chapter 16 If I Had My Way, I’d Be a Monk in Ceylon
IF I HAD MY WAY, I’D BE A MONK IN CEYLON
“I hope you got some rest, Milo, because I think you’re going to enjoy this next sequence.”
Sir Frances was particularly cheerful this morning. I had to admit I’d slept blissfully deep and had awakened refreshed and ready to hear what came next.
“Let’s move our location. Perhaps open with a shot of the grand facade of the British Museum. Bennett and Crowley are inside, quietly seated together in front of a stone figure of Buddha.
Bennett leans forward, supporting his chin with his walking stick. “Don’t fret, little brother. Magic has a way of working things out.”
Crowley doesn’t respond. They both silently gaze at the statue of the Buddha. Bennett breaks the silence again. “He would have hated it, you know.”
Crowley finally speaks. “What’s that?”
“Us . . . making him a god. Us . . . making the biggest something in the universe from a man who renounced everything to become nothing.”
Bennett coughs and reaches into his coat for a handkerchief. “If I truly had my way, little brother, I’d move to Ceylon—become a Buddhist monk.” He again coughs. “Might help this bloody asthma, too—damned London coal dust and smoke.”
“You’d give up magic?”
“In a heartbeat! Giving up magic is the supreme magical act!”
They are interrupted by the shrill voice of a woman hailing Bennett from down the corridor. It is Lady Batscomber. She accompanies her husband, Lord Batscomber.
“Allan, dear!”
Bennett smiles and waves. Under his breath, he whispers to Crowley, “Christ! If it isn’t the biggest horse’s arse in the solar system and her clinging dingle berry.”
Crowley and Jones stand to greet Lady and Lord Batscomber. They are both conservatively dressed for a morning at the museum and carry brochures of an exhibit that is never discussed.
Bennett makes the introductions. “Lord Roger Batscomber, Lady Batscomber, allow me to introduce my student and friend, Mr. Aleister Crowley. Aleister, Lady Batscomber is president of the Westminster chapter of the Theosophical Society. Lord Batscomber is the secretary and, if I’m not embarrassing him, a most generous patron of occult studies. ”
Lady B. speaks with an arrogant edge to her words that make her instantly irritating to everyone, including her husband. “Crowley? Are you the Crowley who climbs mountains?”
“I am indeed. I’m flattered that you—”
“My brother Charles is the president of the Alpine Club. Sir Charles Dunn. You’ve heard of him, naturally?”
Crowley narrows his eyes to prepare for unpleasantness that he knows will follow. “Naturally, milady.”
“Tell me, Mr. Crowley. Is it true that you murdered and ate two of your native Sherpas on the Baltoro glacier?”
Lord B. clears his throat to interrupt.
Crowley is visibly offended and appears about to protest, but then he smiles politely. “Nonsense. But one does become extraordinarily hungry at those altitudes, milady.”
Lord B. is anxious to change the subject. “Allan, dear boy, how long has it been? Four years? We certainly miss your participation. Don’t we, dear?”
Bennett tries to remain pleasant. “I fear Theosophy became a bit too theoretical for me. I’m always anxious to put things I learn into practice. I prefer to use the magic wand rather than endlessly argue about it.”
Crowley laughs, and Lord B. smiles admiringly.
Lady B. is indignantly offended. “Wands. Magic sticks! Filthy phallic symbols. A proper Englishman does not behave like a medieval sorcerer. Only Pigmies and Zulus still use magic wands.”
Bennett does not lose his cheerful disposition.
“I believe you misunderstand.” As he talks, he unscrews the handle of his walking stick and removes the glass prism.
“The wand is only a symbol of the magician’s will.
We all have a will, do we not? The wand helps to remind us we have a will which we should be exercising. ”
Lord B. looks at the prism with real interest. “I say, Allan. What have you there?”
“Admittedly, this isn’t the classic filthy phallic symbol, but it operates as all wands do—only more efficiently.”
Lord B. is genuinely interested. “I say, Allan, please tell us more.”
“It’s simply a rod that I’ve constructed to collect and focus the electrical energies that course up and down my spinal column.”
“Ah, yes. The chakras.” Lord B. is pleased with himself.
Crowley is also enjoying the lecture. He tries to keep from laughing.
Bennett continues. “Using the true magical wand of my will, I can direct that stream of energy from my body through the rod to the precision-ground crystal at the tip.”
Lord B. is delighted. “Fascinating! Allan, my boy, I believe if anyone in the world could—”
“He can do nothing of the kind,” Lady B. interrupts. “He’s breathed too many fumes.” She couldn’t have been more insulting. “Come, Roger. He’s a madman. He’s a quitter and nothing but a wheezing little failure of a chemist!”
Lord B. is stunned and embarrassed. Crowley moves threateningly toward Lady B. She shelters half behind her husband.
“I suppose Mr. Crowley now wishes to murder and eat us!”
Allan ignores her. “Would his lordship like to see a small demonstration?”
“Of course, Allan. I’d love to see a demonstration.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Bennett lowers the wand and aims it directly at Lady B.
’s heart. His eyes drift and his body contracts.
He makes a sharp grunt as if he were having a painful bowel movement.
The moment he grunts, Lady B. is blown backward several feet as if she had been shot point-blank by a shotgun.
She hits the floor, full force, on her rear end and slides several feet more across the polished museum floor.
She remains paralyzed, her mouth open, her legs spread most unladylike.
Bennett calmly reinserts the prism into his walking stick.
Lord B. can only stare in wonder.
“Not to worry, my lord. She’ll come round in about three hours. She may even feel a bit frisky this evening. Just prop her up somewhere out of the way until then.”
Lord B. cracks a tiny smile. “Fascinating!”