THE GREAT WORK
In the United States of America
By
Robert Drain
2020
I
With the Aldermen
On the third floor Tk entered a room with gas wall jets, a large gilded mirror and an American flag on a stand.
“What do you want?” asked Hinky Dink from behind his desk.
“I am the Tk.”
“I know who you are,” and the little fellow remembered he was in some kind of Spiritualist racket and sold patent medicines. “Why should I help you? Tell me.”
Tk stared.
“I’m going to say it,” said Hinky Dink, “this Spiritualist racket is shite.” With a fervor that seemed to lift him off the ground, Tk said, “Of course it is! Why, forever more, it’s the worst fraud! But I advise you not to curse.”
“Sweet Jesus,” thought Hinky Dink, but said, “You’re right, no doubt,” and after a moment added, “Now, don’t think I meant you were one of them, a table rapper. Talking to ghosts and foolin’ poor innocent people!”
“Certainly not,” said Tk.
“They’re eedjits, don’t you know,” said Hinky Dink, “and they don’t vote.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Tk, “but they could be brought to it.”
Hinky Dink looked at him more closely. Nothing gave more satisfaction than a good working majority.
Tk asked, “Shall I tell you something you’ll want to know?”
“I will?”
“About going UP.”
“What?” said Hinky Dink.
And Tk asked, “Do you have a dog? Look,” he said, “you’ve got to help them. Everyone loves them. Think of the strays.”
Hinky Dink saw it at once -- it was a good idea. His wife was very fond of her little terrier. “The gratitude,” he thought. “And the unclaimed ones. Why, there’s jobs in it, catching the mutts!”
With growing appreciation, he examined his visitor, who having for a second assumed the aspect of a Boston terrier himself now glowed with the aura of a man in his prime. Tk took him in the eye, gazed deeply.
And Hinky Dink attended more than he would have thought possible as Tk described the Summer Land, the discovery of Thought Matter and the One-hi’s command to respect the living and the dead. It was as in a dream.
“By God!” thought Hinky Dink, because none of it was troubling, just the opposite. His visitor invoked a deep and consoling sentimentality until the little fellow asked himself, eyes welling, would anyone remember him when he died? It was odd, because no one was more calculating.
Tk looked up, and Hinky Dink lifted his head, saw the ceiling and past it, past the next floor, past the attic, past the roof and found he was in the sky!
And they were flying past the sky, the sun, and stars into the farthest darkness! And then as Tk beckoned like a kindly usher, they approached a glimmer until a great light surrounded them, brighter than the brightest day, which, Tk whispered, hand cupped to mouth, was the Summer Land.
Hinky Dink saw the spirits floating in every direction in bursts of fire, and although he knew they were dead, they were alive, too! At which point he saw the unborn homunculi floating past. Tk pointed excitedly, “the homunculi.”
No sooner had this happened than he was back at his desk.
Tk sat across from him, and Hinky Dink peered around and looked at the clock.
“What have I done!” thought Tk, because he’d taken him UP too early. Nevertheless, as he fretted, he said, “There’s more, but I must ask you something first.”
Trying to remember, Hinky Dink wasn’t sure of anything. Why, he’d heard bells, like sleigh bells, so merry.
He shook his head and glared, as Tk said, “I think Mrs. Huntley is in trouble. We must help her!”
“What?” said Hinky Dink. “I know her. She’s a peach!”
“I’m not sure I’d call her that,” said Tk and was burdened by a disturbing sadness.
“Of course she is, if we’re talking about the same woman!”
“We must protect her!” said Tk. “Oh, forever more, what shall we do?”
Hinky Dink asked, “But what is her trouble?” Secrets were one of his currencies.
Tk stared until the little fellow found himself saying with a strange good will, “Whatever you need, we’ll do it. Nothing’s too good for her,” upon which a large man in a green and yellow suit like a field of daisies walked in, and, turning from Tk to Hinky Dink, sniffed and saw his friend’s excitement.
“John,” said Hinky Dink, “Tk was telling me something,” and as the big fellow mouthed “’Tk’?” Hinky Dink said, “Yes, do you know, he knows Mrs. Huntley, and he says she’s in trouble.”
“Ah, is she now! She’s grand! A grand creature!” said Bathhouse. “A blessed creature!!”
“Exactly, but what can we do for her?” said Hinky Dink, while Bathhouse opened his arms.
“It’s good to know I can count on you,” Tk said.
“Of course you can,” said Bathhouse and reached over to pat his shoulder, but as if a pin stabbed him, winced and stepped back.
Tk rose, and this time took both Bathhouse and Hinky Dink UP.
When they returned, he was gone.
“What was that?” asked Bathhouse.
Hinky Dink murmured, “Strange son of a bitch.” They pondered. A little later he said, “John, do I swear too much?”
“It’s a bad habit,” said Bathhouse, “oft’ regretted. You may notice that I rarely indulge. But didn’t you hear it? Bells -- like sleigh bells!”
“Like as not alarm bells.”
“Ah, don’t be kiddin’ me,” said Bathhouse. “And what about the sun and the stars and, and all the people and things floatin’!”
“Shut up, will you!”
“All right, all right,” said Bathhouse. “But . . . still.”
“He’s crazier than you,” said Hinky Dink, and Bathhouse turned red, until the little fellow said, “You know, I don’t mean anthin’ by it.”
“Still, I like him,” said Bathhouse. “And he’s in love, isn’t he?”
“Must be a faker, though. Sells tonics, for Christ’s sake!”
“Indeed. I saw through him despite it.”
“It’s one of your strengths,” said Hinky Dink, “your grasp of character.”
Bathhouse blushed as the little fellow thought.
“Whatever he is, I don’t think he’s a morning glory,” said Bathhouse, meaning one who’s gorgeous a moment but wilts.
“There’s got to be profit in it,” said Hinky Dink. “And he offered a better turnout at the polls. Maybe money in the medicines? Or a license?”
“And there’s the lady in question,” said Bathhouse. “She’s got a business, too,” and he mimicked smoking an opium pipe.
“Yes, what do you think of that? What’s her trouble?”
They considered their options, until Hinky Dink said, “We’d better ask the boys how he got upstairs. And before I forget, we need to hire us some dogcatchers, for the Ward.”
Bathhouse lifted his eyebrows as the little fellow added, “And see our meat packin’ friends, too,” while not for the first time Bathhouse thought, “There’s no one like the Hink.”
A photograph of Michael “Hinky Dink” Kenna and “Bathhouse” John Coughlin, aldermen of Chicago’s First Ward at the opening of the World’s Columbian Exposition. White ink dates it, May 1, 1893. Hinky Dink is the short irate one, Bathhouse his even more pale colleague. Alert to every chance, whether through simple graft, electoral knavery, inside shenanigans or as yet unnamed chicanery, they’re encased like bugs in their morning suits.
* * * *
Tk walked through their “headquarters,” which hummed with men trying to look like they were working. Some were dry and shy, others red with drink, a few dark and slick. “It’s politics,” he thought, and shivered. They let him go without a word, without a glance.
Returning to his own “headquarters” Tk thought, “Even the greatest men have a tender trusting nature,” though whether he meant himself or the aldermen wasn’t clear.
Not for the first time he shook his head at the idea.
It was hard to accept that Mrs. Huntley had faults -- how could she? But her business with the Tonic troubled him. And why did those two know her? Was he wrong to see them? Surely, they could help. But he’d taken them UP too early.
For good reason he’d long kept women at a distance with a determination verging on terror -- that is, until her. It seemed he thought about her all the time.
Tk saw she’d been acting strangely, with fits of tenderness and anger. He remembered one or two others of his followers who’d acted this way, but unlike her they’d meant little to him. It was a puzzle.
Maybe something good would come of it, meeting the aldermen. Or might they be like those he hadn’t reached, remembering no more than every fifth word until the revelations faded and only vague notions remained, as if what he’d shown them was a pebble dropped in a pond.
Florence saw, though, and maybe more with her help. He was giving them something they needed, she said. He’d heard it at headquarters: “Tk says . . .” and “According to Tk . . . .”
But would the worries stop? Would she stop? “It’s the drugs,” he thought and shook his head.
“Thought Matter, Thought Matter, Thought Matter,” he said. “And after what they’ve seen, I’ve got to bring them along, into the Work.”
Tk wasn’t always able to see the future, and sometimes, when it came, he didn’t know what it meant, but suddenly he saw those two would become his enemies, and then he knew he would escape them, and everything else that had brought him to this pass, in confession. In confession he would find his way. But as if foreordained he immediately forgot this insight until it returned later after a lot had happened.
He started to think about her again.
As he approached “headquarters” Tk said to himself, as if he couldn’t help it -- as if a shroud fell on Mrs. Huntley -- “Perhaps I’ll talk to Dr. Holmes about her.” He was afraid again and angry. She could get him into trouble. Some of his essence was going because of her.
Dr. Holmes and Young Tom
“Who was that?” asked Tom after a wizened man the color of a slug stepped past. He was very hairy, and his hair was red.
“Why, I believe it’s the proprietor,” said Dr. Holmes. “This place used to be named after him, but he changed it to the ‘Lone Star Saloon and Palm Garden.’ Quite misleading.”
Their host stopped, turned and spat. He was the same size as Hinky Dink, but his body was strangely bent, he had a punch-colored nose, and his forehead rather than rising like the alderman’s shot back like a bullet.
“I think he means to do us harm,” whispered Tom. “Why did we come here?”
“Because it’s quiet. Ignore him.”
Tom shivered.
“My good man,” said Dr. Holmes, “what part of Ireland are you from?”
“You think you can ask me that because my name is Finn, but I’m from Peoria,” he said and folded his arms.
Even Tom could sense the stillness in Dr. Holmes, who said carefully, “Home is home.”
“Now don’t you know it,” said the little man and trudged off.
Tom’s mother would have called this dim and sour place a disgrace. It was empty save for his new friend Dr. Holmes, the girl who’d served them (so simpleminded she went by “the Dummy”), and the barkeep. The bar was just a counter, without a mirror or expanse of wood or most of the other customary accouterments, and there were only three or four other tables with mismatched chairs. If Tom had walked into the next room, which a window-well dimly lit, he would have spied a potted palm that seemed to gasp and some more chairs stacked in a corner.
