Nor of course had I any experience of this drug, LSD, all those drugs administered to us at Horsfield being of other sorts altogether. And even before KRONONUTZ began to play I knew I was feeling most odd. I stood amid the multitude as I first sensed, apparently from the back of my skull, dizzy upward-surging waves of some force or power released in me, distorting all my senses and giving rise to a combination in me of terror and glee combined. Then I think I began to wander about, not clearly knowing who or where I was.
Then… it began:
“OKAY, OKAY PEOPLE… FROM NEW YORK… KRONONUTZ!!!”
The first onslaught of electric shrieking struck me with Vulcan force, and threw me into the Vortex, falling, falling, spinning round and round, buffeted by the howling of fiends. I tried to face the source of this attack, I saw figures on the stage, and did not know them, nor knew it was a stage. I saw a Viking beating drums, a black warrior fingering an instrument that put out deep throbbing sound, a burly bearded man in buckskin with fringes who had a smaller instrument, coloured red, that screamed and wailed under his fingers. I saw a woman of Mediterranean type clapping her hands and swaying, and a surly gnome on a stool bent over an instrument from which he tore a wavering, curdling sound that was surely Satan screaming! Then, as I gazed flabbergasted and stripped of sense amid the Vortex, with the waves of power still pulsing ever-stronger through me, the woman stepped forward to an upright stick with a black ball atop it; she gripped the stick and put her mouth to the black ball, and started wailing words to the intolerably loud and rapid rhythm. Of course I made no sense of it then, but it was a piece I heard often enough in later weeks and months, and I read the words as well:
Damascus Arkansas
Damascus Arkansas
Whatcha wanna do that for?
Blow us up and melt our bones
Make us sterile and wreck our homes
Now I piss plutonium every day
My teeth fell out and my hair turned grey
So I went for compensation but
You know what they say?
They say:
Whatcha wanna come here for?
Whatcha wanna fall down for?
You gotta walk on your own two feet
So join those others on the street
And if you’re dying, don’t do it here
Go on home, boy, just get on home
To Damascus Arkansas!
To Damascus Arkansas!
And I was suddenly sure I was in Bedlam, amid the babbling insane, and I thought I saw the cunning man leering at me from a dozen, from a hundred shifting faces in the swaying crowd that shouted and screamed and danced all round me; and I was screaming too, at the prancing figures on the stage which, lit by flashing colours, was a parlour of demons. For their noise split sanity like an axe splits wood. What happened next? How can I say? I was falling forever through seas of flame, in the grip of the Power not of Christ, locked on the operating table, pressed deep by THE THING—then of a sudden, amid many other potent images passing so fast I could not catch any, I seemed to sense the Circle and, without knowing it (but later recollecting) I was split into the Circle, into images of those I remembered—I was Utak, the giant noise drilling holes in my skull and eating my brain, chomp-chomp, the howler monkeys chasing me through the jungle, the people burning the city; and Señor Bernardino de Oveido de Azurara, screaming in Spanish (later they said I did this when I burst onto the stage), and Coningham, amid the bombs bursting, the bullets screaming; and Blund berserk with an axe, amuck and seeing red—red, red, it was all red—and the only restraint was an image of Tari, her face calm and thoughtful, contemplating this madness with a dispassionate interest, considering what it meant and what its function might be in the progressions and setbacks of Evolution in Eternity—only this image had any power to restrain me as, without reflecting on it, I pushed closer and closer to the source of the utter disruption, to the devil’s kitchen where brew was cooking to wipe out the world, where the meat of the mind was being boiled down to the bones. It was repulsively attractive in a terrible way that I could not resist, as if my bones were doing all my moving for me. Then KRONONUTZ came to the end of Damascus Arkansas, which was greeted by a great roar—then almost immediately they were off into a new piece I also came to hear often enough, about Vulcan:
Someone pressed a little button
And history fell through Vulcan’s hole…
And while this began and continued, this subject of their song, now as mad as a hundred hatters, pressed on through the mob, and some things I saw were unbelievable even without the drug, the noise, the situation—I saw a man walking about whose skull-cap was lifted up, hinged at the back, showing the brains beneath, they being covered by some sort of plastic membrane—he was cool as you please, and I could not believe it, but later learned this to be a new cult activity; the notion being one of public exposure and self-advertisement—“coming out of the closet for intellectuals,” as Dan contemptuously called it. He said that these Freebrain Cultists were numerous on the West Coast, as I was to discover for myself; their rationalisation being that Modern Man’s brain has grown too fast for skull capacity, thus being compressed and reduced in efficiency; this elevation of the top part of the skull apparently promoting oxygenation, stimulation, and lucidity. They claim that in the past some people used to drill holes in the skull for these same reasons; and also say that the world is mad now because too few people have holes in the head.
