Ritual Reality
4 Another Gift
Sunday, 29 December 1968
Wayne found it difficult to concentrate on his trip until he crossed the state line into West Virginia. He moped during the entire twenty-four-hour train trip from Indiana to Huntington, West Virginia including the nine-hour layover in Chicago. It seemed stupid to have to go west before he could go east, but he wandered around The Loop looking at the animated Christmas displays in the windows of Marshall Field’s. He was lovesick. His hand was always touching the necklace Judith had placed around his neck. He had filled a notepad with doodles of her namesign. They were going steady. At least he thought that’s what it meant.
Once he was off the train, the excitement of meeting the mysterious Uncle Bert took hold. Wayne had corresponded with his uncle since he was old enough to write, but this Christmas was only the second time they had met. He wasn’t what Wayne remembered at all. He looked like an old prospector of the type you’d see pulling a donkey along in a cartoon. Wayne wasn’t sure if a donkey might have been more dependable than the rickety old pickup Uncle Bert tossed his bag into. He didn’t say much on the drive to his home near Newburg. Idle chit-chat about how Wayne’s trip had been and whether he was hungry—repeated twice.
The mountains were beautiful, though. The weather was cold, but it hadn’t snowed much when they arrived. His uncle had retired to a place as remote as any Wayne had ever visited. The road was a dirt track for three miles across the side of a mountain. His uncle’s home was halfway between the main roads at either end of the track. The driveway was another half mile long, leading from the dirt road to a modest little house. In fact, Wayne would almost call it a shanty, but the garage door opened at the push of a button and closed behind them. Wayne started to open his door but his uncle held out a hand.
“Give me just a minute before we get out,” he said. Wayne watched as his uncle stripped off the beard and a mop of a wig and tossed them on the seat of the truck. He pulled off his shirt and lost thirty pounds. Bert looked at him and smiled. He was clean shaven with a military haircut. “I feel human now,” he said. “Can’t be too careful when I’m off my mountain.”
They got out of the truck and Bert opened the door to the house.
Wayne walked around in amazement for two days. His uncle gave a guided tour of the apartment comprising eight rooms. He explained that while he was removing his disguise, an elevator had dropped them nearly a hundred feet below ground. The apartment was in an abandoned coal mine, of which there were many in the area. Wayne was told not to step through certain doors which led into unimproved portions of the mine. In his curiosity, Wayne checked the doors and found out that there wasn’t any way to step through them. They were locked tight.
By New Year’s Eve, Wayne was beginning to believe all the stories his uncle had ever told about being a spy. He was enjoying the stories Bert related about life in the secret service. Greece after the war was in turmoil as the communists tried to take over. Children were being sent to hide in the desolate Metéora to escape the conscription gangs. His uncle had been under cover for ten years, his only contact with family the letters to and from his great nephew, each smuggled out by a courier and posted from an APO address.
“You don’t know how much you contributed to my sanity in those days. I was still sent out to collect data occasionally, but was mostly responsible for digesting information and sending reports while I waited for retirement and my retreat to be built. Waiting is a hard-learned skill. You were already in college when I moved here. I wanted to invite you to visit right away, but the company had to be certain my location and movements were not observed. It’s no wonder so many of us retire at the end of a pistol.”
“Uncle Bert, I always thought you were writing to entertain me. Did you put secrets in your letters? My junior high and high school life must have bored you to tears.”
“No. It was the only normal thing I ever saw. There is some pretty outlandish stuff going on in the world. That super spy in the movies—James Bond?—that’s only things that movie producers can dream up. The reality is way beyond that.”
Wayne settled in for another of his uncle’s wartime stories. His mother’s uncle had sent him snippets of stories throughout the fifties and when they finally met in ’61, Wayne had a serious case of hero-worship. Then his uncle had to “go back into the field.”
“The makings of the Greek Civil War were in operation before the end of World War II,” Bert said. “Once the Germans drafted security battalions to combat the resistance, the nation became more polarized than ever. The resistance controlled most of rural Greece where I was embedded, passing messages and delivering arms. When the war ended, I should have been able to come home. But by that time it was obvious that the National Liberation Front and the government soldiers were going to war against each other. I was already embedded in the mountains and kept communications flowing between the two sides.”