Dr. Holmes said that he liked it because it was quiet during the day. At night it was busy enough, because Finn’s prices were the lowest in town and the place had an expectant air.
Dr. Holmes was by far the most accomplished man who’d ever crossed Tom’s path, which seemed almost miraculous because he was also the only person to have said more than two sentences to him since he’d arrived in Chicago. Although Tom wasn’t sure what kind of a doctor he was, and perhaps they were not far apart in age, everything about Holmes seemed a marvel. Clearly, he was remarkably learned, and despite or perhaps because of his far-flung knowledge he was kind, too. And he was so advanced! Why, it was to encounter men like him that Tom had come to Chicago.
They’d met on the street as a young woman was trying to sell Tom something called the “Tonic.” Tom had approached her simply because he wanted to talk and then the freshness of her beauty overwhelmed him as she urged him to visit a place called the “School of Spiritual Light.”
Walking toward them, Dr. Holmes had asked, “Do you know anything about it?”
“No,” Tom admitted, “but I’ve decided when something new happens, you should let it.”
“How long have you had that idea?” asked Holmes while the woman looked on.
“Since I decided to come to Chicago.”
“And when was that?”
“A few days ago. My mother passed away, and I came into some money and decided I wanted to see things.”
“A fine notion,” said Dr. Holmes and patted him on the arm. “Although I think you were a little old to be living with your mother.”
“I’m a slow starter.”
After this exchange, the young woman, who’d been listening politely, asked if they knew about the Great Work. Tom shook his head, but Dr. Holmes said, “In fact, I’ve been thinking of taking the Instruction” and introduced himself in a most genteel way.
For a moment she was nonplussed, until she said with a smile, “That’s grand! You’ll find that you can’t wait to go UP!”
“I’ll try to hold myself in check,” said Dr. Holmes, and she looked at him even more intently until she smiled at Tom, who said he’d like to buy a bottle of the Tonic. He was so excited that he forgot to ask her the location of the school she’d mentioned, but after taking his money and handing him a bottle she gave him a card with its address, smiled brilliantly, glanced at Holmes and walked off.
As he and Holmes strolled on, Holmes said, “A delightful creature. A special person, I think.”
“I think she was special,” said Tom, although at that moment everything seemed extraordinary. Even the day had turned bright. As they walked up the avenue, Dr. Holmes explained how she and those like her believed one could learn to travel up, to the Summer Land, to meet the dead. “Heaven, you know. You might try it. Still,” he said, “there are other ways past life’s barriers,” and he started to discuss his own research.
It was all quite amazing, so much so that Tom laughed, although he was quick to explain that it was only because he realized how little he knew. And the longer they talked, or rather Holmes talked and Tom listened, Tom became even more excited. His new friend could teach him so much! They’d parted after having made a plan to meet again, because Dr. Holmes had said he wanted to discuss a special project.
That night, Tom took a large swallow of the Tonic. At first it was bitter, and then it was sweet and fiery. In a minute he felt all a-swim and sat down and found himself thinking or feeling frantic thoughts about Dr. Holmes and the young woman. Words flew outside his mind, especially the words “Great Work” and “prepare, prepare, prepare,” until it seemed he could see each letter as he heard each phrase. “Help me, help me,” he whispered, “help me to be good.”
When he met Dr. Holmes the next day, Tom confessed that the Tonic had left him a little cockeyed. “I’ve heard about that,” said Holmes, patting him on the shoulder. They walked along as Holmes discussed various medicines as naturally as if they’d known each other for years, until suggesting, “Let’s try an antidote,” and so they ended up in this place.
After the Dummy brought their drinks, Tom said, “I like their motto.”
“What?”
“The Great Work. I like their motto: ‘Not things, but thought. Not dreams, but mind. Not death, but life.’”
Once more it seemed that Dr. Holmes held himself in check, staring forward, but eventually he smiled and said, “You’ve been learning, I see.”
Soon he was telling Tom about the Great School the young woman had mentioned. It had revived a profound and timeless knowledge, he understood. “Deep. And they have wonderful dances -- prancing and wing flaps -- learned from the Negro race. Don’t let your first time with the Tonic scare you off. You’ll find that you’ll want more soon enough. And then you’ll want to share it. Still,” he said, “I’m not ready to believe it’s all that they say it is.”
“What isn’t?”
“The Great Work.”
“Why not?” asked Tom.
“Because in this world you’ve got to look out for yourself. You’ve got to be free, your own man.”
“I see,” said Tom, and for a while he didn’t hear much of what Holmes was saying. Eventually he found Holmes was talking about the attractions of the Columbian Exposition. The Midway. Shows and oddities. A remarkable creature called Little Egypt. Tom had heard of her and her dance, but he hadn’t gone to the Exposition yet, waiting until he was more ready.
Then Holmes turned to a new topic, which apparently involved Tom directly because Holmes touched his sleeve -- perhaps it was the project he’d alluded to yesterday?
“Do you know about mutual insurance?” he asked.
Tom confessed he did not, even as he felt a tingle because Holmes had chosen him to explain it to.
“Not many people do,” said Holmes. “It’s like a protective society,” and he looked into Tom’s eyes. “Each helps the other -- in this case by buying insurance on the other’s life. You on mine, and I on yours. Now here’s the idea,” said Holmes as his eyes grew bright. “No one’s really worked it out until now. You go away for a long time, long enough and far enough away so that everyone thinks you’re dead, and the policy pays out. Oh, a lot of money. And then after a while the two of us will meet again and share it. It’s perfectly legal, of course. We’ve paid by subscribing. Actuaries take all of these possibilities into account.”
Tom wasn’t sure he understood, so Holmes explained it again -- very kindly -- as if it were a story. “It’s like this,” he said. “Two friends engage in a special work. They make up new lives for each other, a new beginning, which is what everyone wants, after all.” Then he described each character and what they did to fulfill their new stories. It was marvelous how close they grew in their knowledge of each other -- it seemed as if when Tom first met Dr. Holmes, only better. Then after they invested their money in the mutual policies, each paying for himself but really for the other, one would pretend he’d died. He’d disappear and go far away and stay there a long time, living for the future, for his friend -- but then he’d come back, and he and his friend would share the profits that had been growing all the while until they’d pursue great new projects together for themselves and others whom they’d meet along the way! Tom wriggled with pleasure.
While Holmes was explaining this program, he, too (although “Holmes” was not his real name, and he had slight claim to be called “Dr.”), experienced the strangest sensation, which differed greatly from that of his new friend. As he regarded his success, or, more aptly, his increasing control over this young person, it was as if the tumblers of a complicated lock fell into place and shocks of joy coursed through his body far exceeding the effects of any damn Tonic. And then as he reveled in his growing power and sensed where he would take his victim, his thoughts joined with memories of past triumphs. He would insist that he needed to live life to the full, no sleeping, and then keep him awake for as long as he could! If that didn’t work, he’d try something else, perhaps break as many of his bones as possible. There would be the money, too! He looked down and realized that he was becoming physically excited. Eyes bright, he said to himself, “I’ll do it, I’ll do it! The hell with it!” and excused himself and walked to the jakes to regulate his energy.
Dr. Holmes’ behavior somewhat puzzled Tom, but it did not frighten him. He was still a bit dizzy from last night, which the whiskey hadn’t helped. Most of all, the boy reflected, he was terribly lucky to have found his new friend. He pulled the bottle of Tonic from his pocket and took a small sip. After wiping his mouth, he boldly called to the barkeep for another round.
The little man nodded and, unseen, pulled from beneath the counter a bottle containing something whitish and added a few drops to the glasses.
By the time Holmes returned from his unnatural act, Tom was missing.
“Did he leave?”
The Dummy shrugged.
“You could say he did,” offered the barkeep. “Why don’t you finish your drink and head off too?”
Holmes made a kind of a snarl, looked at the whiskey and left without a word.
In the back room, Tom lay on the floor muttering as the walls spun in circles. He was talking to his mother. Then he talked to Dr. Holmes and the bottle of Tonic, but he could not move any part of his body, including his lips. After a while, the barkeep and the Dummy appeared, the little man having donned the clean white apron and slouch hat that he wore on such occasions. They stripped Tom and put anything of the slightest value into a little pile.
“No money belt, God dammit,” said the little man.
Through it all, Tom was laughing, although to the other two it registered as a disturbing brightness.
“Get him some slops,” said Finn, and after the girl returned with some rags, they dressed him.
“Put him in the alley.”
Long before, Tom had entered a profound sleep. While they’d been stripping him, he’d descended in miniscule yet distinctly warm intervals to this oblivion. It was why he’d been laughing -- all things considered, this precise yet blurry disappearance, these sensations of slowly and evenly sliding into unconsciousness were the most pleasurable moments of his life.
When he awoke, he had little memory of what had happened with the exception of that great sinking pleasure. His new clothes bothered him, but nonetheless he stumbled into the street in a state of bliss. He tried to go back to the bar but couldn’t find it. Then after wandering a while longer he met the young woman who’d sold him the Tonic! “Will wonders never cease?” he thought, and he now saw that she was not a woman but an angel. She said that she was on her way to “headquarters,” and, revealing that her name was Mrs. Florence Huntley, offered to enroll him in the School of Spiritual Light, while he realized, but did not say, that he should worship her. She took him to a solid brick building, had him fed and led to a clean bed, and had his remaining belongings brought over from the rooming house. He wished only that he’d more to give her.
Some weeks later at the School he re-encountered Dr. Holmes, who we’ve seen in his own way also believed that opportunities must be taken. Holmes had little difficulty persuading him to buy a life insurance policy for his benefit and after a safe interval brought him to his house on the West Side, drugged him, locked him in a bright white tiled room for ten days where he kept him awake by every possible means, including injections of a stimulant of his own devising, telling him that if he slept he’d die, until Tom wept “I want to die,” and, satisfied, Holmes assisted him. It was almost all that Holmes had hoped for, although he was tired afterward. In fact, when it was over, the body burned, he slept for twenty hours. He awakened with the great desire to repeat certain aspects of the experiment on a woman.
Mrs. Florence Huntley and Dr. Henry Holmes
“Tell me,” asked Holmes, “does he know?”
“Does he know what?” she asked.
“Does he know where the money goes? Let’s start with that.”
