Bless the Child (53 page)

She
felt
the shadow of the man fall across the woman’s face, cooling it. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, and the words seemed all the more important, because he was everything she had ever loved.

She lay wordlessly, on her belly, on the warm grass, weak and wanting, and her face turned so she could watch him as he reached for her, running his hand tenderly over her body, playing with her long loose hair, trailing strong fingers light as fireflies over shoulders, back, thighs, secret places. He spread her legs with consummate tenderness, and entered her suddenly, surprisingly, without another gesture.

She gasped at the quick intrusion, but the welcomed strength filled her utterly, and she felt exhilarated by the suddenness. He didn’t move at all as she had expected him to, and sensing her surprise, he leaned his mouth close to her ear and whispered. “Lie very still . . .”

Maggie felt joy flood her own being, sharing the rapture of the woman in the grass.
To be loved.
To let go utterly. To surrender self. She felt she had been melted into a languorous puddle by her own mind, as much as by her body. How did he know so exactly how she wanted him? Needed him. Longed for him.

The man began to move with infinite care. He teased her hair and ears and neck, and moved within her carefully, knowingly. He was benevolently in control, and the knowledge that this was so was precisely what each one needed.

He moved his arms around and under her, moving his hands in rhythm to the movements of his manhood deep within. It was different from before; she felt crazily out of control, possessed, understood, found out. She never wanted this incredible feeling to cease, never this motion to end, never this fullness to subside.

She arched her back to meet the angle of his thrusts and he whispered. “Don’t” softly, in her ear. “Let me do it all,” And she was gone again, down the rabbit hole, into the cosmos, over the rainbow, deep within her own womanness.

“Not, yet,” she gasped, trying to stay the completion of such bliss, but the relentless motion increased, and she couldn’t stop the tidal pulsations, cataclysms, reverberations, blissful circles of fulfillment until it was over.

But it wasn’t . . . and she could feel him more forcefully than ever, pushing, touching, probing. “This time we’ll do it together,” he whispered and she knew there wasn’t anything to do but what he’d said.

Where were they in time?
Even in the dream, Maggie knew the two lovers were she and Peter, together as they were meant to be. Somewhere.
Somewhere in time.
Transcendent coupling of heart and soul. All words spoken, all needs fulfilled, all questions answered, all emptiness of a thousand lifetimes filled overflowing . ..

Maggie woke up.

She had dreaded having to face the morning, but now she was awake, replenished and redeemed . She lay back in bed, not wanting to let go of the beauty that had been. She replayed the dream in her mind, over and over and over again. And as she did so, the sure knowledge of its meaning filled her soul. This is all there would ever be for them . . . this was their bittersweet good-bye.

Peter Messenguer lay in his borrowed bed, replete and astonished. For he had dreamed the identical dream.

I
don’t think it was a dream, Mags,” Ellie said with authority. “You two were either on the Astral, where your bodies were freed from the constraints laid on them by this particular incarnation . . . or you were time traveling, to another reality, where the two of you were free to love each other. I think it was a gift you were given because you chose rightly.”

Maggie shook her head, uncertain if she had profaned the dream by recounting it to her friend. “It didn’t feel like such a right decision at the time, Ellie. When Peter left me last night, it felt unbearably sad.”

Ellie smiled a little at her friend; Maggie looked as if she’d been beaten. In a way, she had. “’Thou art a priest forever, according to the Order of Melchizedek,’” she quoted unexpectedly. “That’s how the word are spoken in ordination, Mags. There’s no turning back from that—even the ones who’ve leaped over the wall know it in their hearts. That’s why the Black Magicians are always on the prowl for priests who have forsworn their vows . . . they consider it their greatest victory. In fact, they can’t really perform a Black Mass properly without one. To do the greatest conjuring, the Magician must be a defrocked priest, because he has already been consecrated to the unseen Universe. Maa Kheru must have one on tap for the shindig they’re planning, or it’ll never work.

“Maggie, my dear friend, you must know Peter made the only possible choice last night—and by God, you’ve got to give the man credit. After a lifetime of celibacy, to turn back at the crucial moment took some balls, you should forgive my saying. That’s got to count for something with the Powers That Be.”

