Death in Disguise (6 page)

He would never forget that first sight of her. So tall, with gleaming auburn hair flowing down her back. Her features were assembled with a rare degree of spatial symmetry. The end of her large gently hooked nose was displayed cleanly against a powdered expanse of olive skin adorned by a very fine silky moustache. Her cheek bones were flat and broad and her eyes, which had translucent glowing pupils like circles of amber, had a Magyaresque tilt.

After supper she played her cello. Entranced by the nimble fluidity of her bow and the floridly emotional music soaring to the high beams, Arno knew not only that he loved her but also that in some mysterious, impossible way he always had. He discovered her subject (Colour Healing), put himself down for a workshop and revelled in the warmth of her enthusiastically humane and generous nature. She sorted out his aura, wardrobe, sleeping habits, diet and attitude to the cosmos in a twinkling. Arno attended three more retreats then sold his house and moved to the Manor for good.

All this had been eighteen months ago and the happiness he had felt on first arriving had proved accumulative. Gradually he had shed his loneliness like an old skin, carrying it half-heartedly for a while—a rough barbed little parcel—and then one day just putting it down for good.

Of the members present when he had entered the commune, only May and the Master remained. The others, as is the way of communicants, had joined other groups or reverted to the nuclear. But replacements had arrived and now The Lodge was thriving. Indeed so satisfactory was the balance sheet that it was able to offer bursary help to the impecunious. Most months there was even a small surplus to send to Eritrea or wherever was the greatest need.

Arno gave an irritated ‘uurgh' and pinched his arm hard. He had done it again. He had drifted off. He wondered not for the first time if he had made a mistake in choosing Zen as his discipline. He had been so attracted by its concrete day-today practicality—so resolutely non airy-fairy—but it was jolly difficult. Even without the koan. Clenching his teeth, applying himself determinedly to the task in hand, he tried the Master's suggestion of verbalising the moment positively and loudly.

‘How wonderful, how miraculous!' he cried, rootling away with the metal blade. ‘I am hoeing the radishes and now the broad beans. What joy!'

But it was useless. In no time at all he was picturing May and longing to be in her presence. Serving, adoring. Turning the pages of her music, making lemon tea on her little spirit stove. Or just blissfully basking in the charm of her company under the shining bright protection of her radiant eye.

Every day around mid-morning Ken, in his role as Zadkiel, planetary light worker, got down to some serious channelling. Sitting upright in the way of the Lotus, nostrils fluting with extrasensory verve, eyes humbly crossed, he and his supra-conscious mind would attempt to penetrate the Outer Screen of Life and plug into the Inner Matrix of Reality. To assist him in these endeavours Zadkiel wore his nuclear receptor. This was a small gold-plated medallion covered in tiny pyramids which trapped all toxic energies (from microwaves, acid rain, carcinogenic radiation, Janet's negativity etc.) then manipulated the body's DNA vibrations until all toxicity was defused and harmonised.

Heather (or Tethys as she was astrally known) sat beside her husband breathing noisily and nasally, off about her own cosmic business which might run from a basic recharging of her energies through the great Devas of the Crystal Grid to a full-blown trip to Venus renewing friendships with other ascendant souls who, like herself, had escaped the drowning of Atlantis.

Sometimes Hilarion, Ken's contact on the other side, would come straight through (a single abracadabra), other times he would go in for quite lengthy teasing, wispily hovering about and hinting portentously in capital letters of revelations to come. Today he spoke almost before Ken had taken one pure breath from the Ascended Master Realms.

‘I am here Earthling. Do you accept the Concentrated Flame of the Presence of the Sacred Fire?'

‘Greetings beloved Hilarion. I accept the Authority of the flame and promise to perfect, protect and beautify the Cosmic Cause and work only to establish the Spirit of Love in all Mankind.'

‘It is well. Know that they in the High Realm, the Shining and Invincible Ones, desirous of assisting in the precipitation of God's Perfection in the World of Form, Bless thy Sincere Endeavours.'

‘Please convey my heartfelt gratitude to these all-powerful supreme authorities, great Hilarion.'

There was quite a bit more of this, plus instructions on how to keep ‘the spiralling energy-vortice of our sweet planet earth' consciously tuned and magnetically cleansed. Hilarion's voice was very like Ken's and he was inclined to giggle. When these puckered-up sniggers had first escaped from between Ken's lips, he had been very surprised—not expecting one of the Lords of Karma to have anything as earthy as a sense of humour. The content of these sessions varied and truth to tell this A.M. it was all rather dull. Mainly about How To Throw Off Discordant Accumulations into the Interplanetary Matrix of Violet Light.

What Ken really enjoyed were the rare occasions when the old wizard offered a really unusual suggestion for some imaginative sortie which would somehow lead Zadkiel and Tethys towards a new appreciation of the glorious Cosmic Heartbeat. For instance only last week he had vouchsafed that if they chose, in the right and proper frame of mind, to trace each abandoned railway line in England to its source, they would obtain proof positive that Jesus—the Cosmic Christ—had visited their country in the latter half of the twelfth century.

‘I have a prophecy, Zadkiel.' Ken sat up and Heather, who was by now on her way back, sat up too. ‘By happenstance this night at the rise of the crescent moon the goddess Astarte will take upon herself a fleshly vestment to move amongst all denizens of the lower planes and disseminate lunar wisdom.'

‘Gosh,' said Heather cogently.