“There’s no more than that between you and me,” said Mrs. Huntley. “With him, we share everything. It all goes to the Work.”
“I’ve seen you at the Work,” said Holmes, “the other day with that young fool. You do a good job.”
“I try. It’s all for Tk.”
“And is there anything more between you and him?” asked Holmes.
She colored, but said only, “What more could there be?” But she thought, “He’s a wonder.”
Holmes was smiling.
“And you and I do business,” said Mrs. Huntley. “Now, what’s your charge?”
“As always, costs and twenty percent.”
“It’s too high. You know, he could find out where you get it any time he wants.”
“Ha! Does he even know what it is?” said Holmes. “Let him figure that out first.”
“Tk knows more than you’ll ever know.”
“No doubt,” said Holmes and smirked again. “Well, he may think more than I think, but what I know is no dream.”
“Be careful.”
“I can’t help it,” he said.
“I think two hundred is fair.”
“Three,” said Holmes, and the change in his demeanor stopped her. Long ago, she’d learned the difference between threats and danger.
“All right -- for now.”
“Does he know what you’re doing with it?”
“He knows everything.”
“Goodness,” said Holmes and laughed. Then he added sympathetically, “I put a little extra on top. You can try it now if you want. No reason to put it all in the drink.”
She felt her breath catch, but said, “What I do is my business.”
“And his,” he said, as she paid him.
She took the packages and walked off. She was already forgetting him. Long ago she’d learned that loathsome men spoiled one’s chances.
At Bughouse Square
Tk was thinking about Mrs. Huntley. He was coming from the Lake, and the wind was blowing so hard his suit coat and trousers snapped, although his hair did not muss. A thought returned -- he had to help her, although he still didn’t know how. Or perhaps she only seemed to be a problem, or was she merely -- merely? -- going to get into trouble? Then he wondered whether he should have thought this, because she was so loving and good.
Must she drink the Tonic so often? It should be nothing for him to get her out of trouble -- that was why he was here -- but it might affect the Work. In fact, it already had.
When would she be his? And he blushed.
Suddenly he thought, “I’ve seen her eyes. She must have taken it again,” and put his hand over his mouth. He’d felt some essence leave.
He turned a corner and the wind died, although it stayed cold. For a second he was by himself, and as he looked at the sky that seemed to fill the space between the buildings, thoughts of Mrs. Huntley poured over him. It was her aura. How could he not protect her? Or she him?
Then people on Sunday strolls appeared, and he walked on in a kind of daze. More and more came up, and he realized they were going to Bughouse Square and remembered that he was going there, too.
Near the entrance, a wiry man was speaking to a group of twenty or so. He was a tall thin fellow. “Women want pleasure, power, profit,” he cried, “just like men! But the problem, precisely -- precisely,” he said, his hands reaching out, “the problem is they want it as they’ve been taught since time began. And these ways, friends,” he said, “these ‘womanly’ ways are not the true ways of life, that is, the ways of true life! It needn’t be so, friends! Marriage is slavery!”
“Idiot!” thought Tk, as the image of Mrs. Huntley came to him. There is nothing more blessed than an ideal marriage. Nevertheless, Tk saw nods of approval until the speaker said the words “free love,” and, as Tk had foreseen, people shifted about, embarrassed.
Then suddenly another man -- bearded and far shorter than the first and broad shouldered, who in fact could have been a troll -- hopped onto a crate and bellowed so loudly the question, “Women?” that he silenced the first. To the onlookers’ delight, he folded his arms and declared, “Friends, I am the Hobo King!” and cried, “And I’ve had more women than you can count, I tell you!” How they listened! “They all want me!” he roared, which raised shouts of joy. “And why not?” he demanded. “Just take a look.” And as he danced a little jig, they laughed the harder while some women speculated what he might be like. He was a hobo, for sure, a ragged creature, but active as a bee.
Tk knew him -- maybe he’d dropped in at “headquarters.” He certainly liked to dance. Everyone was laughing, the loudest being some tramps who’d joined them. As he sped up, more people came over, although now it seemed he was dancing just for his fellows, exchanging smiles with them.
Tk thought about how such men couldn’t help copying their “betters.” In fact, they were proud to fit in for a while, if also fixed in their hobo ways, proud to have studied books in lending libraries, proud to have attended lectures, to talk all night about philosophy and religion, proud to eat from plates with forks, knives and spoons, but mostly proud to be different and as filthy as they chose. Their heroes were never heroes. Then, as Tk knew would happen, the King stopped, as if disgusted, and hopped down and disappeared into the crowd.
Then Tk began to speak, quietly at first but forcefully, and people in ones and twos and then the whole group turned to him. Those who’d heard him before listened almost automatically, and soon more, perhaps a hundred, gathered. Most couldn’t get a good look because he hadn’t climbed onto anything, but his voice carried everywhere as if it came from no single source, and they felt as much as heard him say, “life without ties with the exception of Love in the most perfect union is . . . ” and they felt love’s warmth rise from the soles of their feet through the tops of their heads. It was the glow of Tk’s words as much as his message. The other speakers were alright as far as they went, funny, too, but this one told the truth. “All of us, he said, are but sharers in the great Love that we’ll know when we rise to it.” What more did he say? It was hard to know for sure, the words seemingly flying from a place beyond their world, but this certainly they heard: “We are gods, not sinners. We must not beg for salvation but demand it as our birthright. Whatever we think, we shall become. If we think we are sinners, we will become sinners, but if we think we are divine, we shall become divine.” At least some voice said this, it was in the aether.
The crowd was quiet while he warmed them. In fact, there was not a sound with the exception of his voice, and, when he finished, they looked around not as if awakened from a dream but as if returning from a grand journey. Love had been his subject, love dedicated to the other. Love from on high and on earth that we can become with thinking. Even after he finished, they were quiet -- only some children’s laughter came from afar -- until people in twos and threes walked away with thoughtful looks. He’d left them at peace because he’d spoken the truth, which they were forgetting, because at the same time it was as if he hadn’t registered at all, as if only a moth had landed and then flown off of their heads.
Tk walked here and there (no one considered speaking after him), but it was as if he was invisible except to those he sought to recruit with whispers and looks, including the injunction, “All will be well.” Those he addressed didn’t necessarily associate him with the person, the voice, really, who’d addressed them before. His presence led them now. With the wind, the rest of the crowd went to another part of the park where they saw someone else was getting ready to speak.
As Tk walked to “headquarters,” thinking again about Mrs. Huntley, he looked behind and saw that two of his recruits had already peeled back to the Square. He remembered a dog he’d once known, a mastiff. One summer it seemed to have been smitten by a sleek shorthaired terrier. Surely it was love. All day he followed her, trembling. Tk believed she loved the mastiff, too, in her own way, because she hopped, leaped and sneezed whenever he came near.
He wanted to love Mrs. Huntley perfectly and forever. He wanted to serve and keep her safe.
“Is it possible?” asked one of the recruits.
“Not really,” said Tk, “but you shall believe it,” and the young man believed and knew he must follow.
Tk told him and the others to go home. “Not until I know what to teach him,” thought Tk, because the terrible thing was that although he knew how to go UP, he didn’t know what that meant for those here.
Nonetheless, the young man hung back and followed from a distance until a Visible Helper at “headquarters” let him in. Not for the first time, Tk observed that the less he engaged with people the easier it was to help them.
From experience he knew an idea was taking him over, a cause, something new, although this time it was a person -- her. He knew he couldn’t help it. “Oh, forever more!” he thought. “When would the Work be complete?”
Tk Spreads the Wealth
Tk was at his printer’s, and the reassuring clack and shuttle of the press could be heard through a door that opened onto a greater din as three men emerged. With them came the smell of ink and oil, and Tk shivered with happiness as the odors mingled with his thoughts of Mrs. Huntley. One of them looked at him closely, and Tk stepped aside.
He resumed thinking about her, speculating, but a little later, when the printer was working up the others’ bill, Tk saw one of them nodding to his companions, and all three looked at him. The first said quite clearly, “He’s the greatest fraud,” and the others scowled. There was no mistaking it, because the first said even more loudly, “Shameful,” and glared. Tk kept his head down, a little smile on his lips, until they left.
Tk kept smiling.
Then he saw that the printer was trying to hide his embarrassment, because of course he’d heard. “It’s time,” thought Tk, “to pay in cash,” and he placed a large bill and a stack of coins on the counter. The printer looked as if he was going to hug him and said, “They’re bad men. Full of themselves,” and Tk noticed an endearing smudge over the man’s eyebrow.
“They’re entitled to their thoughts,” said Tk, “even if they’re wrong.”
“You’re kind,” said the printer, to which Tk replied, “I’ll be back with another order.” As he left the shop, Tk was thinking, “I need to do something new.”
Three days later, the recently re-chartered University of Chicago announced that it had received a substantial donation, payable in three years’ time, from Mr. G. E. Rogers (Tk) to support the study of rays, waves, oscillations and perhaps particles.
Mrs. F. H. and Tk at Headquarters
Mrs. Huntley was in the storeroom at “headquarters” surrounded by boxes of Tonic and jars of the Cream. Two crates were open and packing straw lay about. The shelves were nearly full of jars and boxes, already labeled. She was listening to two Technical Workers describe how a policeman had threatened them. Then one whined that stores were refusing to take their goods. Things were getting worse, she thought, but she wouldn’t let them know it.
A lock of hair had fallen across her forehead, and Tk had never seen anything so beautiful. “You ducks,” she was saying, “my little clucks, why don’t you give up, if life’s too hard!” Then she said, “Of course it’s not going to be easy -- but you just can’t give in! Keep on trying ‘til you know you’ve done your best!” They looked down. “Think who you are!” she said. “There’s no one like you! Why, once they see you, you’re set! You’ll sell a million!” and in one movement she picked up a box of the Tonic and handed it to a girl. The other raised a box, too. “You are blessed,” she said, and they blushed.
“Off you go,” said Florence, “and do us proud.” Excited, they passed him. Then one turned and bravely told him, “A boy said an elephant in the zoo called out your name!” The girls giggled and looked down.
Tk didn’t respond, but Florence smiled and waved them off. “Let them think it if they want to,” she said.
