Not In Kansas Anymore (12 page)

When I expressed my misgivings about bad work, Cat reminded me that everybody doesn't love everybody and everybody doesn't do everybody else right. Poor people have always turned to religio-magic
for healing and justice. Some of her clients have thrown down on drug houses, trying to get pushers out of their neighborhoods.

Does it work?

“That depends. It might, or it might be that the drug dealers were doing the same thing.”

Cat's ideas began to shift my thoughts about the clear-cut nature of good and evil, which softened me up for a harsher challenge that was to come.

 

A
nimal sacrifice is part of many magical practices, and needless to say, I don't like it. Wiccans don't do it, and I never heard of Western high magicians doing it—except Crowley, who had a cat killed to prove that his magical power could keep it still despite its terror. He also crucified a frog once. I doubt that many hoodoo practitioners kill animals today, but old stories often included examples of people cruelly killing frogs, cats, and bats in order to use parts of their bodies in magic.

Among practitioners of African diasporic religions such as Santeria or voodoo, however, animal sacrifice is still important. These kinds of sacrifice aren't for the expiation of sin, as were Christian and Judaic sacrifices. Sometimes in African belief systems sacrifices give the gods payment or food for the magical actions they are asked to perform. I also heard people say that animal sacrifice was one way among many of bringing the energy of life into the ceremony.

Wiccan circles' cone of power is supposed to focus and intensify energy. Candlelight is a form of energy that sends intentions out into the world. High magicians in one Hermetic ceremony I watched concentrated on holding the energy of specific deities within themselves as a way of keeping those gods' power present during the ceremony.

Defenders of animal sacrifice say that anyone who eats animal flesh has no ground for complaint since animals killed for food are often treated much more cruelly and killed with less regard than are sacrificial animals. Defenders also say that animals killed during ceremonies are killed quickly and eaten afterwards. According to U.S. law, they cannot be killed slowly or cruelly. Those are good defenses and usually stop the criticism, except among vegans and vegetarians, who have a different ethic. But I am not one of those, and I don't like criticizing other people's religious beliefs. I planned to ignore the issue of animal sacrifice altogether. Then I read a diary recording a trip to Haiti by a group of Americans who wanted to be initiated into voodoo.

The diary gave details of a chicken sacrifice. It was not quick and easy, as such sacrifices are often said to be. They broke the chicken's legs and pulled out its tongue. The diarist defended the Haitians as living in a different county, with different circumstances, following an old tradition. She was being taught by an old man of great stature in his community, and she trusted him, believed him to be in close touch with gods and magic forces. Nevertheless, she was so upset about the chicken that she cried. The same evening I read the diary, I began a book about urban voodoo, which touted the great strength that comes from giving up puerile Christian notions about good and evil. The two accounts were not a good combination. I read them as I was about to go to sleep. They disgusted me so much that I threw the urban voodoo book across the room.

“I will not torture chickens,” I muttered toward the blank wall of my bedroom. “I don't care how many gods promise to aid me. I don't care how many mild-eyed old men steeped in an ancient wisdom say it's right. And I'll keep my ideas about good and evil too.”

I snapped off the light, punched my pillows, and slouched deeper into the bed. I raged for a bit, still mumbling angrily as I tossed about. Then I fell asleep, and the magic began.

I dreamed that I was in a prison common room where men were lined up and being killed one by one. A woman walked down the row stabbing them repeatedly with a small knife until they were dead. None of them struggled or fought back. Watching with me was a dark-haired young man, dressed in dark pants and a white shirt, who loved me. He left the room, and the woman turned to me.

“You've been found guilty,” she said. “I have to kill you now.”

“You're going to stab me with that little knife?” I asked. “Oh no. That's going to hurt.”

“No. I'm going to give you injections that will cause your body to go numb. First your hands and feet will lose feeling. Then as I give you more shots, the numbness will reach your heart and you will die.”

