Ritual Reality
3 Revelation
Friday, 1 November 1968
Wayne remembered the kiss.
But to his credit, he didn’t dwell on it when he saw Judith Friday morning, much as he wanted to simply crush her to him and passionately devour her. She came down at her usual time, though, and the two walked together to the cafeteria.
“Are you feeling better?” Wayne asked.
“Do you mean am I hung over?” Judith laughed. “Not too bad. Some American coffee should help. I’m not ready for steak and eggs.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I suppose we shouldn’t make a habit of going out to party on a school night.”
“I’m so sorry I spoiled our date. I haven’t done that in ages—not since my wild days in London.”
“I’m a sheltered Hoosier boy. These are my wild days in London. Um… Indianapolis. You’ll have to tell me about yours someday so I’ll know what I’m missing.”
“Still, I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you. Please?”
“Not that it’s necessary, but what were you thinking of?” Wayne was thinking of the kiss. He could only hope she was, too.
“Katherine Hepburn.”
“You want to give me the incredible Kate as a make-up present? I guess I can’t really turn that down,” he laughed.
“The Lion in Winter just opened. I know it’s not usual for girls to ask boys out here, but if you are free tomorrow evening, I thought we might have a date that’s my treat. You can still provide the transportation, though. I rather like sitting on your bike.” Something about the way she said that sent shivers up Wayne’s spine.
“That really sounds wonderful.”
Saturday, 2 November 1968
Wonderful only began to cover it. From the moment Judith opened the door for Wayne, they held hands. She greeted him with a soft kiss on the cheek and they went to the motorcycle. It was too bad he didn’t have a car as he was sure if he did that she’d have worn a skirt instead of the brown wool slacks. The light blue angora sweater under her jacket, though, was a delight to touch as she kept hold of his hand placed carefully around her shoulders in the theater. Their seats in the balcony caused a little distortion in the Panavision image seen from slightly above. Wayne had a hard enough time focusing on the film, though, with Judith cuddled against him.
After the movie, they walked around Monument Circle at the heart of Indianapolis and even ventured north along the grassy plaza. Rather than simply holding hands, Judith pulled his arm around her waist and held his hand firmly against her side, just touching her stomach above her hipbone. For Wayne it was like walking through a dream. When they reached the steps of the World War Memorial, she turned in his arms and as naturally as long-time lovers pressed her lips against his. He bent his head to meet her and their kiss intensified. When it finally broke, they were both panting. Wayne’s arms were wrapped all the way around her small frame and his fingertips were pressed lightly against the sides of her breasts. What a glorious feeling. She pushed away from him.
“We’d better go back now,” she whispered.
“I’d rather stay with you,” he answered.
“Yes, well every family has their ups and downs,” she quoted. For Wayne, it was definitely up at the moment. They held hands as they walked back to the motorcycle and she gripped him tightly as they rode back to campus. She didn’t give him a chance to catch her in another clinch in the parking lot, but led him immediately up the steps to the dorm lobby. At the door to the women’s wing, where they were in full view of the monitor, she met his lips again.
“Judith,” he said as they caught their breath. “Do you have plans for the holiday?”
“Holiday?”
“Thanksgiving. We have Wednesday through Sunday off and I was thinking that if you’d like, you could come home with me and… uh… meet my parents and stuff.” Especially stuff.
“Oh, that holiday. I forgot. Actually, I already accepted Gail’s invitation to her home. I wish I’d known this first.”
“Well. That’s okay. I mean. Maybe it’s a little too early to meet the parents.”
“Maybe so. Let’s just take it slow. But you could kiss me again.”
Wednesday, 27 November 1968, early morning
“Just stopped to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving, Lissa,” Wayne said as he entered Donut World. It was nearly one in the morning on Wednesday. Wayne and Judith had been out with friends for a drink and then parted at the dorm. He simply didn’t feel like sleeping yet, even though he faced a 140-mile bike ride in the morning.
“Vy tank you, dahlink. You are so… how you say?… thoughtful.”
“Are you Russian tonight?”
“You are American ven you come in for coffee; Russian ven you leave. And ven you get home? European.” Wayne howled.
“You are so funny, Lissa. I guess I’ll have that coffee. And a doughnut. It will be my last one for a while. I’m headed up north in the morning.”