He almost said, “Maybe it’s true,” but instead walked up and put his arm around her waist. He’d never touched her like that! He couldn’t help it, although he’d tried so hard to avoid it! Florence was surprised, too, and then she felt an extraordinary sensation move from her waist to her toes and almost simultaneously to her head. It went away for a second, and then she felt another wave, and then all the nerves in her body seemed to come alive on their own, and she began to tremble in enormous as well as infinitesimal vibrations.
“Stop it! Stop it!” she cried, and he pulled his arm away and she stopped shaking. But she felt numb. She wobbled. Then she saw the fear in Tk’s face, held her hand to her mouth and ran away, hardly noticing the two girls she pushed past. She’d never been so embarrassed!
When she was alone, she threw herself on her bed, grabbed a pillow, pulled it tightly over her face and screamed. Soon after, however, there was a knock on the door and one of the girls asked if she was all right. She threw the pillow away and said, “Of course I’m all right!” and put her legs on the floor, took a deep breath -- although she’d started to tremble again -- and said, “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Shaking less, she rose, straightened her dress, opened the door and left the room. She looked for him, but he was gone. Feeling in remarkably good spirits, she brushed the lock of hair from her forehead and felt like crying. It was most distressing.
“Why did I do it?” thought Tk. “What would have happened next? It must never happen again.” And then he thought, “She doesn’t know what’s going to happen.”
That evening Florence looked all over the common room for him. She kept turning toward his spot -- that is, where he usually stood -- and at last when a group of Workers moved aside, she saw him. He seemed unhappy, she thought. All anyone could talk about was that silly elephant in the zoo! “How shameful I’ve been,” she thought. Tk didn’t speak to her that evening, and she had trouble sleeping. She applied the Cream and drank some Tonic, which helped, although, as she dropped off, she felt most disconcertingly afraid of him.
An Almost Perfect Victim
She was nearly a perfect victim, thought Dr. Holmes, although she hadn’t put up much of a fight. “I’m a hammer,” Holmes thought.
Mrs. Huntley’s Dream
Not much later, Mrs. Huntley dreamed something troubling. In her dream, she was spending the day with Dr. Henry Holmes, and he was a friend and so charming and witty. He wasn’t selling her anything and there was even a kind of poignancy about their time together, although there was something unknown or unrealized, too.
As she sensed this, he suddenly said that he had to leave and turned and ran down the back yard. This was odd, because the house on Kinzie Street had only a small yard and this yard kept receding. As she saw him run, she realized that he’d died some time ago! She cried, “Come back,” but he continued running, and she had the presence to call, “How is it for you?” and, still running, he looked over his shoulder, grinned, and shouted without breaking stride, “Not bad, except for the heat.”
Then his clothes began to disappear, and he was naked! She noticed his buttocks and back as his white legs scissored on. Then he stopped, got down on his hands and knees and scrabbled in the ground, digging up the dirt -- so fast, in fact, that it flew!
“Oh!” she thought, “He’s going down!” and when she looked again, she saw others there, too, naked and on their knees and digging in haste beside him. The dirt was flying! “Oh!” she thought as she understood that she might know them, too, even if she couldn’t name them. They were not working together. Instead, each was digging on his own, naked and frantic. Then more ran up and dropped down, naked, too, and started digging. All of them, she saw, Holmes included, had grown two horns! Suddenly her old partner, Frank Wald, ran up, pale and bare, shoved someone aside and scrambled in the dirt. Then, “Could it be?” she thought, she sensed the body, if not the dear face, of Tk, and she woke up in a sweat.
For weeks, the memory of this dream disturbed her and made her dealings with Holmes even more awkward. She kept away from Tk for a few days, too. Never one to hold much stock in such things, though, she got over it, but she continued to be wary of Holmes. And her time with Tk seemed a little more uncertain.
II
What happened next isn’t clear. It was long ago, and even then Tk and Mrs. Huntley were obscure. What we are left is the document printed below. It has no known author. Its date is not given. A disenchanted disciple could have written it. Perhaps Mrs. Huntley did. It is quite possible, though -- in fact, probable -- that Tk wrote it, as his confession, if also a bid to revive his fortunes after things went so badly in Chicago. In any event, it balances his knowledge against his ignorance. Yes -- a confession, something he’d never even thought to do before, but how better to be known?
It has some religious meaning obviously, although informed by only the smallest scraps of Hindu, Buddhist, Jewish, Confucian, Christian, Mormon, Sikh, Baha’i, Seventh Day Adventist, or Christian Scientist belief. There is some animism in it, too, as well as a veneer of ancestor worship, but mostly it offers only itself – his New Age faith revealed through his errors.
It also could emanate, however, from a dusky angular carefully dressed woman who during a moment she remembered well, although it occurred during her conception in a 1938 Hudson Coupe, was imbued by Tk’s spirit. She may have studied the work of Dr. Yosef ben-Jochannan and perhaps was an adherent, if reserved, of the sex magic pronouncements of Paschal Beverly Randolph. That the following document could be her account as well as, or instead of, Tk’s helps explain its suspicions and anger and the hope that such revelations might transcend and perhaps right great wrongs.
Who would not dream of finding a forgotten book, such as Hilkiah gave to Josiah, especially if it promised to be an All-seeing Eye?
Such would be The Book of Lazarus, if it appeared one day in a fourth century translation in the crypt of Byzantine church or was revealed by radiography beneath the text of an eighth century psalter. Surely it would invite study because of the questions dogging its hero from almost the moment the burial cloths were pulled from his face to the imminence of his second death -- “What was it like? Who is waiting there?”
What follows differs from that, of course, as it echoes the toots and bangs of marching bands like those around Little Egypt -- siren of the Columbian Exposition – and the mutterings of the dark-suited bowler hatted men elbowing their way to her “Hootchi Kootchi” dance, each an alarm bell waiting to ring, as well as being permeated by the venal and murderous schemes of recognizable men.
It is Tk’s own story of how he became complete and seated on the great Wheel of Knowledge.
TK AND THE GREAT WORK
OR
THE GREATEST FRAUD REVEALED
Their Physiognomy, Phylogeny and Technique
(Annotated and Illustrated, with Three Appendices)
©
Indo-American Book Co.
Dear Reader:
It strikes me that this description of TK’s The Harmonics of Evolution that I wrote so many years ago even more aptly applies to the following account:
“No summary of this volume could do justice to its revelation of the inspiration behind the greatest discoveries of philosophy, science, medicine, mathematics and the arts, including literature, history, sociology, economics, agronomy, taxonomy, astronomy and jurisprudence -- THOUGHT MATTER -- nor improve its exposition of men and women in rebellion against Thought Matter, who emit ignorance, intolerance, incoherence, intemperance, incontinence, envy, despair, cruelty, injustice, terror and hatred throughout the earth, perversions epitomized by the anathema of Spiritualism.
“We learn that humanity’s progress and perhaps even its survival can be achieved by finding that pure energy -- or poetry -- floating in, through and beyond daily life: THOUGHT MATTER. We learn that only by causing this life force -- which at once is the soundest logic, the brightest vision and a benign physical presence -- to resound harmonically and ever more gloriously like the ringing of bells of all sizes, can we proceed to our most blessed state, UP! We see the expression of its celestial joy may be found, if imperfectly, in human love (because, although it is all too often unsure or false, love always is new) and in all of the possibilities inherent therein, as epitomized by the Dream Child. That is, love may redeem if the beloved is true, as love may destroy if the beloved is false.”
That is, we may find the best in Tk knowing the worst.
Mrs. Florence Huntley
A photograph of Tk, from 1891
A photograph of Mrs. Florence Huntley, from 1891[1]
A picture of the Dream Child, undated
A photograph of two female Technical Workers, from 1893[2]
A photograph of Tk’s former house, from 1895[3]
An approximate likeness of the One-hi, undated[4]
Dedicated
to those whose hearts are broken, whose lives are ruined and who have suffered and died in the realms of Spiritualist darkness,
to those who remember, or who have been awakened,
to the future,
to those who oppose the GREAT FAKER, Tk,
and
to the beautiful Mrs. Florence Huntley.
Beware Tk!
By opening this book, you have stepped onto a path winding through green meadows bordered by pink and white flowers until you shall rise in the aura of Thought Matter to the Summer Land. This cannot be denied. Nor may the fact that it is not an easy, level approach but, rather, a boulder strewn upland journey marked by thunderstorms sounding an
ALARUM TO EVERY PARTICIPANT IN THE GREAT WORK!
Dear Students, Former Students, Great Workers of all kinds, Visible Helpers, Technical Workers, and Those Awaiting Admission -- those in The know and those who need To know --
BEWARE Tk!
Yes, we issue this warning -- and why not, because who knows him best?
Let us pause, though, to ask WHY we promulgate this account of his lifework? But is not the ABUSE OF TRUST by one who can perceive the essence of life and death -- by one who knows best how to make the right choice in Thought Matter -- A CRIME that in all justice DAMNS its perpetrator? And what better lesson can there be than its exposure?
We shall begin by asking you to look into his eyes.
A photograph of a man of indeterminate age. His hair is short, like black velvet, his complexion pale, his brow high, his nose straight, his mouth firm. Shadows suggest a thoughtful nature or perhaps too much study, time spent in the obscurity of prison or the effects of prolonged mental strain followed by overexposure to light, if redeemed by moments of profound peace, which, however, may only have been a kind of sleep. Then he reveals (as you realize you have sensed from the start) that while you were studying him, he has been far more closely observing you and in fact pulling you in to the point that you forego your existence even as you more fully perceive it.
If you’ve formed another image of him, though, it is all right, shifty as he is. On some days he does not even recognize parts of his body.
In him may be seen a world beyond sight, because in him may be observed any number of beings more beautiful than one thought imaginable! Let their presences approach as if in ever expanding circles until they introduce themselves. And then may you join hands and gambol in radiant realms of Thought Matter as if with a favorite teacher, having already enrolled in a re-chartered and superior School of Spiritual Light, or as if greeted by your long-lost mother or dear sister or brother, taken long ago! And so you, too, may obtain the ultimate knowledge -- the knowledge of right and wrong in life and death -- and go UP in Thought Matter.
But before you do, we repeat, BEWARE Tk!