“I had no idea Greece was in a civil war,” Wayne said. “It always seems so civilized.”
“You think the battle with communists is limited to Viet Nam,” his uncle answered. “Didn’t you know that Greece was taken over by a military junta less than two years ago? We call it the cold war, but there are places where it is very hot.”
“How did you get out?”
“When Papandreou started to rise in ’60, we realized that the battle was going to be fought in parliament and no longer in the fields. I was fifty-six years old and ready to retire. My country brought me back to repatriate me. That’s when I came to visit you. Then, we discovered a faction of Greek anti-monarchists active here that had targeted me. I disappeared back to Northern Greece where I spent the next eight years on Mount Athos. That’s where your letters were delivered to me. The Pentagon figures they’ve cleaned house and there is no immediate threat. They supervised building me this mountain retreat but I had to pay for it myself. I moved in last year. With luck, they’ll forget I’m here before long and I’ll be able to move about a little more freely. Right now, I only travel with my mind.”
Wednesday, 1 January 1969
Wayne wandered the West Virginia hillsides. His uncle showed him the access point and codes for entry to the retreat. He’d been underground for two days listening to stories. Bert finally chased him out of the cavern and told him to get some fresh air but to stay out of the mines.
From what Wayne could tell, there wasn’t another house within a mile of his uncle. After half an hour listening to the quiet country air, broken only by his own footsteps, Wayne sat down on a tree stump. As usual, he carried his notebook and opened it to look at the dozens of times he’d doodled the name sign on Judith’s necklace. It was so quiet. He jotted down the words that came to mind—his uncle isolated from the world.
Hush. The solitude
slowly, stealthily creeps in
upon the unsuspecting prisoner
of its all-encompassing spirit.
The heart beats;
the body relaxes.
The worried ones wait
to see what passes.
Coop would have a blast criticizing that one. A little morbid. He took out his pocketknife and started whittling. He was lost in a world of dreaming about Judith. As he carved in the stump, he realized what he was doing and pulled the chain and star out of his shirt to compare the carving he had sketched with the name sign on the back of the pendant. Yes. He got it right. Memorized. There was no reason to doubt it. “Acting like a teenager,” he muttered to himself.
“Well, boy, you are certainly quieter than I expected,” his uncle said from behind him. The old man leaned on a cane and wore an overcoat and scarf. Wayne wondered how much of that was disguise. “What’s on your mind?”
“I guess I’ve been a little preoccupied,” Wayne answered glancing down at his carving again. His uncle noticed and looked over his shoulder. He lifted the chain and star from Wayne’s hand and turned it over carefully to read the engraving.
“I see,” he breathed. “I was right. You’re being initiated into the mysteries.” Wayne assumed that his uncle meant he was in love and sighed.
“Yeah, I guess you could say so.”
“This isn’t your namesign, is it?” his uncle asked.
“No. It’s Judith’s. My girlfriend.”
“Mmmhmm. And do you have a sign?”
“No. I don’t think so,” Wayne answered, trying to think if he had ever been told of such a symbol. “Judith said it was a kind of rune. I saw a bunch of symbols like this when I was doing some research, though.”
“Tell me about your research.”
Wayne told him the whole disastrous story of sleeping in class, his golden opportunity, and about his research paper and the fraudulent notes.
“Yes. Fraud would be an academic way to put it. And your professor knew all about this file?” said his uncle.
“Yes. Dr. Allen’s husband compiled a catalog of the entire file box. I guess he died soon after they were married but she had a copy of the catalog in her office.” His uncle seemed taken aback by something Wayne said, but he couldn’t tell what caused the old man to step away.
“Secrets.”
“Huh?”
“Let me see if I can explain what’s really going on. If the story you saw was real, it would be the protected property of a secret society. They would guard against the story ever being discovered by any legitimate research project. Someone planted a secret where it could be found by an uninitiated novice. We used the technique during the war. No courier was as dependable as one who had no idea he was a courier. It’s risky, but sometimes unavoidable—the only way a message can be safely passed.”