“I don’t know, Ellie. I’m so desperately disturbed by all that’s happened. I realized now that I’m not
in love
with Peter, not in this lifetime anyway. Yet, I do
love
him. . . And despite what happened last night, I truly believe it’s his destiny to be a priest. He was a priest then, and a priest
now—
I think that’s his soul’s purpose, somehow. But I’m afraid our relationship has confounded him,
harmed him,
and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Maggie looked so woebegone, Ellie tried another tack.

“Look, Mags, you’re loved by a spectacular human being—one who’s risking everything he holds sacred in the world to save you. That’s a helluva lot more than most people get in a given lifetime. I think it’s a
good
thing you two touched each other in so intimate a way . . . a good thing you
saw
in him what you did. Last night resolved things for you . . . brought them to a genuine loving conclusion. Hasn’t it occurred to you that Peter’s the past, Mags? And you must
release
the past, in order to let the future happen.”

Maggie stared at Ellie, sudden knowledge seeping in.

Ellie took a critical look at her and sighed. “I’m not saying you’ve got an easy row to how here, my bedraggled friend. I’m just saying you’re getting help with it. And who the hell said life was supposed to be easy anyway? Why don’t you let it rest for today. I think you’ve had it with the books for the moment, too—you need a physical outlet, and no more brain fatigue. So, why don’t you go see Mr. Wong and kick something around for a while, to get yourself back to center. You look like something that’s been rained on.”

Maggie sighed audibly and got up to go, but Ellie held her back. “I’ve decided to come with you for the battle, Mags,” she said, entirely serious for a change. “It seems this is my fight, too, so you can count me in. I may be a little ditzy on the earth plane, but over there, on the Astral, I really have it together. So, why don’t you go kick a bag or punch a post, or whatever it is you do with that cute little Chinaman, and then you and I will plan our strategy. Those fuckers don’t hold all the aces, or it wouldn’t be a fair fight . . . and the Universe loves a fair fight, Mags, especially when it looks absolutely hopeless. Just remember it was David who went home to supper, not Goliath.”

Consoled by the love she felt from her friend, Maggie did as she’d been told, and went to Mr. Wong to find her center.

Cody
sat hunched up at the end of her bed; tears were running down her cheeks, and her bottom lip was bitten till it bled. She was thinner now than she had been; every time she refused to drink the cocktail, Ghania made her go to bed without any food. But that wasn’t the worst part anymore.

Ghania said that if she didn’t drink it this time, she would leave her alone with the snake.

Oh Mim! Why didn’t you ever come back for me?
The little girl cried out, inside, angrily.
Why didn’t you save me?
She held the tattered bear tightly in her arms. Sometimes she was very mad at Mim because she didn’t care anymore. Sometimes she almost hated her. But then . . .

There wasn’t anything to hold on to except the Mim-treasures.

One by one, Cody took them out, now, from the bear’s torn place. The gold button, the string , the seashell the picture from the storybook where the lady looked like Mim, the dead flower that smelled like Mim’s perfume . . .

Maybe the snake would eat her tonight. She would be all alone inside him screaming to get out . . . she could almost touch the cramped, wet darkness that tormented her dreams. The child snuffled back her fear; she would take all her treasures with her. Cody held the gold button up to her cheek, and reached for the seashell.

Something made her look up—Ghania was watching her from the doorway.

And, she was smiling.

“Have you been keeping secrets from me? The witch asked as she drew near the bed. Instinctively, Cody scrunched herself backward into the corner. She tried to hide the treasures beneath her, but Ghania was on her, sift as a cobra, tearing the precious tokens from her small hands. Cody’s fingers closed on the button in desperation, but Ghania pried the little fingers back one by one, until the child screamed in pain, and the button dropped into Ghania’s waiting palm.

“No!” Cody shrieked, grabbing for it again. “No.
No! Give it to me.
It’s mine!” Heedless of the consequences, she launched herself at Ghania, flailing, scratching, pounding; all the terror of her life, all the fear, all the hatred for her tormentor bubbled up and overflowed. Ghania held her like a struggling wildcat cub, at arm’s length.

“It is
not
yours,” she hissed, as she held the helpless child. “It is mine, now! As you are mine.”

The Amah tossed her onto the bed like a bag of rumpled laundry. Then she crushed the fragile seashell under her heel, and tore the picture into shreds. She ripped off the head of the Teddy Bear with one violent wrench. The precious button, she dropped into the pouch she wore about her neck, and Cody knew she would never, ever see it again.