‘I suggest you bethink a circle of light around your whole being in readiness. Also call upon the countless legion of Violet Elohim for support. Visualise yourself within the electronic pattern. Keep the rhythm of invocation going at all times. And don't offer her any refreshments.'

‘Of course not, great Hilarion.' As if they would be so crass. ‘Have you any idea of the exact—'

But he was off. Back over the aeons to the galaxy of his choice. At one once more with the burning stars and solar fire of divine alchemy. Briefly the words ‘I AM' burned in the heavens then they too were gone and Ken gave a great sigh as he sloughed off his ethereal persona and returned to the thorny old work-a-day world. He looked across at Heather.

‘How was it for you?'

‘Ohh… Unity of Life as Light in the Sisterhood of Angels, a new core Avataric message—God Ego equals Vestal Virgin. A bit samey to tell you the truth. But Hilarion…' Heather tried not to sound miffed. ‘Giving you a prediction…' Ken blushed, shrugged and regarded the sole of his upturned left foot. ‘Do you think we should tell the others?'

‘Certainly,' replied Ken. ‘It would be unfair not to. Imagine their surprise otherwise. And we have to consider the Master. He is old and frail. An unadvised shock of this magnitude might well be too much for him.'

Suhami was milking Calypso, resting her cheek against the goat's cream and chocolate flanks, gently squeezing dark wrinkled teats. The milk spurted into a plastic bucket.

When not tethered about the place Calypso lived in an outhouse. This was clean and whitewashed with a two-part stable door. There were rows of apples on slatted shelves. Though scabby, the fruit smelt very wholesome as did Calypso's straw which was changed every day.

Suhami loved this place. The quietness. The golden warmth of the morning sun as it bounced off snowy walls. It reminded her of the Solar where they gathered for meditation—having the same charged, beneficent brightness. Even while noting the comparison she smiled. Nothing very spiritual about an old byre full of goat. But the Master had said that God could be present anywhere if the heart was open and humble, so why not here?

‘Why not Cally—hmn?' Suhami shook off the last drips of milk and stroked the goat's warm mottled udder. Calypso turned her head, lifted a rubbery lip and gazed at her milkmaid intently. The pupils of the goat's eyes were yellow horizontal slits and she had a slight beard, girlish and feathery. Her expression never changed. She always looked ruminative and self-satisfied, as if guarding an important secret. A back hoof shifted slightly and Suhami moved the bucket out of harm's way. Calypso's bell gave a petulant honk. There was nothing she liked more than kicking the milk over.

In a moment Christopher would be here to take her out to graze. The habit was to move her round and about the vast lawn where she would nibble away producing a nap like velvet. This idea of establishing goat browsage rights had been voted for almost unanimously after a petrol mower was judged to be environmentally unsound. Only Ken, who was allergic to the milk, abstained.

Suhami slipped Calypso's leather collar on, gave her an apple and put a second in the lovely tapestry bag resting against the milking stool. The bag was a birthday present from May. The embroidery of glowing sunflowers and deep purple irises against a background of earth and red-brown leaves was almost identical to the design on May's own bag which Suhami had long admired. Only the sunflowers were different. A shade paler, for the shop in Causton had run out of marigold wool and could only offer the slightly less rich amber. Suhami had been very touched, picturing May secretly sewing in her room, motivated solely by the wish for someone else's happiness, hiding the work if Suhami came by. Suhami had received so much kindness since moving to the Manor House, in addition to the supreme kindness of the Master's teaching. So many offerings of quiet concern, conversations where someone really listened, gestures of comfort, tasks shared. Now they knew who she really was all this would change. Oh—they would try to carry on as usual. To treat her just the same but it would be impossible. Eventually money would drive a wedge. It always did.

Suhami's lips twisted ironically as she remembered how excited and hopeful she had been at the idea of choosing a new name and leaving her old self behind in London. A naïve and childish way of going on, for how could one shed twenty miserable years or become another person by such an ingenuous device? Yet it had helped. As ‘Sheila Gray' she had presented a new face for new friends to write their affections on. Then her growing interest in and determined practice of Vedanta, coupled with a deepening commitment to further change, had suggested her present title. Now her days were filled with quiet gratitude which she took for happiness, for it was as near as she had ever been.

And then Christopher joined the commune. They had slipped almost immediately into an easy jokey friendship. He would tease her—not unkindly (he was never unkind)—crossing his hands over his heart in a mock languish of love, swearing he would waste away if she would not have him. This was in front of the others. When they were alone he was quite different. He would talk then about his past, his hopes for the future, of how he wanted to get out from behind the camera and write and direct. Occasionally he kissed her, grave sweet kisses quite unlike the heartless mouth-mashings she had previously endured.

When she thought of Christopher's inevitable departure Suhami had to remember very hard the Master's maxim that all she needed to sustain her was not out there in the ether, or residing in another person's psyche, but right in her own heart. This struck her as a tough and lonely dictum and she'd been alone enough already. As she pondered, footsteps disturbed the gravel outside and Suhami's fingers trembled against the wooden stool.

Christopher leaned over the stable door and said, ‘How's my girl?'

‘She's been eating apples again.'

As always Suhami was both exhilarated and perturbed by the sight of him. By the soft black hair and pale skin and glowing, slightly tilted grey-green eyes. She waited to hear him say, ‘And how's my other girl?' for this was a well worn bit of cross-talk. But he simply pushed open the stable door and crossed over to Calypso, taking hold of her collar saying, ‘C'mon old fat and hairy.' He had hardly smiled and in a moment they would both be gone.