She began the injections, and I slumped over onto a school desk, unable to move my hands or feet. Paralysis was moving up my body when the young man walked back into the room.

“She's innocent,” he said.

“Okay,” the woman said, as though she didn't care one way or the other. “I'll stop giving her shots, and she'll be fine.”

I awoke feeling horrified at such a bloody dream, and then I began to laugh. No one reared as I was in the Southern Baptist church could fail to know that the young man who declares you innocent in the face of judgment is Jesus. I hadn't been to church in a long time, and few people would identify me as a Christian, but who should come roaring to the rescue at the first assault from pagan beings and occult powers? Jesus himself. Maybe he dropped down from heaven, or maybe I'd dredged him up from the core of my being. Either way, I was surprised and glad to see him. I called
my mother that morning to tell her the dream. I knew she was fearful about my investigations in the occult world. Hearing that Jesus was on the case would comfort her.

In truth, it had comforted me too. The Baptists believe once saved always saved, but I hadn't counted on it. The dream made me wonder if I had strayed as far from Christianity as I'd thought. It seemed to affirm a core of goodness, strength, or innocence within me that could withstand any occult evil that might be thrown my way. It seemed to say that I could count on that inner knowledge, which was a lot like what Hegel and the Hermeticists believed. They thought that humans are created out of God, you'll remember, and so are part of God with the truth right there. They also had a position that seemed to speak to my struggle over the separation of good and evil. They thought that neither side is likely to have the corner on truth and that generally a synthesis of opposing ideas, taking some from each, will reveal the whole truth.

I didn't take the dream to be an endorsement of living sacrifice, especially since it appeared that I was about to be one in the dream. I took it as an assurance that I didn't have to be afraid of occult powers. They wouldn't “kill” me. My core beliefs would stand up. I could let them be challenged, even modified, without fearing that I'd lose the essence of the morality I valued. My dream wouldn't stand up to scientific scrutiny, but I'm not a scientist. I'm just an ordinary Jill trying to get by. I believed the dream's message, and it gave me courage.

Was it a message from Jesus? Who can say? But let me tell you what happened next, and you can make your own decision. That afternoon I picked up the urban voodoo book again. As I sat on my front porch I read something new to me. When voodoo spirits, or lwa, take possession of believers, the first sign may be that the believers' hands and feet become immovable, exactly what had happened
to me in the dream. The woman had given me injections, and my hands and feet were paralyzed. That part of the dream couldn't have come from deep inside my mind. I
hadn't
known it.

I put the book down and sat still, moving only my eyes, scanning the empty yard. “What is going on here?” I whispered to the sunny day around me. No one answered, which was good. If someone had, I might have run into the house, shut the door, and never come out again, which wouldn't have made me safe at all since everyone knows that spirits can come through walls.

The first lesson from Cat had blurred the lines between good and evil. This second lesson gave me courage to push on. The third lesson mixed everything up so completely that my ideas of good and evil may never recover.

 

T
he first time I met Cat's husband Siva, the blood-pact Satanist, he hardly spoke, which is not unusual for him. He is a quiet man. His hair is dark and long. The first tier of his beard is shorter than the rest and bushes out. The longer part, which hangs far down onto his chest, is sometimes plaited by Cat into tiny snaky braids. Tall enough to stand like a spectral presence above every crowd, he always wears black. Sometimes he adds a gray knitted watch cap. He answers questions carefully in a soft voice that belies his rather fierce appearance. Anyone who watches his eyes will see that he is often amused, frequently delighted.

Cat and Siva have their differences. She primarily does low or practical magic. He does all kinds of magic, but high magic is a strong interest for him. She claims magical results regularly; he believes as little as possible. Their house is full of her collections: Christmas ornaments, ceramic Easter rabbits, old labels, posters, jewelry. The main sign that he lives there is one altar on the porch
with images of the devil on it. Her favorite deities are Jesus and the Hindu god Siva, chiefly because they are thin men with good bodies and facial hair. Jehovah she refers to as the baby-killer god, mainly for his actions when the Israelites wanted out of Egypt.

