Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  Gabriel didn’t bother to hide his scepticism. ‘A computerised mind. Really. How?’

  ‘Well, there are several ways. One way is by constructing a memory palace, of which this is an example. A truly astounding example.’

  ‘So how does it work?’

  ‘Well, a memory palace, such as this one, is an imaginary space.’

  ‘Like a building?’

  ‘Exactly. And even though it is imaginary, the practitioner who built it will have constructed it very carefully indeed, right down to the exact size of the rooms. Even the correct lighting.’

  ‘You said it is imaginary. What do you mean by that?’

  ‘The palace exists only in the mind of the practitioner. It will never be constructed in the real world. It is an architectural space which is embedded in memory. And that’s where it will stay.’

  Gabriel flashed back on the ride. ‘Inside the rooms… are there objects, images?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Thousands upon thousands of images. Some of them will be fantastically beautiful, others quite horrendous. As in this memory palace here.’ Stallworthy tapped the CD with his forefinger. ‘In some of these rooms are beautiful things such as butterflies and glowing moons. And then right next door there’s a room used as a slaughterhouse. Gutted pigs. Or a self-mutilating monk.’

  ‘What do the images stand for?’

  ‘They’re symbols. Each one represents a chunk of information. The idea is that the practitioner can walk through the palace, locate the various images and recover the information associated with every symbol. In other words—to use computer terminology again—he is walking through coded space. It is like opening the desktop on your PC and clicking on an icon, thereby retrieving the info attached to the icon. But instead of pointing and clicking a mouse, someone practising the Art of Memory would be walking through imaginary rooms created inside his own mind. And while he is moving from room to room, he will be accessing images and their stored information in order.’

  ‘The order of places, the order of things,’ Gabriel parroted.

  ‘Exactly.’ Stallworthy nodded. ‘That was the rule. Every time the practitioner walked through the palace, he had to access the rooms and images in order. That was very important. Otherwise he’d get lost and the information he tried to access would be scrambled.’

  Gabriel sat quietly, trying to absorb what Stallworthy had told him. The house of a million doors was an imaginary building. That was what he had accessed during his ride inside Robbie Whittington’s mind. The kid had not been on drugs. He had been walking quite deliberately through an imaginary palace inside his head. A palace constructed by an expert on the subject of memory: Minnaloushe Monk.

  Gabriel looked at Stallworthy. ‘You said the images inside the rooms of the memory palace would be either beautiful or horrendous. Why?’

  ‘Simply because visual images that evoke a strong emotional response are easier to remember than bland ones. You’re more likely to remember a solar eclipse than a light bulb. Striking images are an aid to memory.’

  For a moment Gabriel remembered some of the bizarre objects he had encountered inside the house of a million doors. An eyeless monk. Phosphorescent lilies. Bloodied doves. Crucified babies. Pulsating galaxies. Stallworthy was right: those images were hard to forget.

  He frowned again. ‘Does this memory palace thing really work? It seems to me as though it would be impossible to remember all those thousands of images, never mind the information attached to them.’

  ‘Quite frankly, the modern mind is no longer up to it.’ Stallworthy sighed. ‘Our memories have become flaccid because of all the technological tools we use. The photocopier. The Internet. Television. We’re using them as props. You told me you’re a computer specialist. That must mean you are used to working with information. However—correct me if I’m wrong—your long-term memory is probably quite feeble. Citizens of ancient Greece and Rome would find your attention span laughable.’

  The contemptuous tone was unexpected. For a moment Gabriel was taken aback. ‘Citizens of ancient Greece did not encounter a tenth of the ideas I’m exposed to every day, Professor,’ he objected. ‘Communications technology is making incredible demands on our brains. Personally, I think we are evolving into far more complex human beings than even our grandparents.’

  ‘I don’t agree.’ Stallworthy was emphatic. ‘Modern man is increasingly incapable of internalising knowledge. Our memories have become shallow. We surf the Internet obsessively but forget what we’ve read almost as soon as we’ve read it. Information in newspapers and on TV is fed to us in bite-sized chunks for easy consumption. Yes, we do receive enormous doses of information every day. But it goes in one ear, out the other. We never memorise it and make it our own.’

  ‘Yet our multi-tasking abilities are far superior to our grandparents’.’

  ‘Of course. But our multi-tasking ability is a facile skill, allowing us to skim the waves of chaos, not swim through them. We’re all born with natural memory. But instead of strengthening that memory throughout our lives—training it the way you would your body in a gym—we allow it to become flabby. Did you know Simplicius could recite Virgil backwards? And that Seneca the Elder could hear a list of two thousand names and then repeat them in exact order? We’re talking around 40 BC.’

  ‘Impressive. But that’s rote knowledge.’

  ‘Maybe. But in the days before the printing press people had to remember everything. Everything. Students listened to their teachers and would pass on knowledge gained by word of mouth. Their memories were muscular.’

  For a moment Gabriel thought back to a summer’s day and two women drinking wine in a graveyard, the sun in their hair. Quoting from a book which they had not read in years. Their recollection word-perfect.

  He looked at the CD on Stallworthy’s desk. ‘So you’re saying the person who constructed that building has a good memory.’