Cody sat on her bed, her face a marble mask, after Ghania had left the room. She didn’t even cry.

There was nothing left now. Nothing to love.

Nothing to hope for.

No secret place to hide from Ghania.

And, Mim was never coming back.

R
aphael Abraham blinked back the uncomfortable memories from the past that had assailed him on his long walk home, and let himself into the house he currently occupied. He had been thinking about his Uncle Schlomo, ever since deciding to bone up on the Kabbalah. There had to be a great fund of knowledge stored within him, from his Orthodox childhood, but it had been long buried by choice. Now he must root it out, and add to its store, to fulfill this newest obligation to his profession—a profession he had chosen, in part, because it was so far afield from the religious nonsense of his boyhood. He almost smiled at the irony.

Without conscious thought, Abraham checked the security measures he’d put in place before leaving that morning. Satisfied that all was as he’d left it, he flipped on the light, shrugged off his jacket and locked the door behind him.

The pile of requested books, delivered the previous evening, sat neatly on the coffee table, along with a spiral-bound pad, two pens, and two colored highlighters. He glanced at them and sighed. There were so many irritating memories to be sorted here, along with the research data, and that was not a desirable state of affairs. Memories carried emotional baggage, and emotions could have deadly consequences in his line of work, so he allowed them scant entry into his world.

Abraham loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves and made a cup of strong Turkish coffee. He had never developed a taste for the weak, watery kind preferred by American, and at home, he allowed himself this small indulgence. So much of his life had been apart from his family, he had become as proficient as any woman, with household chores. He was a decent cook, in fact, although he had no great desire for food this evening; and because of his personal orderliness of mind and body, there was never a hint of disarray in any dwelling he occupied.

Abraham started for the living room, but as he passed the refrigerator he paused. . . better to make a sandwich now and take it along, than to stop later on. He would need nourishment sometime between now and sunrise, if he was to complete all the reading he had in mind. To learn about Kabbalah before morning would be like trying to teach himself ancient Greek on a coffee break, but there were few choices.

Kabbalah.
From the Hebrew root “KBL (Kibel),
“to receive it” . . .
he remembered Uncle Schlomo saying reverently that all secret doctrine was received orally, and none was more secret than Kabbalah. Therefore, whatever could be found in books would be incomplete, an alphabet with half the letters missing; but perhaps it would be enough to jog his childhood memories, to fill in the blank spaces.

He knew that to outsiders, Kabbalah was always politely described as a philosophical and theosophical system originally created to answer man’s questions about God and the Universe. There were told, too, that it was based on numerical correspondences between human life and universal law. But that was as valid a definition as saying that nuclear fission lit light bulbs—it was true, as far as it went, but it didn’t go very far.

Abraham set a place for himself at the table, poured the first cup of coffee of the night, and sat down to learn what it was that Uncle Schlomo knew that he did not.

He picked up the first volume, not at all certain what he was looking for. The Rebbe had said to read Scholem, so that was where he would start:

Kabbalah is the traditional and most commonly used term for the esoteric teachings of Judaism and for a Jewish mysticism, especially the forms which assumed in the Middle Ages from 12th century onward.

There is no doubt that in some kabbalistic circles (including those in Jerusalem up to modern times) preserved both elements (mystical and occult) in their secret doctrine, which would be acquired by means of revelation or by the way of initiation rites.

Mystical and occult . . . these were the words that had repelled him as a boy. Even now, they made him bristle as he read on.

If his memory was correct, the Kabbalah spoke of a complex letter code based on the Hebrew alphabet, whose twenty-two
sounds
were supposed to be the foundation of all things. God somehow used these sounds to create, and those who were privy to His secret, could use the sounds to make things happen.

“Allegories and metaphors, Rafi!” Uncle Schlomo’s words drifted back. “We must search for the hidden meanings in the Torah, based on the code.
Berashith Bera Elohim, Ath Ha Shamaim Va Ath Ha-Aretz.
‘In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth’ Look to the letter code, Rafi, to understand what this
really
means. Interpret! Reach beyond yourself . . . ‘”

So the Torah said one thing but really meant another.
Sacred horseshit!
Complex gibberish, just as he remembered. No more no less. Poor Schlomo. A lifetime spent in the interpretation of sacred horseshit.