Jesus also gets her allegiance because of hoodoo. Unlike voodoo or Santeria or other African-based religions, hoodoo does not usually employ African deities. It uses African magic and medicinal lore but usually not African gods. Hoodoo is Christian through and through. In some parts of the country it's Protestant and in others it's Catholic. If you try to take Africa out of hoodoo, it's not hoodoo anymore, and the same is true if you take the Christianity out. Although she is Jewish, Cat doesn't hesitate to end any particular rootwork with the words, “Do this in the name of Jesus.” Anybody who can't get along with Jesus can forget rootwork, she said.

Siva considers himself a monk of the goddess Kali, who is often associated with destruction. He seemed clearly on the dark side, but that doesn't always mean what I thought it did. His blood pact with Satan, for instance, is in support of the wildness of the earth. For magical people the dark is often identified with the female, with the moon and the tides and the silent forces of nature. It is sometimes used as a way of calling up intuition and the unconscious. Goddesses are often identified with the night and sexuality. The annual sojourn of Persephone in the underworld is talked about as a necessary going into the dark for spiritual growth. The dark is also accepted as a necessary balance to the light. So that even when dark things are identified with bad actions or feelings, they are honored as part of human experience.

Siva's full name, Tyagi Nagasiva, is one he took as all monks do when they consecrate their lives. Tyagi means one who renounces. Kali gave him the name Nagasiva. He was inspired by reading Catholic monk Thomas Merton's writing, especially
The Silent Life,
and studying the lives of monastics in history. A contemplative, sacrificial way of life appealed to him. Being a monk did not forestall his marriage.

Kali first came to him one night when he was walking to the bus stop. She didn't give her name. He only heard a voice. He thought the voice might be coming from nearby trees. He has reverence for trees and has done pilgrimages to visit some that he considers especially holy. When he asked if the voice was coming from the trees, it said, “You can believe that if you want to.” He has no holy book to elucidate his relationship with the Goddess, but he believes that she often speaks to him. He writes down what she says and has compiled other writings about her, especially those written by devotees. Those serve as his holy writ. She is not, however, a very directive goddess. She often gives him another perspective and then refers him back to his own understanding, which the Hermeticists would say is an excellent place to look for direction.

He is also a member of the Church of Euthanasia, which has four pillars: cannibalism, abortion, suicide, and sodomy. By the time I read that, I was wondering if Cat's magic wasn't an example of needing to be careful what you wish for. I questioned a longtime friend of Cat's about Siva. “All I know is that he's very kind,” the friend said. Kind? Cannibalism and suicide? Kind?

On his website he publishes a compilation of other people's explicit tips on committing suicide. The guide recommends the action and commends all those who absent themselves from the planet prematurely. When popular media have fastened onto the site, he has been vilified and demonized, but Internet communications have often been from people grateful for the information. He is also sometimes told that he ought to kill himself, which he says he would do if he weren't serving the earth. The material is horrifying, instructive, and sometimes funny in a sick way. He describes it and
the Church of Euthanasia as Dada-esque. “It's a method for catalyzing a change of consciousness in the human species,” he said.

The original Dadaists were a social-political movement that specialized in doing absurd, radical actions. Dada artists included Salvador Dali, Max Ernst, and Marcel Duchamp, who shocked the world by making a urinal into art. It takes more to shock the world these days. Siva is up to the task.

Before I talked with him, I was becoming convinced through my Internet readings that Siva was a weird individual, rather nasty and perhaps a bit crazy. He is the Satanic Outreach Director for the Church of Euthanasia. It pleases him to refer to himself by the acronym SOD, which seemed an apt term to me too. The most famous Satanist in the United States is the late Anton LeVey, who was a rather nasty guy himself, and it seemed from Internet evidence that Siva might be carrying the Satanic label in the same outlaw tradition.