“Taking your little girlfriend with you?”
“She had other plans. I’m still not sure she’s my girlfriend. I want her to be. I’m not dating anyone else and I don’t see how she could be, but the idea of going steady is foreign to her.”
“So, you haven’t gone all the way?”
“Just barely touched second base. I’m trying not to rush, but damn she makes me hot. I tell you Lissa, even without petting, I could sit and kiss her all night long.”
“You need to think ahead.”
“What do you mean?”
“When do you get back from your break?”
“Oh. Monday.”
“And how long before your holiday? I mean Christmas vacation.”
“Just two weeks. We’ve got the Holiday Musicale the first week and finals the second week. Having Thanksgiving so late in the month this year really plays havoc with the schedule.”
“So, from right now you have two weeks to pick the perfect Christmas present, make arrangements for a special date, and charm the pants off her. You shouldn’t have too much trouble with that. No?”
“Yes. Oh man! I completely forgot how soon Christmas was and that I need to give her a present before she goes home. What am I going to do?”
“Something she loves and something that is a part of you—so inseparable that she can’t abandon your gift and she can’t face it without thinking of you.”
“What?”
“How vould I know? You haf never brought her to meet me. Are you ashamed of your leetle Russian doll?”
“No! I’ll bring her in as soon as I can.” He looked around and grabbed a napkin. His pen started sketching. Of course. There was only one thing that Judith loved enough to never give up. “I have to run, Lissa. Thanks for the coffee.” He laid three dollars on the counter—easily twice what his late-night snack cost—and headed for the door.
“You see?” Lissa called after him. “Now you’re a-rushin’.”
“Dad, do you mind if I use your shop for a while this weekend?” Wayne had only been home two hours. They’d just had lunch and his butt was still tingling from the two-and-a-half-hour ride from Indianapolis. Still, he wanted to get right to work on his project.
“Sure. Anything special you need?”
“Do you have any black walnut out there?”
“Black walnut? I’ll come with you.” His dad followed him to the workshop. For half of Wayne’s life, his father had been a cabinetmaker. He’d seen the demise of Studebaker looming on the horizon and knew he needed a skill. From 1959-1961, he’d commuted to Nappanee to study woodworking with an Amish cabinetmaker. Before Studebaker closed up shop in 1963, Dad had left and was established in his woodworking shop. They passed the ’56 Golden Hawk under its canvas cover on the way to the shop.
“Is it still running?” Wayne asked.
“I’ve got the engine torn down. Needed the valves ground. Have it ready to drive this summer.”
He unlocked the woodshop and they went in. The shop always made Wayne smile. It smelled like fresh wood and tung oil.
“Now what’s your project?” Wayne pulled out the sketches he’d made the night before after talking with Lissa. It was perfect. “You love making boxes. Who is this one for?”
“My… uh… girlfriend.”
“It’s a little big for a jewelry box.”
“Yeah. You know what I worked on all last summer? I need to put a matching handle on it.”
Wayne and his dad worked side-by-side in the shop all afternoon. He’d taught Wayne everything he knew about woodworking and was happy to show him some new techniques as well. Wayne planned to use a mortise and tenon corner joint, but his dad had a new machine that would cut a blind secret mitered dovetail. When the pieces slid together, you couldn’t see the corner joint at all. Wayne cut the sides out of two matched four-foot black walnut boards. The reversed grain looked like the sides of the box grew together. When the lid hinged closed, it made it look like a solid block. His dad’s tips and an occasional extra pair of hands helped move the project along. But Joe, Wayne’s dad, was careful to let him manage his own project. He never tried to do something for him. Wayne loved working with him.
Once the box was assembled and drying, Wayne put a six-inch-long block of the dark wood on the lathe and his dad helped him align the pattern jig.
“Dad? How do I know if she’s the right girl?”
“Mmm. Well. Didn’t we talk about this once? Let me see.”
“Don’t strain yourself. How’d you know Mom was the right woman for you?”