This was a surprising thing to see. So too was the sight that met me next as (all unknown to my normal self) I came up against the guarded approach to the stage and found myself confronted by a riot-prepared policeman. This being was dressed all in black leather, with helmet over his head, and visor masking his face, and so many weapons and paraphernalia slung from his bulky body it seemed a wonder that he could even stand up. I stared at him; he snapped something unfriendly, so I continued my dazed wandering, looking for I knew not what as the noise continued to crash and roar. And how I got onto the stage I have no memory at all, but later Sylvia said she had seen me, and sent someone to bring me up—though what gave her this idea she could not tell—and neither did she know why, as I appeared onstage at the end of a KRONONUTZ number, she led me to the microphone and told me to say whatever came into my mind.
It was then that Tari, deep in the crowd, saw me and realised that the Hawk was at work. She dismissed her contemplations immediately and came to the stage as quick as she could, where at a gate she flashed a piece of paper the colour of a Performer Pass, and went straight through before the policemen there could really see it.
By then I was already babbling full-blast.
First when I held the microphone I said into it:
“HORSFIELD! HORSFIELD! THEY KILL US AT HORSFIELD!”
I didn’t speak loud, but the sound of my voice jumped back at me with huge power, and split my mind again, and what I said after that, as later I heard from the tape, was a demented babble:
“AT SEA! AT SEA! THE QUEEN WILL GIVE US TEN THOUSAND POUNDS! I’LL NOT FORSAKE MY LITTLE COMPANY! WE ARE AS NEAR TO HEAVEN BY SEA AS BY LAND! THE POWER NOT OF CHRIST HAS US! BAIL, YOU BLACKGUARDS! BAIL BEFORE WE’RE SWAMPED! THE FIRE! THE FIRE! THE CUNNING MAN PREDICTED IT TO ME! THE MONSTER SLOCUM SNATCHED US FROM THE SEA! SNATCHED US FROM TIKAL AND BUTO AND DEVON AND CARTHAGE AND TYRE AND THE HORN OF AFRICA! SNATCHED US FROM CENTURIES AND TIMES AND SHUT US UP IN WHITE-SUITS AND CALLED US DTIS! AT HORSFIELD!—”
There was more, much more, but at some point Tari reached the stage and caught Sylvia’s eye, calling her over and quickly telling her half the truth of the matter: that we were fugitives, not for doing evil, but from evildoers. She said they had to get me off the stage and both of us away before we were seized. Sylvia came and spoke to me but I was in full flood and would not hear her, so she pulled the plug on the microphone. I was shocked as my giant voice suddenly vanished. So was the crowd; its displeasure sounded like surf crashing onto shingle as, rapidly, I know not h
ow, I was bundled offstage and into a car, Tari following me, she having already told KRONONUTZ that if questioned they should deny all knowledge of us.
This must have left them as bewildered as I was, but even as the car moved off, with two people in front whom we did not know, the music started again.
We were taken to a discreet place outside the city as guests of friends of KRONONUTZ, who joined us there later, saying they were sure they hadn’t been followed. I was still babbling, and that night Tari told Sylvia the truth, setting her hands on the girl’s head and showing her mind-pictures that persuaded her. The men in the band were not so easily convinced, yet were curious. When I mentioned the drink in the red plastic bucket they explained about LSD, which a week later Tari tried for herself. After sitting quietly for hours she said that it is an Opener of the Ways, if not the best guide for one with no previous experience of the perilous secret levels.
“Well, Humfrey,” she said after my strange experience, “you made up my mind for me, about telling Sylvia who we are.”