  ‘Not a good memory. A magical one.’

  Stallworthy’s voice had changed: the reverence was back. ‘The person who created this memory palace is a magician and a mathematical genius. It is someone for whom the concept of memory is a passion. Do you know him?’

  ‘Her.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really? Now that’s fascinating. All the great practitioners of the Art of Memory that we know of have been men. Trithemius. Fludd. Ramon Lull. Giordano Bruno. Giulio Camillo. Magicians all of them.’

  ‘So this woman is a witch as well.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Gabriel closed his eyes. Minnaloushe holding a book with pictures of women burning like torches. Her hands pale, her hair a glistening cloud of Spanish moss.

  ‘You see,’ Stallworthy leaned forward, his handsome face intense, his words flowing rapidly, ‘at first the Art was merely an aid to memory—that’s how the ancient Greeks conceived it. But during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, the Art changed when it fell into the hands of men who were interested in obtaining divine powers.’

  ‘You’re saying it turned into witchcraft.’

  ‘Absolutely. These men—men such as Giordano Bruno and Ramon Lull—built memory palaces which were appallingly complex. They were supposed to hold information about every aspect of the universe—the entire history of human civilisation. So the palace represented the cosmos and the images inside it knowledge of the cosmos. These buildings were really vast information systems constructed according to techniques of numerology and cryptology infused with magic—a kind of mystical mathematics—but still based on the ancient principle of the order of places, the order of things.’

  Gabriel was struggling to come to terms with Stallworthy’s words. ‘But what on earth did they hope to achieve?’

  ‘Their highest aspiration was gnosis—divine knowledge and universal memory. They believed they could produce a kind of memory machine capturing all the knowledge in the universe.’

  ‘Like a universal computer.’

  ‘Y
es. But a computer located firmly in the mind alone. Wetware. Not hardware. Their ultimate goal was to tap into this mind computer and access all universal knowledge at once. In one single gigantic blast of data.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because at that instant of total knowledge, they would experience enlightenment. They would become one with cosmic consciousness. Anima mundi. When that happened, the magus would comprehend divine power. Become godlike himself.’

  Gabriel stared at Stallworthy. ‘Madness.’

  ‘Divine madness.’

  ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘Who’s to say what is possible? There are reports of alchemists walking on water. Becoming immensely old. Seeing into the future.’

  ‘This can’t be anything but superstition and mythology. A product of the Dark Ages.’

  ‘Mr Blackstone, the search for enlightenment is one of the oldest quests of mankind. It is indeed the Holy Grail. Even today there are people all over the world, from different philosophies and widely different cultures, who pursue exactly the same goal. Martial artists partake in shugyo or fearsome rituals designed to break down body and spirit. North American shamans use meditation and drugs to achieve enlightenment. Right at this minute there are people staring at a blank wall or sitting on top of a very tall pole—and who have done so for years in order to expand their consciousness. This may seem ridiculous, even laughable, to you, but seekers of enlightenment are willing to sacrifice everything for a moment of true illumination. Everything. Memory artists were no different. But instead of using kung fu or mantras, they drowned themselves in data and built information palaces.’

  ‘The whole idea is crazy.’ Gabriel could hear his voice rising. ‘There’s no way these guys could have carried around universal knowledge inside their heads. I don’t care how good their memories were.’

  Stallworthy shrugged. ‘Whether any of them actually achieved the goal of universal knowledge is highly questionable, granted. But it was the journey as much as the destination which attracted these men. Just constructing the palaces and embedding them into their own memories was a stupendous feat. Such a highly strenuous journey would inevitably lead to purgation and purification of the self. And as they travelled, they harnessed godlike powers. These palaces were created to mirror the immensity of the cosmos, remember. By trying to wrap his mind around one of those information systems, the magician was stretched and strained—propelled into a divine change of state.’

  ‘Transformation.’

  ‘Every alchemist’s dream.’

  Gabriel looked out of the window. Behind the shiny leaded panes, the sky was sullen.

  ‘Now, I should stress one thing…’ Stallworthy hesitated. ‘Unlike the classical memory palaces, the alchemists’ palaces were animated by magic. The objects in the rooms weren’t just ordinary symbols—they were magic symbols.’

  ‘Magic how?’

  ‘The objects inside the rooms were talismanic images. Every single image—whether it was a gutted pig or a butterfly or a monk or whatever—was constructed according to very definite magical formulae. Each object—whether beautiful or horrific—was conceived with one goal in mind. To endow the magician with supernatural power.’

  ‘As easy as that, eh?’

  Stallworthy shook his head. ‘True magic is never easy. The magic we’re talking about is highly systematised. When you read the writings of memory artists you realise you are in the presence of a different breed of men. Bruno’s Shadows is a work of exceptional brilliance. And Lull’s memory theatre was a massively intricate system of wheels within wheels. His use of symbolic logic influenced Leibniz’s development of calculus. And the Ars Magna was translated by a German philosopher into the programming language COBOL. Some say Lull’s memory system is the occult origin of modern computers.’