“Well, I still don’t know for sure. Seems okay today, but Monday I was sure I’d made a mistake marrying her.” Wayne laughed. They’d been married twenty-five years last August. Popped Wayne’s sister out nine months later. He couldn’t figure out why it had taken four years to get the second kid on the ground. “I guess, it’s a lot like your box there,” he finally said. Wayne looked over at it. “All the parts have to fit together perfectly. Of course, you get a lot of marriages where the lid is warped a little or where there’s a gap in a joint or two. Most of them still hold together. Some of them are just so sloppily made, though, that there’s no chance for them to last. And some look well-made, but are used so roughly that they finally fall apart.”
“So, I want to find a woman whose parts all match mine and then keep them well-oiled?”
“Don’t tell your mother I said anything like that!”
Friday, 13 December 1968
All Wayne did the next week was type his paper, work in the props shop, and run lights for the Holiday Musicale. Then it was finals week and he still had to type the bibliography and end-notes. He must have dumped about thirty dollars into those coin-operated typewriters in the library. Ten cents for ten minutes, then deposit another dime. But he got it done and handed to Dr. Allen on Wednesday. He was reasonably sure she’d be pleased. He’d even made it to about half her classes.
He was surprised to find a message waiting at the dorm monitor’s desk on Friday morning requesting his presence in Dr. Allen’s office at ten o’clock.
“While there is no concrete proof that Keats was the Vagabond Poet referred to in early 19th century mystical writings, Wilton’s conjecture explains in part Keats’s fascination with the Titans and his glorification of them. If what Wilton says is true, Keats participated in a pagan ritual in which four of the Titans were said to have appeared—Iäpetus drawing so much strength from the poet that Keats was sickly until his early death just two years later.”
Dr. Allen looked up from reading the paper aloud and stared at the student standing in front of her. She could feel the heat in her cheeks as her anger swept over her again. Control. He looked so smug—so pleased with himself.
“Who do you think you are?” she growled. “Did you honestly think you could pass off this rubbish as legitimate research?” Wayne’s mouth sagged open as her words sank in.
“What? It’s all there, just like I said,” he stammered. “Wilton said…”
“Wilton said no such thing, nor is there any such paper in his files,” Dr. Allen blazed.
“I have copies of them,” Wayne said. “Right here.” He produced a notebook from his pack and flipped over several pages then turned it around to face her. “Here. In Wilton’s own handwriting.”
“That is not Wilton’s handwriting,” Dr. Allen responded immediately. “Nor is this in the catalog of Wilton’s papers,” she continued producing a handwritten file from her own desk. Wayne looked at the writing on his papers and on the ones in Dr. Allen’s hands. They were undeniably different.
“Is this Wilton’s handwriting?” he asked pointing at the folder.
“No. This is my husband’s handwriting,” she answered. “He cataloged all Wilton’s writings in 1954. I have read all of them in this library and all his pseudonymous writings in the Edinburgh University Library as well. This is not Wilton’s writing. Now where did you get it?”
“I swear, Dr. Allen,” he said plaintively. “It was listed in the card catalog in the library and I got it out of his file in rare books. The librarian handed it to me herself and made the copies for me while I was there.” The professor was softening as things began to come into focus.
“Rare books,” she muttered. “Mr. Hamel, we have been had. If the paper is indeed in rare books, I will fulfill my end of the bargain and pass you for the course. However, as a teacher, it is my responsibility to instruct you. Your paper is based on a cleverly conceived fraud. It has no scholarly value. Unless you found reputable primary sources, like an eyewitness account or Keats’s diary, to back up your quotes, the entire academic value of the paper is zero. And I assure you that you will not find primary sources to back up your research. If any of what you quoted regarding the pagan rites that Keats supposedly participated in were true, it would be buried in secrecy and heavily protected against just such academic research.”
“Shi… uh… da… uh… darn it!” he swore.
“I understand your feelings,” she smiled. “They are very similar to my own. I must know who advised you in your research, subject selection, everything that led you to precisely this study. In the world of academic fraud, this could be very important.”
“How?”
“‘There are stranger things in heaven and earth than your philosophy has imagined, Horatio.’”
“Hamlet, act two, scene three,” Wayne responded automatically.
“Very good,” she answered. “Now who else knew about your research?”