Fly up and out, arising to the firmament, soaring over this place that bristles with the most magnificent buildings of the age, a city hard, vast and teeming. Fly down, fluttering among these structures, beating your wings like a sparrow and perch on a sign or a sill before taking off, lighting on sidewalks, ledges and tenements. Someone is slapping someone, someone is crying, a child is dropping a marble on the pavement. Someone is stacking coins on a counter. Someone is coughing. Someone opens a door and steps into the sounds of the street, and your head throbs as if thrust under water or caught by the wind, and this great collective noise for some reason more than all of the other things you have seen and heard impresses upon you the dangerous unthinking force that these industrious, powerful people exert -- because most of them are driven by egoism, fear and greed. Having built this city to feed their hungers, they lack the insight to understand what they have accomplished except vaguely and erroneously -- not knowing, as if they were a spell’s victims, the difference between right and wrong. And yet from this trance they can awake, released by Thought Matter from ignorance, falsehood and hard-heartedness. It is enough to make you dizzy and perhaps question the power of flight that you have attained, as in the meantime you flap through this place and witness incidents of corruption and cruelty, loneliness, terror, sickness and death almost beyond bearing. What makes them do it? This is the city where we begin, in its center, the great city of Chicago, Illinois.
Amidst its mysteries and confusion, its dirt and din, the variety of its people’s schemes and desires, may you hope nonetheless to learn the truth about at least one of its important citizens, in fact its most important denizen? One who for decades was the “face” of the Great Work in America -- Tk -- although we’ve learned that during all of that time a question awaited: what really is the Great Work if not Tk, and if the answer is “nothing” what can we make of it? It is a question that should be asked of any great system of belief and that we trust will be answered here. After all, it is our purpose! Therefore, we state that after the most extensive effort, far more difficult than that of a snake shedding its skin, more like the consumption of a field in flames so that it may bloom more prolifically, the answer to our question -- “WHY?” -- is in fact the report you hold in your hand, Tk’s true story, and as much, of course, the story of his dear helpmeet, Mrs. Florence Huntley.
* * * *
Although some of Tk’s colleagues and students seem to have accepted with equanimity his “withdrawal” from the School of Spiritual Light, Tk’s betrayal of our great system of Life in Action caused many more -- most likely everyone, in fact -- great headaches and afflictions. Oh, forever more! But what does this acknowledgment mean? Nothing! It does not suffice to shout the length and breadth of our land that Tk’s life was a fraud and a lie, yet another if spectacular failure by an ignorant man. BECAUSE ONLY WHEN THE TRUE TENETS OF THE GREAT WORK ARE UNDERSTOOD, FREED FROM ERROR, MAY WE PROGRESS!
Perhaps one or two remain who feel some affection for Tk, or a kind of lingering sympathy, and maybe even now some are trying to reconcile his actions with his better qualities, although his departure shocked the vast majority into silence -- and we trust no one he met was quite able to forget him. IN ANY EVENT, THE TRUTH REMAINS: NO ONE HAS SAID WHAT NEEDS TO BE SAID AS IT SHOULD BE SAID!
First, no one has stated in every conceivable way, including with the greatest force, of course, that the Tk who floated in and out of space and time in Thought Matter, who communed UP with those no longer living and those waiting to be born, as well as most profoundly with those now living -- the Tk who promised each man, woman and child “regularly taught, tried, tested and accepted” in the School of Spiritual Light that they could defeat death by making the right choice -- was in fact a faker, fraud and scoundrel. Or that he might have stolen a lot of money, or that he may have been much worse, yes terribly worse! Yes, he who said that we must rid ourselves of the evil imps that possess us with our pure Mind!
Such disclosures would not suffice, though, because, second, after all this time no one has described what may survive such a revelation -- the truths that can emerge like flowers through a crust of old snow. And they are timeless insights first discovered by ancient Egyptians millennia ago.[5]
Thus, not only simple honor and decency but also the imperative of enlightenment requires us, placed in The know, to tell the truth!
To recapitulate. Much time has passed while the most troubling rumors about Tk and the Great Work in America have spread. Sincere if credulous men and women who mistook his “crusade of spiritual science” for the full measure of the Great Work have met and parted and re-congregated in anxious apprehension and the clearest need for comprehensive instruction. Meanwhile, the doors of the School of Spiritual Light remained locked, its windows dark.
Imagine a woman in the prime of life peering through the dim and dusty windows of the School of Spiritual Light, her nose and lips leaving a little mist upon the glass.
Imagine a man no longer young stirring from a cockeyed reverie, perhaps remembering the Tonic[6] or the Cream[7] and wondering what to do now.
We say to this woman and this man, you must move on -- indeed you must remake the world by keeping before you the image of the great and good Work! To guide the Great Work into the future, therefore, in tandem with the most precious Mrs. Florence Huntley (there being no more important task), we write to allay the fears, clear the eyes and freshen the minds of every student, Visible Helper and Technical Worker in the land, past, present and future, indeed every occupant of this planet, the living and the dead and those awaiting admission! Yes, awake now -- get UP, we say, and get going! The wisdom of ages awaits. There is Work to be done!
WE SAY, GET UP! GET UP! GET UP! THE GREAT WORK IS REAL!
Tk may or may not be with us, but there is more, so much more! Know him, put him behind you or in a far corner and move on UP! Raise yourself Up, for you, too, are beautiful.
How best to begin? We recall Tk’s last known encounter before our “hero” fled Chicago. It was on Kinzie Street near “headquarters.” Among the carriages and omnibuses, gawkers, hawkers and those simply going about their business, a young man approached his master, having summoned the courage to share his dismay over the Technical Work’s reverses and the shuttering of the Great School, if not yet presuming to attribute blame for those events to Tk, himself. Before his words emerged, Tk interrupted him, although he did not say the following out loud, this being a “thought encounter.”
“Take no heed of any danger to me,” said Tk. “Turn your mind to those who truly suffer. For in China they will place placards on the bodies of the good whom they’ve disemboweled and dismembered, and in the Levant, Armenia, Circassia and Rumania the Great Turk will continue his depredations, while in India, Sicily and Mexico young women will be forced to wed their rapists. It remains your task, therefore, to deliver all whom you encounter into Thought Matter, even in the face of death, separating right from wrong. A proud and devoted soldier will hear himself pronounced guilty of the greatest crime that he can imagine -- the crime of treason -- not once, but twice, and be publicly degraded, humiliated and despised, and it will be written, and, worse, insisted upon after his innocence has been proven beyond a doubt with the exception of his willfully blind accusers, judges and hosts of chauvinist racists (for this soldier is a Jew): ‘Let us no longer remember the traitor except to love those who punish him. Let us express our gratitude to those officers and judges, the Merciers, the Rogets, the Deloyes, who are now the objects of immense popularity, who have given us such magnificent examples of clear French reason in sentencing this scum to the world’s closest equivalent to hell.’ And men and women throughout the United States will at all levels ensure their black brothers and sisters continue to live a degraded existence, their paths blocked at every turn with ill-will, hatred, blows and even death.
“But,” Tk continued, “if you transport your thoughts and others’ in Thought Matter, justice will be done to the masters of evil, yes, even to the great satanic dog, the Grand Turk, the Sultan himself, because destiny has written of that creature: ‘What shall be done with a Commander of the Faithful who has acted against the dispositions of the Book and the Law, who has squandered public money for improper purposes, who has without authority oppressed, starved, tortured and killed his subjects and committed tyrannical acts, who after he has bound himself by oaths to change, violates such oaths and sows discord, disturbing the public peace and causing bloodshed? All this being so, is his deposition permissible?’ And the answer shall be ‘Yes,’ and he shall be led to die, and the decades of his crimes shall cease.’ And so it shall be for all oppressors throughout the earth. This, at least, you will have learned from me, that the evil ones shall be punished!”
A pigeon nearly walked across Tk’s shoe while the young man recognized the noise of the street had abated and a small crowd had gathered around them. Then Tk tipped his hat and walked off. And at that moment the young man had the strongest sensation of being a child again, his hand taken up in the comfortable grip of his master. That is, he felt a mounting joy at the prospect of strolling hand in hand with Tk and looked far up at his familiar form as they walked along together, although this most striking impression was promptly tempered by the realization that Tk had actually left him alone.
However, does this episode reveal more than Tk’s shadow? Of course not. Instead, our conclusions must be built up carefully, informed and solidified by the most sober reflection and perhaps also quickened by a little inspiration.
Only then may we more than that this “person” perpetrated wrongs whose ill effects equal the worst confidence games inflicted on half-empty minds, beyond the knowledge that the dreams he broke ring like lost coins in the street, even beyond accepting his perversion of Thought Matter! So great is the Great Work and so little did he do to teach it! It is incumbent on us, in other words, to do more than convict the offender. We must confer a measure of clarity upon Thought Matter, revive the Great Work and at the proper time bestow on Tk the forgiveness that he lacks, there being no greater quality than mercy. But most of all we hope you will see through to the most profound achievement of man’s comprehension -- the Great Work -- and act accordingly.
* * * *
To permit you to decipher Tk’s secrets and, for that matter, the false signals that emanate from any other prophet who attempts to confuse the great collective mind of Mankind, to detect the deadly misprisions lurking in even the simplest premises, to discern Spiritualist death from spiritual life, to deter the theft not only of your mental clarity but also of the hopes of each successive generation of mankind past, present and future, we offer you Tk as completely as our powers permit, because in the words of Mrs. Florence Huntley we are
DEDICATED TO THE PROGRESSIVE INTELLIGENCE OF THE AGE!
Among a people unfortunately characterized by torpid indifference, the very act of judgment is a challenge. Thus in issuing our sentence on Tk we must ourselves be judged. Thus our sentence must be handed down as if we, too, were acknowledging our own faults -- because how else may we be believed? Thus did the great Eighteenth Century English judges weep over their own imperfections as well as the convict’s when pronouncing a capital sentence. So too have the greatest preachers been the first to admit their sins. So too shall we seek to wind round and round us the spirals of our errors to reveal painstakingly, soberly, vengefully but also sympathetically Tk’s wrongs -- for example, his utterance of curses and spells, his distribution of perception-altering substances, even acts of mayhem and physical violence, along with many simple mistakes, including certain instances of egotism, selfishness and greed. In short, we must become him to cast him out. As presaged by the anathema of Spiritualism, great wrongs may verge on the profoundest truths -- and so may our exposure of Tk lead to a new understanding, a hard-earned freedom from his most pernicious spirit.