“You mean someone left it there so that someone else would find it, but I accidentally stumbled on it instead?” Wayne asked.
“It could be that,” his uncle said hesitantly, “or it could be that you were intended to find it and get the message to someone else.”
“The only one who saw it was my professor and she was furious. She had an entire catalog of Wilton’s writings and spotted it as a fake right away.”
“I wonder what message it contained for her. Understanding Wilton’s writings is tough work for the most experienced reader.”
“You know Wilton’s writings?”
“I knew Wilton,” Bert mused. Wayne was speechless. “How did you like your Christmas present?” Uncle Bert changed the subject abruptly before Wayne could inquire any further.
“The bow? It’s great. I love archery,” Wayne answered.
“I understood that from your letters. I’ve set up a bale and target behind the house. I’d like to see you shoot. I got the bow years ago when I was on a mission in Britain. It’s old, but the yeoman I received it from told me it would be good for the lifetime of my children’s children’s children. Not that I have any, but you may one day. Such bows are frequently passed from generation to generation among the lower classes as their own sort of arms. Many are carved with a genealogy of sorts made of name signs like that one. I have no children, so I’ve passed it on to you.”
“Judith’s from England,” Wayne mused.
“I suspected,” Uncle Bert answered. Then as if he’d just come to a decision, “I have another gift for you.”
“Another?”
“In fact, two. Come with me, son.”
Wayne stuffed the necklace into his shirt and stood to follow his uncle. Uncle Bert was not headed back the way Wayne had come, though. Instead he entered a mine shaft just uphill from where Wayne had been carving.
“I thought these were dangerous,” Wayne whispered.
“They are if you don’t know your way around,” his uncle answered. But for me they are extensions of my home. Here. Take my hand so you don’t get lost in the dark. Some of these tunnels don’t have lights installed yet.” Wayne took his uncle’s hand and walked into the darkness with the old man. A chill coursed its way up and down his spine. He talked, just to break the silence.
“Why did you build your home in a mine shaft, Uncle Bert?”
“I told you, they’re ready-made homes for an old badger like me,” Bert laughed. “Really? It was here or some desert island that hasn’t been discovered yet. I already owned the property, so they were kind enough to do the work. A few well-placed threats helped.”
“That’s just so unbelievable.”
“It’s unbelievable unless you have to live with it,” Uncle Bert said. “I have enemies who would rather see me dead than retired, both in the government and out of it. You get involved in a lot of things. Some haunt you for the rest of your life. Here we are.” His uncle stopped abruptly in the dark.
A moment later Wayne was squinting in the face of bright floodlights. He stepped forward with his uncle. There was no furniture in the room and the light seemed to come at him from every direction.
“What is this?” he asked.
“The killing room,” his uncle indicated. “An alarm sounded inside and the bright lights illuminated the room preventing my spyholes from being seen. If I was inside, I could look to see what triggered the alarms and if it was an enemy, there are various ways to get rid of them down here. Since I’m not inside, I need to key in my password.”
The next chamber was a kind of security room. Wayne looked at the spyhole, a series of optics and mirrors that showed the view of the room from different angles.
“Beam me up, Scotty,” he said under his breath. “This is unreal.”
“This is garbage,” his uncle snorted. “But it’s necessary. The real secrets are in the next room. In order to enter it, I have to have your word that you will tell no one what you see inside. On your life and honor, nephew. No one.”
“I swear, Uncle Elbert,” he whispered. “No one.”
“Good.”
If Wayne was expecting more sophisticated technology and gadgetry, what he saw was disappointing at best. The room was draped in black and his uncle lit candles to provide light. It took Wayne’s eyes several moments to adjust. It took longer for him to comprehend.
Chalked on the black floor was a white star. At one point of the star, a flat black rock held a lit candle. Three other candles were located on stands at the sides of the room. The whole setting in its very austerity had a medieval elegance about it. Uncle Bert stepped through the curtains and returned a moment later wearing a black robe. He tossed another to Wayne.
“Here. Put this on,” his uncle directed. “Just pull it on over your head. It will block your body from your sight, blending with the walls. A master can work with a robe, in street clothes, or naked, but novices usually need to have some tangible help to shut themselves away from the presence of their flesh.”