A chapter entitled “The Secret Names of God” caught his eye. They were important . . . he could remember his uncle’s reverence whenever he spoke of this particular mystery. “The Names of God,” he’d said, “contain the
power
of God
,
for their vibration in His Divine vibration.” Many names were known by all—Jehovah, Elohim, Gebor, Jehovah Tzabaoth, Adonai ha-Aretz, but others were known only to the elect. These were the Secret Names that could work magic, potent enough to bring the Universe to annihilation. Few men in history had ever been privileged to know them. Who learns such a secret, Abraham wondered, and by what means? He thumbed the pages in search of what he needed to remember:

According to Eleazar of Worms, a famous Kabbalist of the 13th century, the Name is transmitted only to those specially chosen who are not prone to anger, who are humble and God-fearing, who carry out the commandments of their Creator.

That should narrow the list, he thought with a wry smile.

The Name itself is invested with the power to fulfill the desires of he who utters it. This knowledge can only be imparted orally, from Master to pupil, and there are very few Kabbalists in the world today who have attained the knowledge of the Name.

Names.
Names.
There was something else about names in one of these other books on Egyptian magic . . . lower-right-hand corner of the page . . . Abraham had the capacity to remember what he’d seen and where he’d seen it, no matter how many sources he’d consulted. It was a useful gift in his profession. Ah! There it was:

The Egyptians insisted the
names
of the Gods—certainly Ra and Isis—were even more powerful than the Gods themselves.

Interesting. The Kabbalists were not the only magicians to give credence to the idea that the names of deities had power.

Demons,
he thought, suddenly. Sekhmet was some sort of demonic deity, and the satanic cult was embroiled with demons, too. Better find out what the Kabbalah has to say about them.

He frowned, as he scanned the indexes of the books; there were pages and pages of information on demons in each of the texts. And there was a similar abundance of data on reincarnation, or the transmigration of souls, both notions so at odds with rationality, it seemed inconceivable that so much space was wasted on them by scholars. Abraham shook his head again, and looked up some definitions.

Transmigration.
In the Bahir it is stated that transmigration may continue for 1,000 generations . . . the righteous transmigrate endlessly for the benefit of the universe . . .

Ibbur.
The entry of another soul into a man, not during pregnancy nor at birth but during his life. In general, such an additional soul dwells in a man only for a limited time, for the purpose of performing certain acts or commandments.

Dibbuk
(Dybbuk). An evil spirit or a doomed soul which enters into a living person, cleaves to his soul, causes mental illness, talks through his mouth, and represents a separate and alien personality.

Abraham rose, stretched his muscles, rotated his neck to counteract the stiffness caused by the hours of reading. He made himself another cup of coffee, picked up the last book off the table and headed toward his favorite chair.

He opened to the chapter on Magical Ritual and was surprised to see that it started with a prayer. His uncle’s words were again in his head.

“It would be best not to ask God for special favors, Rafi,” the old man had once told him, then added with a twinkle, “but if you cannot resist doing so, this is what you must say: ‘I would be immensely happy and grateful if you would illuminate me and show me how I may acquire this which I desire, in accordance with the Holy Law.’ Of course, first you must surrender your will to His, Rafi . . . and this, I am afraid, dear boy, is not something that comes to you naturally.”

Despite himself, Abraham smiled at the memory. Then, as he looked back to the page, his eye fell on a quote from Abulafa on the practice of magic:

As a result of the activity of your concentration on the letters, your mind will become bound to them. The hairs on your head will stand on end and tremble . . . the blood within you will begin to vibrate because of the living permutations that loosen it . . . you will experience ecstasy and trembling, ecstasy for the soul and trembling for the body.

The preposterous idea annoyed him out of his mellowing mood. Poor old Schlomo, wasting his whole life, waiting for an apocryphal ecstasy that was only a bad joke. He put the book down . . . there was nothing useful in all this nonsense. Secret names of God, secret letter codes, magic formulas, magic children.
Garbage.
Pure and simple. There was no place for such garbage in his world of harsh realities. He was a man of action, not a man of the spirit.

Abraham washed the few dishes he had used, turned out the lights and went to bed.