“Well, gee. Everyone knows what I was doing the paper on. All my friends. And Mr. Cooper. I got clearance from him to use the same research for my Romantic Poets course. When you gave me this opportunity, I quoted the line from Hamlet about Hyperion and a satyr. I thought it was cool when that same week we read Keats’s ‘Hyperion’ in class. Miss Wilson in the library told me how to go about researching it. That’s it.”
“Miss Wilson is definitely out. Cooper? No, I don’t think so. Did you use any of the Wilton material in your paper for his class?”
“Just in the bibliography. He was interested in poetic structure and interpretation, not anthropology or social studies. He gave me an A for it.”
“I’m sure you deserved it. You’ll make a fine teacher someday, if you stay awake.”
“Thank you, but I want to stick to theatre if I can. You know what they say: Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” Dr. Allen looked at him and raised one eyebrow. “I mean… no offense, Dr. Allen. Anthropology is different than theatre. I mean there isn’t really anything to do in anthropology except teach. You know?”
“I know, Mr. Hamel. That will be all,” she said.
“I passed?”
“You passed. I would like to keep these copies from Wilton’s file, however.”
“I sure don’t need them anymore,” he answered. He left. Rebecca assumed he’d never again take a 7:30 a.m. class.
She quickly read through the papers Wayne swore came from Wilton’s files. To her eye, even from the photocopy, it was obviously a fraud. Disguised handwriting, she assumed. It bore some similarities to Wilton’s handwriting. Fortunately, Wayne had limited his references to the evidence that Keats had developed his poem based on experiences in pagan rituals. He had not gone so far as to tell the entire story of the Vagabond Poet, one with which Rebecca Allen was casually familiar. It was part of the secret writings of her circle of friends. It told of a wandering vagabond, sucked into the circle during the creation of a new tool, the staff—Iäpetus, the Second Face of Carles. It never mentioned the poet’s name, though.
The story was retold in such a way as to make it plausible to be in Wilton’s writings, especially if one understood the old man’s connection to the coven as a vagabond priest himself. But what caught Rebecca’s attention and held it was the final sentence the forger had written in Wilton’s supposed hand. “The Hart will see and understand.”
Someone knew the paper would find its way to her. A warning to her. The last time a new tool was forged for the coven, both the vagabond priest and the high priestess had died.
She thought back to the night when alarms had gone off in the library as she prepared her Samhain ritual on the roof—the shadowy figure running from the building. Rebecca opened the door of her credenza and pulled out the black hat that she had found when searching for signs around the building. So, this was the work of a Child of Coven Carles. But who? And why?
Saturday, 14 December 1968
Judith sat in front of the mirror in her dormitory room. Her bags were already packed for the return trip to England. Everything she owned. Her flight was tomorrow morning. She sat staring at herself, not wanting to finish, not wanting to leave.
Technically she had completed everything that she intended to do when she came to America. With Wayne’s paper submitted to Rebecca Allen, there was no doubt that she would check the reference in the Wilton file. She would have to understand how dangerous it was to create a new tool for the circle, and that she was being used in a power play.
Judith could leave now—go back to England and wait for Rebecca to quit or to go ahead and make the new Athamé, with the power-hungry high priest right there to snatch it from her hand when it was complete. Judith was finished—if it weren’t for this one other little problem in her life—Wayne.
It had begun as a simple flirtation and had taken on new focus as a means for her to accomplish her goal of getting a message to The Hart. But it kept developing. She’d tried not to lead him on, but he was so nice. She had every reason to believe that he was in love with her, and her own feelings defied her resistance. She didn’t have to go back to England, after all. There was no hurry. If she returned to classes in January, Wayne would be there. And that was something to consider. She really, really liked him. She was even picking up colonial idioms. Maybe he’d consider visiting her in England and they could sit in front of the fireplace, just…
A knock interrupted her fantasy. Well, we’ll see, she thought. We’ll just have to see.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said when she opened the door. She lifted her face to receive the soft kiss that he offered. She had chosen a Victorian look tonight—not exactly her usual style. She wore a high collared white blouse that had taken her a quarter of an hour to button up the front. Her blue maxi-skirt had a dozen buttons as well—the last seven of which she had left undone, showing her left leg above the knee.
Wayne had raided the costume shop and came out with tails and a top hat. That he was wearing them with grey corduroys and tennis shoes didn’t seem nearly as comical as it should have. She handed him her cape and he laid a gift-wrapped box on her bed before helping her put it on.
