture.

  There were some shouts of agreement, but most of the audience stirred uneasily. Without the microphone, all of them couldn’t hear what was happening on stage, and the presence of the marshals made them uneasy. Colin could feel the violence in the air like the promise of a storm.

  “Well, the only difference your followers make is to your bank account, Blackburn!” Simon snarled. “They give you everything they have, and what do they get for it? Nothing!”

  “At least they get the chance to judge for themselves,” Thorne shot back. “All you want is for them to follow you instead of me—isn’t the concert hall applause enough anymore?”

  “All right, Mr. Blackburn. You’re going to have to come along with us,” one of the marshals said, stepping up onto the stage.

  Colin could see by the expression on Simon’s face that he hadn’t meant things to go quite this far. “I’ve got to stop this before Thorne starts a riot,” Colin said to Claire. He began pushing his way closer toward the stage.

  The crowd, roused to the edge of hysteria by Thorne only moments before, was becoming increasingly agitated by the disruption, and there were growing catcalls directed at Simon.

  “Judge for themselves? That’s rich!” Simon shouted. “What can they judge when all you’re giving them is lies and tricks and empty promises? I’m not the one telling people that I’m the son of a god!”

  “Looks like you think actions speak louder than words,” Thorne cooed mockingly into another microphone.

  Laughter.

  Thorne backed away from the marshal who was climbing up on the stage. By now Colin had reached the edge of the platform, and was working his way around to the steps.

  “Yes,” said Simon doggedly from below, “I do. If you’ve got the godlike powers you claim, Blackburn, why not make the restraining order go away? Turn me into a frog? Something?”

  The day that had been so bright only moments ago was dimming, clouding over as clouds came boiling in off the
San Gabriel Mountains to shroud the day in dim light that looked as if it had been filtered through soft cheesecloth.

  “I try never to improve on Nature’s handiwork,” Thorne snapped. The marshal reached him, and there was a brief struggle as Thorne tried to shake him off. The man pulled out his cuffs. Colin climbed up on stage and headed toward him. In another moment the crowd would rush the stage, and people would get hurt.

  “There’s no need for this,” Colin said quietly to the officer. “If this is a legitimate restraining order, I’m sure Mr. Blackburn will comply.”

  “Et tu, Colin?” Thorne said, staring at Colin over the marshal’s shoulder. The marshal stepped back without cuffing Thorne.

  “Don’t start trying to overawe me; I’ve had a classical education, too,” Colin said sharply. He was more irritated—and yes, frightened—than he’d thought by Thorne’s parading of the robes he no longer had the right to wear and his easy appropriation of the energy of the mob.

  “Simon, what did you think you were accomplishing here?” Colin demanded, turning away and looking down at Simon Anstey.

  “I’m tired of watching this mountebank ruin everything Alison and I are working for!” Simon shot back, climbing up on the stage as well. “How can parapsychology be accepted as a legitimate field of research while he’s turning the occult into a sideshow?”

  “It is a sideshow,” Thorne said quietly, stepping away from the marshal. “That’s the point.”

  “No,” said Colin, abruptly goaded beyond endurance. “It’s what each of us makes it. You could have made it into something good, something fine—you could have been the gateway through which new seekers could approach the Ancient Mysteries—”

  “Ancient boondoggle!” Thorne shouted, lunging toward the front of the stage again. His horned crown was wildly askew, and Thorne wrenched it off and flung it out into the crowd. “Give in—give up—submit—Forget it! Mankind has the power of the gods, and it’s time it was used to do more than spin prayer wheels—”

  “Either shut your face and pack it in or you’re going out of here in cuffs. Mike! Get these people moving!” the marshal on stage barked.

  Thorne shrugged, seeming to surrender all at once. He started to pull off his robes. Thorne looked at Colin.

  “You attack everything I believe in,” Colin said, answering the unspoken plea, “and then expect to trade on the very qualities you despise the moment you get into trouble. I can’t help you this time, Thorne.”

  “Go on, then,” Thorne said. “Go on back to your precious, safe, tame, white light. Only you’re wrong about it being a Path—it’s a dead end. Come on, boys and girls,” Thorne called to the audience, holding out his hands for their attention. “Today the pigs win—tomorrow we win. Let’s all go quietly; they’re scared enough of us as it is.”

  It was only later that Colin realized why Claire’s Gift had sent her to the festival that day. She had not come for Thorne Blackburn.

  She’d come for him.

  INTERLUDE #4

  JUNE 1967

  THORNE AND COLIN SAW VERY LITTLE OF EACH OTHER AFTER THAT day. It was as if Thorne had given up on Colin and decided he was no longer worth his time—and in practical terms, their paths had diverged to the point that Colin could no longer overlook the things Thorne was advocating.

  A few weeks after the fight in the park, Simon got at least part of his wish. Thorne left on the Universal Mystery Tour—a six-week extravaganza of peace, rock and roll, and magick—both stage illusionism and the truer sort. After that, Thorne was truly a national celebrity, as that time understood the word—and so, being Thorne, he decided to disappear almost completely from public life. He’d managed—somehow—to amass a sizeable personal fortune, and used part of it to purchase an estate in upstate New York called Shadow’s Gate.