The robe was coarsely woven fabric but was soft and comfortable. Wayne was surprised that it fit over his parka with ease. It was bulky, but easy to manage. He said as much.
“I wore them in the monastery for years. All my mail went to the APO in Washington so no one would know where I was. They bundled up what there was of it each month and delivered it to me. Most months, your letter was all that reached me. Want to thank you for that.” Wayne was moved by his uncle’s quiet speech.
“You were really a spy,” Wayne breathed. He still had trouble believing it. “It’s all true.”
“Spies,” his uncle mumbled. “Everyone who wants information is a spy.” The old man finished his preparations and turned to face Wayne. He pulled the cowl of the robe up over his head and signaled Wayne to do likewise. In the black, candle-lit room the two men virtually disappeared. Uncle Bert’s voice gained a disembodied quality that seemed to come from the room itself rather than from the hooded man.
“Would you care to begin?” the old man asked.
“Begin what?” Wayne responded. He was beginning to get the creeps is what he was beginning. All they needed was some eerie music and they would be smack in the middle of Dark Shadows.
“Very good,” his uncle chuckled. “Never divulge your secrets. You’re an exceptional young man.” He was exceptionally confused, Wayne thought, but Uncle Bert went on. “Since you don’t recognize my sign, I’ll cast the circle and take your oath myself. Stand in the center of the pentagram,” whispered his uncle, pointing to the star on the floor.
Bert moved to the candle that was to the right of the stone table.
“Powers of the air, nameless ones, attend this sanctuary and be welcome. Blessed be.” He moved to his right to the candle opposite the table. Wayne pivoted where he was to watch the ceremony. “Powers of fire, nameless ones, attend this sanctuary and be welcome. Blessed be.” He kept moving to the right. “Powers of water, nameless ones, attend this sanctuary and be welcome. Blessed be.” Finally, he was at the stone table. “Powers of earth, nameless ones, attend this sanctuary and be welcome. Blessed be.” He returned to the first candle and gestured in the air. “Now is the circle complete. Let all that is said and done in this circle be protected and sealed against intrusion. Powers of the four watchtowers, attend this solitary ritual.”
Wayne detected a palpable change in the atmosphere. It was like there was more air in the room than it would hold and the four candles lit the space inside the circle with more light than he thought was possible from such a small source.
“We use only our secret name when we are in the circle. We don’t tell it to people outside the circle. In our tradition, the names are often a variation from Greek or Celtic myths. Do you know the story of Prometheus, the Greek god? Sit here with me while I tell you.” They sat on the black table-rock together.
“Prometheus was a second-generation Titan, son of Iäpetus. Iäpetus was a fire-walker. When I met the man you know as Wilton, I discovered he could call fire with a staff he called Iäpetus, but that’s another story. Prometheus, it is said, took pity on the misery of humanity and stole fire from heaven for their benefit. Some say it was also Prometheus who created humans. Regardless, his name still means lifegiving, creative, or courageously original.”
“Wasn’t Prometheus the god who was chained to a rock for a vulture to eat his liver every day?” Wayne asked remembering Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound.
“Yes. I knew you were educated in the mystic ways,” his uncle chuckled. “But you see, my secret name is Prometheus, and I spent my time shackled to a rock in Greece while the government tried to figure out what to do with me. And now, I’m tied to this underground rock. That’s why I can give you the name I have chosen for you: Promethean, which means literally of or out of Prometheus. I’ll add this epithet as well. Let those who know you by no other name call you The Unbound, and may you always be so.”
“Thank you,” Wayne said quietly. He could not begin to unravel the mysteries about his uncle, but something was beginning to feel familiar. Déjà vu.
“Stand up, Promethean.” Wayne stood. His uncle produced a string from beneath his robe. With it he measured his nephew’s height and cut the string with a pocketknife. He measured Wayne’s head and chest, knotting the cord at the measurements. When this was finished, he spoke again.
“Are you willing to swear the oath?”
“Yes,” Wayne answered hesitantly.