Thus, together we shall
MAKE THE MOST PROFOUND JUDGMENTS TO RE-DISCOVER THE GREAT WORK IN THOUGHT MATTER!
And so we predict that this book will have the following effects:
Upon us, although least important: at first, very bad, nearly fatal, until from our travails we may emerge as the dawn, new, clean, whole and free. Therefore, the final effect upon us shall be as good as it gets.
Upon all practitioners of Spiritualist darkness: bad, in fact ultimately fatal. After being made an example to us, they shall die and stay dead.
Upon the physical and spiritual well-being of future practitioners of the intrinsic and the exoteric Great Work: exceedingly good, in fact grand, as they emerge alight in the light, the equal of any on earth or in heaven!
And upon the physical and spiritual well-being of everyone else, especially upon the physical and spiritual health of all who hope to progress to goodness, truth and immortality: very good, indeed, in fact excellent, transcending the vicissitudes of life in THOUGHT KNOWLEDGE!
And finally, if we have not said it clearly enough let us say it now: like a physician who makes a diagnosis at the very limits of his ability, may we be permitted to reveal that which was good in Tk, the best as well as the worst, for let us remember that whenever there is an imitation, sham or counterfeit, there must be a genuine, real and true original, if only we look deeply enough into Thought Matter[8] Then may the Great Work live as it has never lived before!
But before going any further, let us take a moment to consider
THE PRESENTATION ISSUES,
that is, to highlight questions which, despite their quotidian nature, we must ask: what should be done about the “physical presentation” of this volume, including whether it should be a long or a short account, whether it should be in small, medium or large print, whether no pictures should be included or a few, many or “all you want” or even “nothing but,” and whether the binding should be blue, black, green or red, should white or tinted paper be used, with rough, smooth or gilded edges, with black print or grey, blue or even purple text, or a mixture of colors and fonts and Tk’s quotations in red -- although that would be a lot of red?
Also, we have considered engaging in this work seriously, solemnly, sadly, morally, gingerly, furiously, ferociously, righteously, joyfully, with abandon, disdainfully, scientifically, in rigorous if exquisite detail, remorselessly, as if telling a simple, straightforward story -- a difficult task when describing such an “individual” -- tragically, with dread, creatively, expansively, prophetically, holding a little back, at Olympian remove, jocularly -- a style we usually abjure – fearlessly, fearfully and in many other ways, including as if it emerged directly from Tk’s lips.
Considering these alternatives, we have done our best to choose each one, cost permitting.
Upon reflection, therefore, it appears that the presentation issues were not “issues” at all really, because this work has transcended such concerns -- undoubtedly because while we have been writing what might otherwise have been unbearable, one spirit has encouraged, nay animated, us, one “bright and beautiful light,” the shimmering nimbus of that dearest woman, possessor of an eternally mysterious glow, Mrs. Florence Huntley.
Thus, we have found ourselves writing in English as clearly as permitted, letting the facts although still unfolding take care of themselves because, we repeat, we have done our best! And thus, our readers are asked to follow their ever-expanding mental processes until the last evidence is admitted, the record closed, final arguments made, facts and law evaluated and Tk’s final judgment emanates from Thought Matter. We add only that if you gainsay this “word to the wise” we hesitate to predict the consequences, with the exception that they will be “bad” and perhaps “fatal.”
No doubt some will ask while perusing this report, as many have inquired in the past, “WHEN will I actually master the Great Work, WHEN will its deepest secrets be revealed, WHEN shall my investigation transform this into a simple instruction manual, WHEN WILL I UNDERTAKE THE PERSONAL DEMONSTRATION AND USE THOUGHT MATTER AS INTENDED, TO GO UP?” Of course the answer to these questions lies within them: “Can one hurry the acquisition of the greatest body of knowledge to be attained by Mankind?” And by this we mean only that the proper question is not when shall we perform miracles, but, rather, how shall we understand the difference between right and wrong in the knowledge of life and death? And we take great comfort in the answer to such inquiries received by Tut Mose Ankh in the land of Egypt four thousand years ago:
IT WILL HAPPEN IF YOUR MIND IS OPEN AND YOU ARE READY!”
No doubt we can assure you that this time will come, because as Mrs. Huntley has stated, “When an author passes from the familiar field of mere theory and speculation into the domain of unqualified statement, one enters a new relation with the reader that merits an unparalleled level of attention; provided, that she also complies with the standards of English usage and common decency.”
For as Mrs. Huntley was also the first to recognize, “[This book] stands for a definite knowledge and a definite personal experiment, experience and demonstration, or it stands for nothing at all and is in fact worth less than the paper upon which it is written.”
Please feel free to underline and take notes, bend down page corners if you wish and use the end-pages to make lists.
Now, therefore, “after due deliberation, and sufficient cause appearing, . . .”
An Episode from Tk’s Youth; Tk and the Truth
We start with an episode from Tk’s youth that he considered of special significance, having recalled it more than once.
“It happened when I was a squirt,” said Tk. “I was less than ten years old. My brother, Peas -- he could not say his ‘L’s’ -- and I were fishing on the White River.
“The day turned so cold that the trees shivered. Shadows raced across the water, and the wind made such strange sounds that we almost expected to hear a cry when we heard it. Then it was gone, and we couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t a jay. But not long after, we saw her floating past in the water, if I didn’t see a person until my brother said, ‘Well forever more!’ and it broke into my mind. At least I think he said it, and I remember how he looked -- as if he’d seen a ghost.
“We ran along the bank, keeping her in sight, and I felt my blood tingle as if I’d been cut. Then she shot into an eddy and something happened, because we couldn’t see her anymore. We stopped, found an opening and ran to the water.
“When we entered, we stumbled, arms milling, but we didn’t fall. We knew the current could take us away -- we’d been warned not to swim here -- but we couldn’t stop, we kept heading where we thought she’d be. Our clothes were heavy as we half swam, half waded around the bend. Strangely, we didn’t feel the cold, perhaps as if distracted by our efforts not to be pulled away, and it seemed as if we were moving through a dream. All the while I shouted to hold on, don’t give up.
“We were heading to some flood brush on a point, the current and the pull of the muck slowing us, our feet sticking in and sucking out. Once the water came so high it passed over my head.
“At the turn of the point, we saw her caught in a tangle of sticks and branches. She was young and shined in the light, and I saw that she was dead.
“I stopped, about to go back, when I heard my brother shout to pull her in. Her face was glowing in a patch of sun, and her hair was flat on her head. We were climbing now, over and under the branches. The air was blowing across us and I started to shiver, but we reached out and pulled until she broke free and started to float away. I grabbed her dress and then my brother clutched her foot, and we pulled her to our perch. Then we climbed down and began to take her back. After the cold air, the water felt warm.
“Again, we waded and struggled until we reached the bank and pushed her up, although she was heavy and our feet kept slipping. I climbed out and felt the cold again and heard our breathing. At last working so that we almost forgot what we were lifting, we pulled her onto the grass.
“Her clothes were streaming, and she was pale and muddy round her ears and nose and along her dress. Her skin looked like old stays or buttons, a terrible thing. Her eyes were open, almost black with mud in them, and of course they were cold. We were cold and dirty, too, and trembled. I knelt beside her as a puddle formed. My brother knelt also, and then he closed her eyes, and I thought how brave he was.
“That was when I first respected a human spirit. The tangle had torn her skin, although there wasn’t much blood except a stain on the front of her dress. Seeing how the light had left her, I started to cry, and my brother cried, too. Why, it seemed the wind blew right through us. We were on our knees shivering, whether from the cold or the sight of her I could not say.
“The wind must have carried our wailing, because people came up out of the bushes, and while two or three stood above her with their hands on their mouths others comforted us. A kind woman even put her arm around me, although I was filthy, and I let her hold me. She felt very warm, for which I was grateful.
“They were saying that the girl was dead. I knew it, of course. Then they took us away, rubbing our hands and shoulders and talking to us, saying how brave we were and not to worry. I never saw her again. Oh, forever more, we knew she’d been murdered. It wasn’t until later that we confirmed she was with child.
“Now you should understand this poor girl’s death opened a door to the Summer Land, and when the Summer Land touches us it can be a thing of beauty and light as much as pain, because when she was caught on that point I witnessed an emanation like an unbroken line of light rise from her head, and then I saw a second beam -- a thinner line of the brightest light -- rise from her belly, and it flew, too. In my childish way I saw the door to the Summer Land open for them, and my life would never be the same.
“I can say that the path UP through that door led to my search for Thought Matter, my assumption of a place on the Wheel of Knowledge and my leadership of the Great Work in America! And I can say that what goes UP is beautiful, and what stays DOWN is contagion and death.”
* * * *
Now think about this story and you’ll realize Tk made it up -- or stole it! Indeed, you might have heard it sung in poorer parts of the country, on street corners or in Chicago’s Levee. But assume nevertheless that it was not a sentimental fantasy or a tawdry ballad. Assume it happened. Why must he tell it? From the great Wheel of Knowledge the Great Spoke speaks! Could he be more eloquent? For shame! Return to her if you must, Tk, if you really want to -- please, do -- and make her right! Go ahead. Think her alive! Or, we ask, did he want her to lie pale and torn on her grassy bank, a message to us all? And if he did, what was that message? Oh poor, poor, poor drowned woman, lost and found and lost again! Or do those “filaments” make the difference? Do they excuse this poor creature’s terrible demise?
Perhaps anticipating this question, Tk intimated that he did not forsake her, even one night pointing her out as the young woman sitting across the room at a “gathering” returned to life. She left early, however, before anyone could learn more than commonplaces about her and was never seen again, although for weeks her image disturbed the peace of several students and Helpers.
Tk also remarked, though, that other Great Spokes on the Wheel of Knowledge, even the One-hi, had prevailed on him to leave the poor woman alone. “Leave her UP,” they said.
WHY DID HE NOT SAVE HER? we ask. WHY DID HE NOT PREVENT WHAT HAPPENED?
Because he must have wanted it. Or because, we repeat, this episode came from his imagination or a song he’d heard, a lie like so many coming from his lips.
He might have responded that he never said that he could save our lives on earth, that he just showed what we could be.