  After that June day in the park, I never saw Thorne Blackburn alive again. But before I received word of his death, I was to experience a far more personal bereavement … .

  EIGHT

  BERKELEY, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1968

  He is secure, and now can never mourn

  A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain.

  —PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

  1968 WAS A YEAR DEFINED BY VIOLENCE AND DEATH. BEFORE IT was over, two assassinations had forever changed the tone of American political life: Martin Luther King, Jr. and Senator Robert F. Kennedy. The two men were killed barely eight weeks apart, and in the wake of the second murder, the riots at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago took on a surreal, apocalyptic importance: seen by the Right as an extension of the animal savagery that had coopted the political process, and by the Left as a confirmation of the view that America had become a brutal police state.

  The trial of the Chicago Seven that followed became a media circus; a carnival sideshow where Image cast out Truth and Justice was not blind, but mad … .

  They’d bought the little stucco bungalow four years ago, when Peter had been promoted. They’d been so happy the day they’d finally moved in—a real home at last. Sometimes it seemed to Claire that she could still feel that joy, as if it had been recorded by the very bones of the house and echoed, like old music, through its rooms.

  She’d been determined to make their home everything her own had never been; sometimes Peter laughed at her for the fierceness of that determination, but his mother never did. Elisabeth Moffat understood her daughter-in-law with that wordless communion that makes two strangers heartfelt friends in the space of an instant. She had made a place for Claire in her heart and her family with a simple grace that Claire often felt was the single greatest miracle she had ever been gifted with. Under her mother-in-law’s tutelage, the little tract house had become a home. For two, and, perhaps, someday—for three.

  Claire knew that Peter wanted a family; she had held back from the idea, afraid that she would only recreate her own childhood hell for a child of her own. It had been a long time before that fear had quieted, and Claire knew that it would never really go away. But with Peter and his mother to help her, she had slowly become confident—if not of her success at motherhood, at least that her mistakes would not be intolerable ones. That spring, she had begun to try to become pregnant.

  The dreams had started then.

  At first she thought they were simple anxiety. In the wake of his break with Thorne, Colin had gone back to the East Coast. A friend had offered him a position with Selkie Press, a publishing house that specialized in parapsychological and occult subjects, and Colin, increasingly at odds with the Rhodes Group’s policy of conciliation and concealment, had accepted the offer.

  But while Claire knew that she would miss Colin—as a friend, and one who understood her faults far better than Peter ever would—she did not think that she was so dependent upon him as to be sunk in terror by his absence. He was, after all, only a phone call away.

  Yet she still dreamed.

  They began as simply hints—a disquiet spilling over into her other dreams. Later came the images—of herself, running through fog, crying out for the return of … something. There was loss in those dreams, loss deep and wounding.

  She knew what it was.

  Each time the knowledge surfaced, Claire rejected it. It was not true. It was some sick, inverted wish fulfillment. Or just this once, her Gift was playing her false, tainted because she was tainted by the unearned guilt of her childhood upbringing.

  In her heart she knew that none of these explanations was true. The dream continued, month after month, until half a year had passed. She told no one, but in her mind the unheld conversations echoed. Claire, why didn’t you tell me? Colin’s voice.

  And her own, in answer: How could I? If I tell no one, I can still hope that I’m wrong. And if I tell you, I have to tell him, or it becomes a secret that I’m keeping from him, and I cannot bear that. Who can I tell, without telling him?

  No one.

  When she was still very young, Claire had become an expert at dissembling; hidin
g the unwanted truths far away and presenting an unruffled, cream-smooth face to the world. Now she resurrected all the skills she thought she no longer had need of, using them to bury the truth deep and pretend that everything was normal. And she managed to fool even herself, except when she dreamed.

  When her dreams woke her, Claire would slip quietly from their conjugal bed, huddling in the kitchen over a cup of tea and trying to imagine how to keep Peter safe. She could not warn him. There was nothing to warn him about—only her frightening sense of loss. She had known the work he did before they married. She had always known that it was dangerous, and that he loved it too much to easily give it up. Telling him that she was afraid would not armor him against the danger. It would only be a useless cruelty.

  And so Claire kept her own counsel, her mind partitioned into shapeless dread and willful ignorance.

  Until one day she could be ignorant no longer.

  It was September 16, a Monday. Peter was working the evening shift, three to eight. Claire was home, fixing dinner, to the sounds of Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In in the background.

  For the last several years she had listed with a temporary agency—there was always work for someone with an RN degree who was willing to fill in here and there—but once the meaning of her premonitory dreams had become unmistakable, she’d worked less and less. She’d begun dreading having to leave the house for any reason, as if the act of staying home could provide some sort of bulwark against what was to come.

  Most of the time she kept busy, but lately, each night around seven o’clock, she began to watch the time. And when eight o’clock had come and gone she breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, even though Peter would not be home for another hour. At eight o’clock his shift was over, and Peter was safe for another day. She could go on with her life then, and by the time he arrived home she could greet him as if nothing were amiss.