“Are you willing to suffer to learn?” Wayne almost choked on that and tried to find his uncle’s eyes behind the shroud. “Come, come,” Uncle Bert said. “There is no knowledge gained without suffering the loss of innocence. You know what they say: Ignorance is bliss.”
“Oh,” Wayne sighed.
“Are you willing to suffer to learn?”
“Yes,” he answered. Uncle Bert laid the string in Wayne’s hand and brought his pocket knife over the tip of Wayne’s ring finger. A small drop of blood appeared, much to Wayne’s surprise. This his uncle squeezed onto the cord.
“Repeat after me,” Uncle Bert said solemnly. “I, Promethean, do of my own free will most solemnly swear to protect, help, and defend my sisters and brothers of the Art.” Wayne repeated the words, wondering all the time what he was doing. “I will keep secret all that must not be revealed. This do I swear on my mother’s womb and my hopes of future lives, mindful that my measure has been taken in the presence of the Mighty Ones.” Wayne finished the oath.
“Kneel. Place your right hand under your foot and your left hand on your head.” This was getting to be like a fraternity initiation. But he said the words as he was directed.
“All between my two hands belongs to the Goddess.”
“So mote it be,” answered his uncle. A sense of recognition warmed inside Wayne, making him more confused than ever. It was like he was seeing the event from two perspectives: one as a participant and one as an observer. As his uncle pulled back the cowl on Wayne’s robe and kissed his cheeks, it suddenly flashed on Wayne.
“I dreamed all this!”
“No, it’s real,” his uncle said.
“I mean I dreamed it all a couple of weeks ago. It suddenly flashed when you kissed my cheeks. I dreamed every word of what we just did, only I didn’t understand any of it. I didn’t know who I was in the dream and I couldn’t see your face behind the robe, but I remember the room and talking about Prometheus and then the oath.”
“Go on,” Uncle Bert said with interest. “When was it?”
“The night of my last date with Judith before we left school.”
“Did you dream about anything that comes next?”
“No. That was the end of the dream.”
“Does it happen to you often that you dream true?” asked Bert.
“You mean dreams that come true?” Wayne asked. “Yeah, I guess it happens every so often. Like, I saw a pottery demo last summer. A bunch of people were sitting on the floor around a guy who was throwing pots on a wheel. Late in the demo he had a huge pot on the wheel and said something about not liking it, so he took a wire and slid it under the pot and then raised it up splitting the pot in two. It was right at the moment that he raised his hands that I remembered dreaming the whole thing a few weeks earlier. In the dream, I didn’t know how he had split the pot. It looked like magic. When I was actually there, I could see the wire he used to cut it.”
“It’s a great talent. Do you write your dreams down?”
“No, I never really remember until I’m actually in the situation,” Wayne answered.
“Do it,” Uncle Bert commanded. “In the craft, most of us keep a Book of Shadows that includes what we’ve learned, dreamed, experienced.”
“A diary?”
“Yes, but exclusively for those things that are out of the ordinary understanding of the world.”
“But why, Uncle… Prometheus? Why did you put me through all this ritual?”
“I’m sorry I rushed you into this, but I’m getting old. I may have misread some of the signs, but it is evident to me that you are being exposed to the craft, either with some intent or simply through proximity to those who are involved. I want to instruct you myself, but I can’t cloister you down here in the tunnels like I am. So, I’ll give you some things that will help you, and that I don’t want to fall into the wrong hands when I die. This retreat and this mountain will pass to you when I die, which I hope will not be soon. But my colleagues will descend and search the place for anything the government considers secret. It is better that you have these now. I trust you to keep them safe, and to do whatever is necessary with them when I’m gone.”
“You aren’t that old. You’ll be around a long time.”
“I hope so, but in twenty years, I’ve only seen your face twice. I’m not going to risk waiting around another ten before I see you again. Now, the gifts.” Uncle Bert turned back to the stone on which they had been sitting and slid a portion aside. It opened like a stone vault. Wayne couldn’t see what was inside.
“You gave me this box when I saw you last,” Uncle Bert said, revealing the treasure he had uncovered. Wayne couldn’t believe that he still had that old 4-H project. It was one of the first woodworking crafts Wayne had made. And it wasn’t very glamorous compared to what he could do now. It was just a pine box—shellacked, of all things. He had hinged it and put a tiny clasp with a padlock on it. His uncle had it hidden in a vault like it was a valuable thing.
