chapter 1 Funeral and Fairy Tale #2
“Your wife, sir! Your wife! Is she well? When is she due?” The old man blurted out the words without shaking my hand.
It was obvious he was hard of hearing and shouted as if everyone else in the room was deaf as well.
His question surprised me. How on earth did he know Jean was pregnant? We hadn’t even told our families yet.
“Yes sir . . . she’s doing fine . . . very well indeed. The baby is due in July.” I didn’t know why, but I took curious pleasure in sharing this information with him.
“Do you know shorthand?” was his next question. At first, I didn’t quite know what he meant by the word “shorthand.” After all, at a gathering like this, the term might be esoteric code for some exotic sex ritual.
“Shorthand?” I awkwardly responded.
“Yes, boy! Shorthand. Gregg. Do you know shorthand? Are you fast?” he bellowed.
I then realized that he was actually referring to shorthand dictation, a skill that I’d mastered years ago when I worked for Hal Roach.
“Why, yes sir—as fast as you can talk.”
“Good! You’ll need to be fast!” was his curt response. “Frieda! Frieda, old girl! Where in your lovely home can this young man and I be allowed to work undisturbed for a day or so?”
I couldn’t believe what was happening. It was as if he had read my mind. I had barely spoken two words to the man. I hadn’t even asked him for an interview, and now he was arranging all of it. It was a dream come true.
Lady Harris seemed as surprised as I at the old man’s request. “Of course, Francis. You two can use the library. It’s quite warm and comfy. Archie will settle you in right after dinner.”
Dinner! I thought. Thank the gods! I was near fainting from hunger.
“No time for dinner, old darling!” he shouted. “I plan on dying this Friday. The boy and I can’t wait.”
Now there’s an announcement you don’t hear every day.
Naturally, I thought he was joking. Even had I taken his words seriously, the gravity of his statement was completely eclipsed by my hunger.
I panicked at the thought I might actually miss the spicy feast I’d smelled cooking all day.
The other guests overheard his death declaration and reacted with a stunned silence.
Harris started to speak, but the old man silently hushed her with a slight elevation of his left eyebrow. A moment later, we were alone in the spacious library—Sir Francis Bendick and my empty stomach.
“Sit, boy. Sit.” He pulled his chair directly opposite mine and studied me for what seemed an eternity.
I tried to study him right back. He didn’t look well.
In fact, it appeared that the stiff texture of his jacket was serving as an elegant black and white exoskeleton sheltering a frail lifeform.
Oddly enough, at the same time, I sensed I was in the presence of someone more alive and vibrant than anyone I had ever encountered.
The space around us felt softly illuminated by warm, indirect lighting that seemed to radiate from every pore of his exposed skin.
I forgot my hunger and felt nourished by this man’s presence— fed upon his light.
This is magic, I thought. Real magic. Magic isn’t something you do; it is something you are. This man was the real deal.
He ignored my thoughts.
“You think you want to produce a movie about the infamous magician Aleister Crowley, do you not?”
I started to answer, but he already knew the answer.
“My boy, I believe you’re sincere. I believe you’re talented.
I believe you’re capable of writing a tolerably good screenplay.
But I know for a fact if you try to produce the kind of film you envision, your project will flop miserably.
You will flop miserably. The world is not ready for your story, and it certainly cannot be told as the shallow-potted biographic drama you envision.
“Listen to me, young man. I will be dead within the week. Half the ancient buggers down there in the dining room will be prancing naked through the Elysian fields with me before decade’s end.
Before the cock crows thrice, those that remain will deny the master and attempt to quietly move on with what’s left of their lives.
Our master and his sacred work will be nearly forgotten for the next twenty years, and there’s nothing you or I can do about it. ”
I was stunned. These were the words of a depressed and bitter old man. I wasn’t going to let this old fool with no future tell me about mine. I wasn’t going to tell him so, but that’s what I was thinking.
He paused a moment, then leaned forward in his chair—his face inches from mine. I squirmed a little, realizing he’d heard my thoughts.
“I’ve seen how the future will unfold. The master and I discussed it in great length—discussed you in great length—a fortnight ago. Hear me now, Milo Harland, for I’m only going to say this once.
“You will write a screenplay, and a marvelous work it will be, because I will help you write it. Tonight, and tomorrow, and tomorrow night, I will help you. It will eventually be made into a feature film, and it will be an immediate financial success for nearly everyone involved in the project. But more importantly, as years pass, it will become a classic. It will endure. It will succeed in introducing Aleister Crowley to a larger audience than a handful of cloistered occultists. It will do what it must do—capture the spiritual imagination of generations of those who are poised to accept the truth when they hear it. It will become the wonder-story of a new era of human consciousness. It will tantalize future generations and encourage them to seek out the serious works of the master. But, for that to happen, the seed of the master must be planted in their imaginations!”
He sat back in his chair and smiled warmly. “Unfortunately, my friend, neither you nor I will see that film made—at least not in our present incarnations.”
That did it. I didn’t care if this old husk could read my mind.
I didn’t care if he glowed like a Roman candle.
He was barking mad! I now only hoped I’d be able to scrape together a usable interview out of the ramblings of this old codger before he dropped dead.
I cleared my throat and tried to sound like a studio executive.
“Yes. Well. Be that as it may, Sir Francis, I need to ask you a few questions about Crowley’s life to help me get some facts straight. I want my work to be as historically accurate as possible.”
“You haven’t heard a word I said, Thrice Illustrious Brother Harland.”
This was the first time he’d addressed me formally. As we both were Ninth Degree initiates of the Sovereign Sanctuary of the Gnosis of Crowley’s magical fraternity, I was obliged by the magical decorum of our order to respect his entreaty and hear him out.
“This story is bigger than the life of just one man,” he continued.
“This story can’t be told as a history, because truth is never revealed in histories.
Objective reality is a very small reality, my boy.
This is an epic that spans multiple lives, multiple dimensions, and centuries of time.
It has to be told as a fairy tale—a myth!
Because fairy tales and myths are truer than history, truer than objective reality!
They outlive history; and we will need our story to endure. ”
He leaned forward and placed his hand on my knee and gently patted it.
“Please, Brother Harland. Consider this a deathbed request from one Initiate of the Sanctuary of the Gnosis to another. Fetch your pad, and allow me to tell you a fairy tale.”
3 It was Sir Francis Bendick who first introduced Aleister Crowley to Ian Fleming of the Special Operations Executive. But that is a part of the Crowley tale I’m unable to share.?