She helped him to open a certain “door” to the Summer Land, sweeping wide and clear the once dim and cluttered path to Thought Matter that in time enabled him to learn to make the right choice. Then, said Tk, with his help we, too, might break free of space and time, life and death with new yet, ancient, complete and confident thoughts and knock on the doors of heaven and find wisdom and understanding from spirits once lost. And when we all make the right choice, he said, such evils shall cease.
Our last word about this sad and at times lurid account, then, is that it recalls a lost girl’s choice followed by a cold-blooded murder.
We therefore must counter its effect by identifying an infinitely brighter inspiration. Like one administering a delightful elixir, we remind you of that wondrous spirit hovering just beyond sight like the comeliest sprite, a nimbus of another kind, indeed, a woman made especially lustrous by love and good works -- our own dear sweet “guiding light,” Mrs. Florence Huntley. For every evil has its obverse. She of course would surely comprehend “the search for the light above,” although she also embodies such a mixture of goodness, grace, properly modulated curiosity, and acceptance of honest hard work to render any search for the truth by her almost complete before it begins. So let us regard her as she is while at the same time observing that she accepts the necessary, ineluctable and inescapable journey to the truth, which means justice, justice, justice for Tk.
* * * *
Let us be candid -- was there anyone less suited to deliver an important message? Did anyone experience so little success despite such great advantages and such an important, indeed transcendent mission? Did you think, though, that we would rest at this, or perhaps merely add a description of some of his petty crimes and misdemeanors? Merely reveal Tk’s fallacious endorsements of certain products? Disclose his arguable theft of money? Point out some unwise decisions and unfortunate connections with repugnant people? No, let us circle back. Let us examine him from another perspective.
Have you been told to find someone or something “for your own good” and learned that IT WAS NOT WORTH THE SEARCH?
Have you insisted that you had to go somewhere to see someone and learned that HE’D NEVER BEEN THERE?
If this has happened to you, you may have asked, “But I couldn’t have stood still?”
“No, surely you couldn’t have stood still,” says your friend.
“It’s funny, though,” you say, “because when I thought I was moving forward I was stuck as things of the greatest importance passed by.”
“You have my deepest sympathy,” says your friend.
But this “friend” owes you something more, unless you and he believe your lives should slip away, unregistered, unthought, until you are dead and buried?
Now, reversing the first questions:
Did you ever give someone bad directions? Did they ask if you knew where something was, and, although you knew that you didn’t, told them anyway?
If you told them where to go nonetheless -- a monstrous abuse of Thought Matter -- you were evil: a black worm.
On the other hand, did you ever break an engagement?
Or did you leave a little boy outside a courtroom into which he peered with fear and wonder, while his father, shackled, was sentenced to five years in prison? Did you fail to come up and kneel down and explain to this boy, seeing that he’d wiped his nose on his sleeve, that good men can do bad things? Did you fail to talk to him until he understood and his lips stopped quivering?
Now that was bad.
If you gave up, if you chose to do nothing, if you didn’t care, if you didn’t try to help, were you not evil? In weakness, selfishness and indecision you violated your personal responsibility to that miraculous and sustaining Thought Matter that if properly directed beautifully binds the world: you were a white worm.
Did not Tk himself say under his breath while watching those dancing in the School of Spiritual Light, “Like worms in s**t!”
This graphic recollection, for which we apologize, reminds us that true knowledge is possible, at least for those who know how to make the right choice in Thought Matter. Then might this lesson be taught to as many people as possible, to all humanity, in fact. Do not knowledge and righteousness alight the Creator’s face to reveal the mercy in his heart? But oh, forever more it is hard, obtained in pain and strife.
WE SAY THEN, WAKE UP AND GO AND LIGHT THE DARKNESS!
Beyond the darkness shines the brightest light!
WE SAY, WHEN WE SEEK JUSTICE WE LIVE, AND OUR WORDS MAY SEEK JUSTICE BEYOND OUR DEATH.
Tk as Seen by Others
The next question is, where is TK?
A picture of the phaeton that Tk drove from Chicago. Above it floats a question mark. Where did he go? Is he ashamed? Will he return? What did he know? What could he do?
Can we learn how to redirect his power for good?
Can we find him in the lives of those he encountered and change them for the better?
Soon after we formed our plan to reveal everything about the “Great Master,” TK, we invited those nearest and dearest him, students and converts, to respond with comments and questions.
Let us be more specific. We prepared a brief account of Tk’s withdrawal and departure from the School of Spiritual Light -- concluding that if he had not disappeared, he would have completed the School’s transformation into an institution of spiritual darkness, setting the Work back generations -- and mailed it to each Worker, Helper and former student at his or her last known address. Our statement was handwritten for obvious reasons: to dispel any doubts about its author’s identity, as well as to demonstrate the truth of its assertions by the powerfully direct medium of our own hand. As noted, we invited replies, extending from our unique position of knowledge the sincere encouragement of our correspondents -- it was “all right to reflect on, recollect and inquire about Tk,” we wrote. “Dear reader, do not fear, because each response, the very act of responding, is a golden gift that circles to the giver.”
And they replied!
What follows thus issues from students and practitioners of the Great Work in America, observations and inquiries from the “best and brightest,” struggling to explain Tk. They appear in the order received and almost exactly as written, edited only to satisfy requirements of common decency and proper English usage.
Yet it must be observed that they did not know him well, or even at all, and there is little doubt that they would benefit from more light.
Nonetheless, we reiterate that we welcome many, many more replies, every single one in fact, which we hope may forge an unbroken chain into the future, including those transmitted by means besides the written word, because countless people wish to communicate on the subject of Tk and we believe that at least one correspondent, as yet unchosen, may be revealed in our lifetime as the next Big Spoke on the Wheel of Knowledge.
Without further delay, we submit the responses:
“I WANT TO KNOW WHETHER TK WAS MURDERED. I KNOW FOR A FACT THAT HE WAS IN THE GREATEST DANGER.”
“I don’t care what you say, I blame the Freemasons. I know them, and I believe they got rid of him. They hated him.”
“Why don’t you tell us what really happened?”
“He is among us, no doubt, because I see his face every day, although less clearly.”
“I, too, am trying to organize Great Workers in my state to help those at ‘headquarters’ correct Tk’s mistakes. For this I need money.”
“You have given me the worst news in the world -- the worst news I ever heard.”
“I hate the Tk and all he represents. Starting today I’m not going to go outside anymore.”
“Did Tk assume the shape of a woman?”
“I still do not understand what the letters ‘Tk’ stand for and who he really was. I assume that he’s died, but maybe I’m wrong?”
“What do the ‘brethren in India’ think about him now? Do you know the b*st**d stole my wife?”
“You presume to tell us about Tk? I for one don’t believe it!”
“What happened to the beautiful Mrs. Florence Huntley? Did Tk do away with her? If you can’t answer this, at least tell me when they were last seen together, was she really the ‘Ra’ and, if so, what do her initials mean?”
“Was Tk a murderer?”
“Even after all you’ve revealed, I find myself dreaming of the day when I complete the full course of the School of Spiritual Light and begin the Technical Work. Please help me, please!”
“Let me ask, after all that you’ve written, ‘Who was the traitor, really? Was it Tk or something outside of him?’”
“You can tell every Student, Visible Helper, Technical Worker, Great Worker and Big Spoke to go to hell! Tell them from me! YOU TELL THEM THEY CAN GO TO HELL!
“Last night I saw Tk in a dream, and he was so happy! Please do not write to me again.”
“Consider this: did you know Tk has been seen all over this city? I’ve seen him myself, boarding a streetcar -- at least he had an unmistakable resemblance to the man you describe as ‘missing.’ What he does with the rest of his time, though, I don’t know.”
“I must accept that Tk has left us, but where is Mrs. Huntley? To me, she was the heart and soul of the Great Work.”
“I’m heir to a great fortune: a silver mine of such fecundity that its exploitation could alter the finances of several nations. By a great injustice I am held captive in a Peruvian prison. My physical circumstances are relatively comfortable, the jailers being more like benign kidnappers than servants of the evil administration detaining me. But I am in such a frenzy to develop my mine, that I fear for my sanity. Unfortunately, my freedom’s price is high: $2,500. I lack it, because my friend, Tk, who was serving as my agent, has disappeared, God only knows where. I assure you that I will repay any rescuer who can send me this sum, or, if he wishes, I shall reward him with a share in my mine. You may contact me through the address I’ve written on the back of this paper. Act soon, for I am desperate and have written to many parties who may take this opportunity first!”
“Was there ever really a School of Spiritual Light?”
“For many years I’ve been expecting something like this to happen -- a few years ago, I even made a speech about it in Cleveland, Ohio -- but I find it hard to accept, nonetheless. What evil was he not capable of? What more can we expect?”
“I made a donation of twenty dollars to the Great Work, subscribed to Life in Action Magazine and sent in my League of Visible Helpers volunteer card. After some time, I was told to stop making inquiries. Would you please clarify my position?”
“Is Tk still on the run, or has he landed in prison? Why have we not seen or heard of Mrs. Huntley?”
“Could Tk have been a harmless idiot? Please be careful how you use this information.”
“The other night I dreamed about a mighty tree -- an ancient elm or oak. Then I saw its base or lower trunk was missing. Therefore, the tree rose into the sky upon a foundation of air. Was this really the Great Work?”[9]
“If you are who you say you are, what has become of Mrs. Huntley and the Dream Child, and what is the present condition of Tk’s wonderful house on Kinzie Street?”
“After all you’ve revealed, I’d appreciate the courtesy of an answer to the following questions: ‘Has the beautiful Mrs. Florence Huntley died?’ And, ‘Is it true that Tk was responsible for it?’”
“Was the love of Tk and Mrs. Huntley a fantasy or, perhaps more aptly, did it ever pass beyond the stage of persistent dreams, fears and imaginings?”
“Are you aware of my five-hundred-dollar contribution to the Cause? I am ______ ______ ___ ______, and I made my donation in February, 1894 with the expectation that Tk would teach me to pass through space and time in Thought Matter. Then I lost interest until a friend told me about your work. I believe that you will agree I am owed a complete refund, although I’m willing to consider a credit against further instruction.”
A picture of Tk staring at a gentleman who is dressed in an elegant morning suit. Lines of power emanate between their eyes.
Others responded as follows:
“Will the Great Work on the Indian Subcontinent continue? I imagine all things repeat.”