“Not I,” I said, “but the drink in that cursed red bucket!”
“The Hawk was in it, and in Sylvia!” She eyed me steadily. “Now these people know about us. Whether or not they believe it, they’ll protect us, so the seed begins to sprout. Our work is begun!”
“Our work?” I demanded angrily. I was exhausted, and bemused by all that had happened since that morning in the Kentucky woods.
“Yes, Humfrey! Our work! Are you still thinking in terms of accident? Can you still believe we were brought here for nothing?”
“It’s madness!” I snapped. “What do we do to awaken this Horus you speak of? What if it’s work of the Devil?”
“I know what I serve!” I had never seen her angry before.
She was tired too. “How do you think we gained the spirit and purpose to escape Horsfield? The Gate is open, we must go through it! We have our work, as the Dancer has his! No more of this weak talk!”
“And how do you know that Masanva still lives?”
“He is! We have dream-walked! He will not slip!”
“Well, so when will we see the sense of this lunacy?”
“If you will not see it now, then you will see it later!”
“Good!” I sneered, perplexed and fearful. “Proof of the pudding’s in the eating! When I see your wondrous Hawk aloft in the sky, and the kings and princes of this mad world bowing down before him, then I’ll believe it, and not before!”
“Look in your heart, man!” she flared. “The Hawk’s no tyrant, but a fire of wings that’ll beat in your heart and burn away your dead ideas and bring you strength—if you want it!” And to this I had no answer but weary silence.
25. How Set Struck the Hawk in Denver
Seven months her mission lasted, and I at loggerheads with it all the way, clinging to patterns in which Humfrey Gylberte had been formed, afraid to take that leap into the abyss which any true fool can and must take before any progression can be won.
For two weeks, until we were sure that no ill might arise out of my public rant, we stayed in the house of Ron and Eileen.
These are not their true names.
During the first week we were secluded, recovering from our long ordeal. Days passed before I began to grow calm. We ate and slept and bathed, and heard talk of what went on in the land. During the second week people began coming to meet us, Tari telling our hosts we were ready for this. They were friends of KRONONUTZ to begin with, but soon we had spoken with such a variety of odd individuals that I was utterly out of my depth. Doctor Dee would doubtless have enjoyed himself with these students of hidden things, and of course Tari was quickly active, guiding meditative groups of people on long inner journeys. This she did by way of triggering words and symbols that struck in their hearts and created in them resonant images of ways of thought long alien to western culture. I had little to do with these group adventures, preferring to closet myself privately with books.
At first it had seemed that Sylvia alone accepted our tale, by some inner prompting that she trusted. Nonetheless, though many others would not believe us so easily, most seemed open to the possibility that we told the truth. We learned that there had been a great public furore about Vulcan, and many strange rumours about the DTIs, which had been utterly denied by Government and Pentagon. Such utter denial was taken by millions as sure indication that DTIs did exist; a cynicism that seemed remarkable to me. Moreover, in the early days of 1984 several people involved in Vulcan had published their lucratively disapproving accounts of the ugly affair, and official papers had been leaked, “…until the ‘accidents’ began,” said Syl drily one night, “and since then people have kept quiet.”
And soon (though it seems to stand against us) I realised how many folk in times like these have need to believe in stuff of dreams, some even substituting their fantasies for the unbearable truth. Well, folk always did that, but now it is a great industry, what with television and the movies, and games such as Dungeons and Dragons—and of course it is claimed that “Chrononut Cultism” is but an extension of such; and that chrononuts do but project their inner mythic dramas onto the unpleasant outside world. No doubt in many cases this is so; I have met such people, who believe a mystic word will feed them better than a solid meal, who try to foist their untutored wishful thinking onto others as the truth. Yes, quite a few of those who approached Tari and sometimes myself were lost souls seeking approval for their particular schemes of belief. They wanted to know about pyramid prophecies, spacemen from Sirius, the nuts and bolts of the spirit-world. Often enough they offered a bargain:
I’ll believe in you if you believe in me. I’ll believe your tale if you’ll give me a sign and tell me what to do.