“Are those flowers for me?” she asked sweetly.
“Well, uh… you’ll just have to wait and see,” he said. “Our cab is waiting to take us to dinner.”
The maître d' at the King Cole looked at his outfit curiously, but he was within their dress code and did have a reservation. With a sniff, he led the two to a private booth out of the line of sight. They sank side-by-side into the deep leather seats and slid to the back. The long red tablecloth was draped nearly to the floor in front so that when Wayne sat behind it he really did look fine. Aside from his shoulder-length hair and ragged beard, he appeared to be just like any other patron of the swank restaurant. Judith’s sophisticated form beside him helped.
Even the wine steward did not blink when he ordered sparkling wine. He did cock an eyebrow when Wayne ordered Cold Duck, but quickly went to fill the order. When the wine arrived, Wayne slid the box toward Judith and raised his glass in a toast.
“Here’s to you, with all my love.” She smiled and touched her glass to his.
“May there be many more toasts between us,” she said. They drank, and then Judith began unwrapping her present. “It’s too heavy for flowers,” she said. “At least for any species that I know.” The paper came off a shiny walnut box, over three feet long and six inches across. She breathed a sigh of amazement as her hand slid across the glossy surface. At first it looked like a solid block of wood save for the tiny ridge of a brass hinge on one side and the golden clasp and lock on the other. “Oh Wayne, it’s beautiful,” she said. She turned to kiss him, but instead found him holding up his hand. Between his fingers was a small key.
“There’s more,” he said simply. She took the key and opened the lock on the box. When she saw the sword against the red velvet lining she was speechless. Her initials were emblazoned on the walnut hilt that matched the box. On the blade were engraved the closing words of Keats’s sonnet ‘Bright Star’.
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
There was little Judith loved more than medieval arms but this was more than she could have imagined. She turned to him in amazement, shaking her head to get the words to come out. This time he did not stop her offered kiss. The kiss might have continued much longer had the waiter not arrived, clearing his throat at the tableside. They broke apart, embarrassed.
“Are you really old enough to be ordering alcohol?” the waiter asked snidely as he set down their entrées. Judith lifted the short sword from its case and slowly swung its point toward the waiter.
“Would you like to try to take it away?” she asked. There was a cold hardness in her voice that frightened even Wayne. The waiter backed away at once.
“No, ma’am,” he said. He pulled the curtains across the opening of their booth, leaving them isolated from the rest of the room.
“Now that’s more like it,” Judith said, replacing the sword in its case. “Wayne, this is too wonderful for words. How could you ever afford something like this?”
“I made it,” he answered. “I hope you don’t mind getting a homemade gift.”
“Mind?” she exclaimed. “I can hardly believe it. I can’t believe it. You made this?”
“It’s what I do. Did you see the look on that waiter’s face?” Wayne laughed. “You scared the pants off him—and me.”
“Really?” she said, laying a hand on his leg as if to see. “Well, I doubt we’ll see him again until we leave.”
“Which is quite all right with me,” he answered kissing her again. “I suppose we’d better eat this stuff while it’s hot,” he said at last.
They chatted through the meal and Wayne asked questions about the holidays in England. Judith asked him how he would celebrate as well. Wayne told her that he would visit a favorite uncle over the holiday, but that he would be thinking about her the entire time.
“It’s funny. He’s my mom’s uncle, but I’m the only one going. He sent me a train ticket. I’ve only ever met him once, but we each send a letter once a month. I don’t know if anything he says is true, but according to him, he was undercover all through World War II and through the ’50s up until about ten years ago. Then he sent a ticket and asked me to spend the New Year’s holiday with him in West Virginia. Just me. I think my mom’s a little pissed about it.”
“Sounds thrilling. If you’ve only met him once, why does he suddenly want to see you now?”
“I have no idea, but we’ve corresponded with each other for years.”
They chatted further and after dessert had come and Wayne had paid the bill, Judith turned to face him.
“I have a gift for you, too,” she said.
“Really?” he said. “Where?”
“I’m wearing it,” she answered. Wayne thumped himself in the chest as if to restart his heart. She was wearing a blouse, skirt, and shoes. And hose. She was sure he could see that on the leg that was mostly uncovered by the open skirt. He reached for her hand, but she gently pushed his hand back.