  Gabriel looked back to where the CD lay innocently on Stallworthy’s battered desktop. ‘So that,’ he gestured with his head at the CD, ‘that is…’ His voice tapered off.

  ‘Yes.’ Stallworthy’s voice was quiet. ‘The Promethean Key is a magical memory palace. And quite the most elaborate one I’ve ever studied.’

  Gabriel brought his hand up to his eyes. He was so tired. The room around him seemed edged with white.

  ‘The woman who created this palace has combined the classical Art of Memory with Bruno’s Shadows and Lull’s wheels, refining it immeasurably. Within this palace hide innumerable worlds. Galaxies of information.’

  ‘And she’s carrying all of it around in her head.’

  ‘She’s attempting to, yes.’

  Gabriel was suddenly furious. ‘Do you realise what you’re saying? You want me to believe she’s trying to memorise the entire bloody Library of Congress—God knows how many terabytes of information.’

  Stallworthy didn’t flinch. ‘I’m not sure why the idea should make you angry. This woman is a solar witch in search of transformation, which will lead to enlightenment. Her memory palace is the product of an exquisite mind. I find it inspiring. You, on the other hand, seem to find it frightening.’

  Frightening? Gabriel almost laughed out loud. A mind that strong, that rigorously trained… and in possession of remote viewing skills. Yes, ‘frightening’ was probably an apt word.

  He reached out and picked up the CD, flicking it over and over in his hand. ‘Surely this one disc does not carry all the information in the universe.’ His voice was heavily sarcastic.

  ‘Of course not. But it holds the framework of the memory palace and the codes upon which it is based. The software, if you will.’

  ‘Will you be able to decipher all of it?’

  ‘Hardly. It’s written in green language—the esoteric language of alchemists and initiates. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to decode a system like this completely. It is rife with simulacra and encrypted messages. Not to mention the sigils and talismanic images. And the maths underlying it all is rigorous, to say the least. Beside which, the portal is missing. And without the portal, I can’t work the system.’

  Portal. In Gabriel’s mind stirred an echo of that fantastical geometrical space with its symbol-clad walls. Gateway to madness and death.

  ‘What is the portal?’

  ‘It is the heart of the system: the power station, if you will. It drives the entire construct. Inside the portal there is a series of concentric revolving wheels densely inscribed with magic images that can be combined and recombined in ever-changing arrangements. Most of the images will be from ancient Egyptian star lore and star magic. But you need to animate the wheels and get them to turn, otherwise the system won’t work. Of course, in order to activate the wheels you also need a password.’

  ‘A password.’

  Stallworthy nodded. ‘Without the portal and the password, the disc is just a curiosity.’

  ‘And with it?’

  ‘With it I would be able to start internalising this memory palace. Magicise my mind.’

  ‘Become an alchemist yourself.’

  ‘Yes. An extreme magician.’ Stallworthy’s voice dropped to a whisper. His handsome face was tight with fervour. But then he suddenly relaxed. Leaning back in his chair, he smiled at Gabriel’s expression. ‘You look shocked.’

  ‘I find it amazing that anyone academically trained in the twenty-first century can speak of magic so glibly.’

  ‘What else is magic but an attempt to grasp the laws governing the universe and apply them to your own ends?’

  ‘That’s not magic. That’s science.’

  ‘Yes. And alchemy is the science of the soul.’

  Silence. The only sounds in the room were the crackle of the flames and the tiny secret rushes of settling soot.

  Gabriel rubbed his forehead. ‘This password you talked about… you have no idea what it might be?’

  ‘No. Only the designer of this palace knows its true name. And that is locked away inside her mind.’ Stallworthy shook his head almost sadly. ‘Of course, even if I did have knowledge of the password, I d
on’t think I would use it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because walking through such a palace is dangerous. The strain on the mind is stupendous. You can get lost inside, unable to ever return to the real world again. Once you lose the order of places, the order of things, you’ll be stranded inside a labyrinth, unable to find entrance or exit. It takes a very highly trained mind to make the journey. An alchemist of the highest order. This is not for the dabbler. It should only be attempted by a magus. Or a witch.’

  For a moment Robbie Whittington’s face came into Gabriel’s mind. The sweet mouth and vulnerable eyes. An alchemist of the highest order? A magus? Surely not. And that might have been the problem. Somehow—he didn’t know how or why, but somehow—Whittington’s attempt to walk through Minnaloushe’s memory palace had damaged his mind. But why did she then have to kill him?

  Gabriel got up from his chair. ‘Professor Stallworthy, thank you for your time. You’ve certainly cleared up quite a few issues for me.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Stallworthy gripped his hand firmly. ‘The pleasure was mine. It’s amazing to think there is still a genuine practitioner of the Art out there. I rather thought they had ceased to exist. May I ask, how did you come to be in possession of this disc?’

  Gabriel hesitated. ‘It was among the personal effects left to me after the lady’s death.’

  ‘She’s dead?’ Stallworthy’s voice was filled with regret. ‘I would have loved to meet her. She must have been a remarkable woman.’

  ‘Remarkable?’ Gabriel paused. Minnaloushe’s face was suddenly clear in his mind. Red hair, gypsy mouth, ocean eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’