This always horrified me. I’m a simple soul, and never learned how to deal with it. “My good fellow!” I’d bluster. “Why should I know any better than you what to do?” At which, though some would thank me for honesty, more often I’d be shot a look of hate.
Tari knew how to deal with them.
She never said much, she’d sit and consider the guru-seeker dispassionately, then give him or her some task to perform. Many of her “tasks” seemed absurd—“Learn to walk on your hands, and do so every day for at least five minutes until six months are up. Then you’ll know what you are and act of that knowledge.”
“But what is this nonsense?’ I expostulated once after hearing her tell an infatuated woman to learn to walk a hundred yards every day for a year with an orange balanced on her head. “What has this to do with your rebirth of Horus?”
“Humfrey, you want everything to be obvious and measurable!”
“It is true! I appreciate clarity in thought and deed!”
“The man who sweats to walk on his hands will learn the value and benefit of good balance on his feet. The woman with an orange on her head will start seeing through the rubbish she presently believes because she has to hold her head still—if she does as I say. Humfrey, mystic belief is positively destructive if used only to flee a world we’ve made unpleasant through general ignorance. We’re here on Earth to bring the powers of the mind into harmonious manifestation, and fantasy has its place in this—but how can anyone do anything worthwhile without learning balance and self-control?”
“Oh, come!” I said. “What would you have me do?”
She regarded me frankly, with the trace of a smile.
“Take up the sport called hang-gliding,” she said. “Learn to soar, forget your night and seek the Dawn!”
After St. Louis we began passage through many cities, hosted by an ever-broadening network of friends of friends of friends. Now I am glad we were not in Europe, where too many people have known too much for too long to believe in anything new, where the suspicion is deeply rooted that the future must prove even worse than the recent past with its two world wars. There are many idiotic beliefs in the U.S.A., but the other side of the coin is this: Where many people need to believe that the impossible will soo
n be possible, then some of the impossibilities become first of all possible, then probable, then realised fact. And before I die I would like to walk on the Moon. Quid Non?
Yet the cities troubled me. It was not so much their size and foul atmospheres as their continual shivering. Tari also felt the strain of these jungles. “Their designers were ignorant of the best shape of things,” she said. “A well-made city is a temple, like the body, in which vitality increases. These cities have vampire-souls. They drain people. Yes, Red Set is in the counting-house, the Hawk is still in jail. I smell it everywhere. But it will not last.”
The truth is that less and less I believed her Horus-talk. Her qualities and power which in Horsfield had so impressed me now had me irritated, the more so as they seemed to impress others. Increasingly I assumed the role of devil’s advocate, often publicly contesting whatever she said, thus as I thought preserving something of my pride, identity, and sense of independence. I did not realise nor admit to myself how in the eyes of others I must have cut an angry, stiff, somewhat ridiculous figure, upholding beliefs and principles many of which are now suspect, condemned, or disregarded and forgotten. I remained trapped in the dramas and assumptions of my own time and culture; Mery-Isis looked underneath the surface to principle and function, and was thus more rapidly “modern” than I. She did not feel personally threatened and insulted by the United States as I did, and each person she met, she met as she would have met anyone in any time, directly, with humour either gentle or sharp according to the situation. But I quickly forgot the Circle and began asserting Gilbert’s old arrogance as a mask for my uncertainty. Now I see I must have been difficult to deal with. Yet whatever gaucheries I committed, I was well treated by many who had no obligation to be friendly, though often I found my loud opinions severely tested, and had difficulty restraining my temper. In fact, I lost most of the tolerance I had learned at Horsfield, and soon I was keeping at quite a distance from Tari and her work—most particularly when she was closeted with people versed in occult or esoteric disciplines. At times we moved in different circles for several days without meeting. She accepted that I did not regard the work of the Hawk as being my work, and did not press me. For politeness’ sake I would ask her what she had been up to; she would say quietly that things were going well here, or not so well, and that a new channel had been opened up, or that in this place the way was seriously blocked. It was all too vague for me, but I demanded it that way; and somehow managed not to observe that I was living amid a most energetic and well-managed state of affairs. We were moved steadily and smoothly from one location and group to another without any apparent difficulty. This did not last, but while it did I had some perverse need to diminish it.
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