“I’ll unwrap it for you,” she said softly as she unbuttoned the eighth button on her skirt, exposing her thigh up to the garter she wore. “Oh. Wrong button. Sorry.” Wayne watched open-mouthed as her fingers moved to unbutton the top button of her blouse and then the next. There were at least twenty buttons on the front of her blouse. Perhaps she’d just give him the shirt off her back. He’d die, right there at the table. That wouldn’t be useful.
Judith hadn’t planned this. In fact, she had no gift for Wayne when they came to the table, but her emotions, threatening to burst over her for weeks, were taking over. Holding the sword in her hand—feeling the craftsmanship and the power—had suddenly awakened her. The power. As important as her relationship with Wayne was, what she felt was even more important. She was the Swordmaster and Wayne had just become her charge.
The sixth button opened and then the seventh. She folded back the fabric, exposing her throat to him. Then she went ahead and unbuttoned the eighth and ninth buttons, showing her cleavage.
“Do you like it?” she asked. Wayne took a drink before he could answer.
“Like it?” he croaked.
“The necklace, you goose,” she laughed.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “My God!” They laughed. The necklace was a gold chain with a star-shaped pendant.
“Take it off me,” she directed. He reached around her neck to find the clasp and placed a kiss on her lips as he undid it. She dragged his hands down her neck when the clasp came undone and pulled them across the exposed mounds of her breasts. Her eyes closed as she held his hands and then she took the necklace from him. She locked it around his neck. He held it up on the chain to look at the star. It was engraved on one side.
“What is this?” he asked.
“A rune. My name sign,” she answered. “I wear it all the time. In fact, I haven’t taken it off in thirteen years. Please wear it for me. Wayne, it is important that you know that no matter what happens or doesn’t happen between us, this is yours and will be important to you. Not for my sake, but for yours, never take it off. Nonetheless, I think I love you.” She moved in to kiss him and didn’t move his hands when they cupped her breasts. “I think,” she whispered, “this is what you call going steady.”
Wayne wasn’t breathing. She cupped his face in her hands while he continued to squeeze her breasts.
“Darling, there’s more.”
“More?”
“Focus on me, love, not just my breasts.”
“I’m sorry. Oh, Judith…”
“Shh,” she stopped him from pulling away, holding his hands to her breasts with both of hers. “I like it. But I need this hand.” She pulled his left hand from her breast and placed it palm up on the table. “There is a ritual that goes with this gift. It will only hurt a little.”
“Huh?”
She pulled the sword from its box and placed the point against the palm of his hand. He froze. His other hand quit squeezing her breast. She applied just enough pressure to draw blood.
“You… you…”
“Shh. You’ll see.” She placed the point of the sword against her own left palm and pressed until it drew blood. “Take my hand.” They clasped the hands, blending the drop of blood each had in their palms. Judith raised the sword and placed the tip against the pendant she had just given Wayne. He held his breath. “Powers of the East, South, West, and North, seal this covenant,” she intoned. “Your blood is my blood. My blood is yours. We may not always be lovers. We may not always be friends. But we will always be bound. May my words be sealed within your heart and arise when your training is complete and your questions have been answered. So mote it be.”
Wayne felt a jolt go through his entire body. He could feel Judith’s blood flowing in his veins. He could see a hundred, no, a thousand different possibilities as if he were dreaming of lives he had never lived. And it was all a dream. He shook his head and saw the sword lying in the box he had made for it. It was a symbol of his love for Judith. She held his left hand as he continued to caress her breast with his right and she leaned in for another exquisite, long, loving kiss.
Late that night Judith sat in her dorm room with the sword lying in its open box in front of her. Her hand continually stroked her neck where her pentacles had hung.
Things had taken an unexpected turn. She was touched—no, overwhelmed—by the beautiful gift Wayne had given her. But it came with a startling realization.
Wayne is a toolmaker.
If Rebecca Allen or the high priest found out he had the talent to forge a new Athamé, he could be in grave danger. It was her fault, and Judith couldn’t leave Wayne to face that alone.
At the airport the next day, she cashed in her ticket and took a cab to a hotel. She was no longer in a hurry to return to England.
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