“I see you remember it,” his uncle said. “Well, I’ve put it to good use, and now I’d like you to keep it for me. Here’s the key. Same padlock you gave me.” He handed Wayne the box. It was much heavier than it should be.
“What’s in it?” Wayne asked, suddenly alert. His uncle was giving him more than just an old box.
“Shadows,” his uncle answered. “My own Book of Shadows that starts before World War II when I was first sent to Greece. I’ll place one last entry in it before you leave my mountain.” Wayne could hardly believe his fortune. His uncle had written him letters telling of adventures for many years, but now Wayne had the entire story. It could contain anything.
“Since I can’t be with you to instruct you, and I don’t know what kind of instruction you are getting from others, this is my way of showing you how to progress in your craft,” Bert said. “I strongly advise that you ward yourself and at least initially wear your robe when you read it. It isn’t for reading in the school cafeteria.”
“Ward?”
“What I did when I summoned the powers to the four cardinal points. The instructions are the first thing you will find in the book. Just follow them and you will be safe enough.”
“O-kay.” Wayne drew the syllables out, still trying to reconcile the ritual with reality.
“This next gift,” his uncle continued, “is one I think you will like. It will be your second tool. You wear pentacles. I want you to have your Athamé.” A second bundle was retrieved from the stone vault. It was wrapped in newspaper and inside the newspaper it was wrapped in burlap.
“On one rare trip five years ago when I was able to sneak away from the monastery for a few days without being followed, I stumbled on a deserted and tumbled-down estate. You could see the foundations, but that was about all. In the middle of what used to be the courtyard, though, there was still the remnant of a well. You’ll find the rest of the story in the Book of Shadows, but suffice it to say that I found this in the well. I hid it beneath my robe and in my mattress until the day I left Greece. Where it came from, I don’t know, but it’s a rare piece, I know that.”
The burlap fell aside and a piece of black silk lay under it. In the dim candlelight, Wayne watched his uncle lay aside the folds. It was a knife—unlike anything Wayne had ever seen. It was sleek, seven inches long in the blade with another five inches of ebony handle. The entire blade was engraved with symbols, but the edge was keen. Eventually, Wayne remembered to breathe again with a gasp.
“That is really beautiful,” he said at last.
“It’s rare, all right,” his uncle answered. “Probably a treasure of one of the lost circles, now passed in the succession of vagabond priests who have no circle of their own. There were some writings about them in the monasteries. Here.”
“You’re really giving it to me?”
“I’m putting it in your keeping. If any of the writings are true, no one can ever own the treasures. They seek out their own way in the world as if they were living. They could lie hidden for years until the right person came along and then rise up out of nowhere, like this did. I know I’m not doing well by it—hiding it down here—any more than when it was hidden in Greece. Maybe it will find its way with you.”
“Thank you, Prometheus,” Wayne said. This would be too good if it weren’t for the weird stuff.
“One last thing,” his uncle said. “What is in that book must be sealed in your mind, never to be divulged.”
His uncle took the knife and made a tiny cut in the palm of his left hand. He did the same to Wayne. They clasped hands. Bert put the point of the Athamé against the pentacles at Wayne’s throat. “Air, Fire, Water, and Earth, seal this union,” he intoned. “Your blood runs in my veins, my blood in yours. We will always be bound. Let all that passes between us, whether in direct commerce or as you read my secrets, be sealed in your heart as a dream until the day that it is needed.” The pentacles nearly burned into his skin. A light breeze circled the room making the candles flicker. Wayne felt the room dissolve and his mind become muddy with recollections of things he thought he knew. He should tell his uncle, but they were just beyond his reach. Somehow, he knew them—dreams that were beyond what his uncle had said—but he couldn’t express them.
His uncle made a gesture as he walked around the circle extinguishing the candles until only the one behind the stone table was still lit. He pulled off the black robe and stuffed it back behind the curtains. Wayne took his off as well, but his uncle told him to keep it. They left the chamber in silence.
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