“Who will replace Tk on the Knowledgeable Wheel?[10] Obviously you’re unfit to fill his place.[11] And might Mrs. Huntley resume her efforts even in her present condition?”
“Can this Tk uproar have anything to do with the intolerable state of the working man in this country?”
“How could you do it?”
“I have compared his words to yours and after careful consideration determined that you are Tk! By God -- why have you done it?
“I trust there will be a full accounting and refunds to all.”
“Please help me in my misery. I miss everyone. I know that I may be selfish since so much worse has happened to Tk and his dear family, but can someone help me?”
One letter, which had been crumpled into a ball and smoothed out again contained only the word “NO!”
However, the writer mailed it.
Another letter was longer, stating, “It was revealed to me that Tk and Mrs. Huntley were married -- not in a formal ceremony but as a man and woman may best form an ideal physical/spiritual union -- in which state they entered upon the most all-encompassing love, as soul mates. I saw them in love for all time, if only living moment by moment, consumed by love’s joys, raptures, euphoria, jealousies, torments, fits and storms. Thus, I saw that even as they experienced the delights of love they discovered that they could inflict the greatest cruelties on each other, causing physical as well as emotional pain until they so disregarded the world beyond themselves that they endangered the very existence of Thought Matter. Then I saw that although still in love they realized they were actually capable of murdering each other, including bodily, or physical murder, as well as thought, or soul murder, and, consumed by a love mixed with contempt, disgust and fear, she came to die. This is the least clear part of my revelation.
“Then I understood that, overwhelmed by his love, guilt and grief Tk broke the first rule of the Great Work by bringing Mrs. Huntley back to earth. She returned not as herself but as another woman, and only Tk knew that within this woman, if in a shrouded way, Mrs. Huntley lived. Then I saw he passed his days renewing his love in remembrance of her to the exclusion of everything else -- including this new woman in her outward form – even as he hated himself for all he had done, was doing and had left undone.
“Then I thought that he realized that his love for Mrs. Huntley, seemingly more fervent than any love has ever been, had perverted the harmonious, trusting and devoted communion that is true, universal love and therefore was worse than no love at all -- and so he became free to devote himself to his new soul-mate as a separate and distinct being, if not perhaps as intensely as with Mrs. Huntley. Thus, he experienced in his own life the dangers of bringing the spirits of the dead down to earth that he had taught us to fear, but overcame his mistake. Then I hoped Tk would find the greatest satisfaction in his memory of Mrs. Huntley as well as in his present life with his new companion. I believe that I am on to something here. Will you please comment?”
After this page appears a small bag, almost flat, made of wax paper, which from its aroma probably once held a drug. Inside are two locks of hair, one jet-black, the other chestnut, both of exquisite fineness.
Most letters were shorter and less speculative, if in some cases equally hard to credit -- for example:
“I’ve noticed certain animals such as sparrows, chipmunks and squirrels -- in fact, most small creatures -- appear to be more agitated after Tk’s departure.”[12]
And:
“It should be obvious, but I’ll spell it out: Tk was of a completely different genus than any evil man in history. Because of his control of Thought Matter and his conversance with the essence of life and death, he made manifest that being most fully portrayed by the poet Milton: Satan, and more specifically his forms Sensation, Ignorance, Prevarication and Sloth.”
As is already evident, a number of letters resembled the following missive in tenor if not in degree: “I cannot conceive of anything worse that what you’ve done except what Tk did.”
The responses continued:
“I suppose I should thank you for your efforts, unwelcome as they are. But they strike me as completely inadequate. For example, you have not addressed the drug angle. And you should have said more about the money.”
“I could have gone to a real school, but I chose to study on [sic] Tk instead. I hope others will read this and learn from my example, although I am lost.”
“Is it true that Tk left us to become superintendent of a new school, or asylum?”
“I hate the Tk. I didn’t once, but I do now. I’m no chippy but an honest woman. I hate you. I hate you. I’ll always hate you.”
“Who will continue the great School of Spiritual Light if not Tk?” “Tk may be gone, but as long as his little family stays together and is happy, I’m happy. Will you please connect us to them?”
“He brought me peace when I was troubled, because he was kind. That I will never forget. Then he left me, which I shall never forgive. Nothing you can do will change that. Nothing, because I still love him.”
“What you wrote doesn’t surprise me. Even when he was a boy this person who called himself “Tk” was a t**t s*cking pipsqueak. Acting like he’s better than everyone else -- and a SKUNK!
“May I remind you that I renounced the Great Work several months before the events you have described? I therefore view your inquiry with disinterest. Do not contact me again.”[13]
“Tk, Tk, someone else is wearing your clothes.”
“Can you prove this was an illusion? Yesterday I saw Tk on Sixth Street in Portland, Oregon.”
“I have always noted a peculiar evil aura around Tk’s ears.”
“What else would you expect from a man who consorts with ex-human beings?”
“Did anyone ever see Tk eat? I think not.”
“Oh, forever more, did the Spiritualists or the Free Masons take him? If not, who did?”
“I want my money back. I need it now!”
“You must be in someone’s pay? But whose? The Masons’? The Turk’s? Or someone else’s?”
May we note if just once our distaste for the practice of underlining in which so many of our correspondents indulged.
“How could anyone who talked so much about respect deserve it so little?”
“Will I be refunded my tuition to the School of Spiritual Light? I don’t ask the same of my subscription to Life in Action Magazine, whose issues I’m keeping. For heaven’s sake, please tell me I will. I need it.”
“Who has my money, you faker?”[14]
“I could have found a situation and made a home, but I gave myself to Tk and all mankind instead.”
“My husband and children have gone to live with his people. I don’t know who’s worse, you or Tk, but I can’t turn back now.”
“I want to hear from as many people as possible about everything they think he did, because they are my true family.”
“There is one suggestion that you have avoided but I will make -- seeing they looked so much alike excepting their hair -- were your ‘Tk’ and Dr. Henry Holmes one and the same?”[15]
“Your words are like the milk of a cow kept in a city lot -- thin and blue. I think you may even be adding a little chalk.”
“Do you remember when Tk started to enter into Thought Matter and look like a baby who’s pained by some gas, and then he’d go in a little deeper and he’d smile the most beautiful smile, just like a plump little baby or an old, old man who’s found his second youth? YOU MUST LEAVE HIM ALONE!”
“When a person discovers a crack in his house’s foundation, he may do three things: He may resign himself to live with it, he may repair it, or he may curse his fate and move out. At a time like this, I believe that Tk would try each of these methods, so why don’t we?”
“Tk was the most beautiful man I ever knew. He couldn’t have done what you say. I don’t think he could, anyway. I’ve never written a letter like this. Where is he? I can’t believe that the only choice I have is one I cannot make. -- An Honest Woman.”
“Maybe I’m Tk, or you’re Tk, or we’re all Tk, though there’s only one Mrs. Huntley!”
“How could anyone with even a rudimentary knowledge of Thought Matter want to harm this great and good man? YOU MUST LEAVE US ALONE!”
“I have heard it said that he could change into a woman and even into a little black girl. Is it true?”
“Was Tk really someone else?”
“He cannot have returned to the Edgemere Facility, can he?”
“Did his psychological and pharmacological research cause him to postpone his greater plans for humanity? I must know what we are to learn from his example.”
“Contrary to your letter, I believe Tk has moved to Colorado Springs, Colorado, which I have heard him praise as if with first-hand knowledge. I will seek him there.”
“Tell me this: was it a lie that the Visible Helpers sent the prisoners especially bound editions of Life in Action Magazine and the Three Great Books of the
Harmonic Series?”[16]
“This Tk affair teaches us to trust sparingly and take responsibility for everything we do or regress to a childlike state.”
“Was Tk really a woman?”
“I think Tk will come back, and I think we should think better of him. At least we should think more charitably about him. He’d want us to think better of you, too, and I’m sure Mrs. Huntley would agree.”
“Who or what is left? I feel awful.”
“I still have several bottles of the Tonic and jars of the Cream. What shall I do with them? -- A Technical Worker.”
“After reading your letter, I know for a fact that my future depends more than ever on the preservation of the Great Work in the United States of America, especially the Technical Work!”
“My brother had a dog who followed him everywhere. I think it was because of my brother’s smell, which is meaty, like corned beef. We were like that dog with Tk. And then there were the Tonic and the Cream, which you’ve not discussed much.”
“I know now that nothing good came from the drugs.”
“If you insist on telling us ‘all the story,’ please explain Tk’s journeys to the Knowledgeable Wheel.”[17]
“At least the beautiful Mrs. Huntley is well, is she not?”
“Did you ever see Tk and Mrs. Huntley touch? Did you ever see him touch anyone?”
“Will I cease regretting it? I don’t know, but I must recognize that your efforts are well intentioned and therefore may provide some solace despite the suffering they’ve caused.”
“My wife has been very low since Tk has disappeared. I wonder do you know anyone who might want to continue his work? Where can I buy some of the Tonic?”
“I must KNOW NOW whether there is any good in the world.”
“This Tk business is easily explained. He never could control his powers. One day they became too much for him and he caught on fire.”
“I’m paralyzed. Help me.”
“After I finish this letter, I’m going to go outside and sell the only thing I have worth selling -- three volumes of the Harmonic Series -- buy a pail of milk, return, cook the last of the porridge, feed my children, and die.”[18]
“I remember the night Tk debated ‘the Big Whatzit’ about some of the most important subjects to Mankind. If I accept all you’ve written, you still haven’t explained why these terrible events occurred. I for one continue to think that things happen for a reason, although the reasons for Tk’s actions are almost too painful to consider.”
“There’s much I want to know, but must it be so difficult?”
Tk as Seen by Two More, Including Mrs. F. H.
We quote two replies of greater length.
The first is written in an exuberant hand on hotel stationary, each rounded letter of the alphabet confidently shaped:
“Dear ________,
“I know how you have come to hold Tk in contempt. That is why I must describe an incident that changed my life -- not, I believe, because he was inspired by the selfish motives you’ve ascribed to him but simply because he wanted to relieve a poor sufferer. How can you fail to acknowledge, then, that he was capable of the greatest kindness?
“I’ve always tried to keep my body clean, even if my circumstances and physical infirmity rendered the maintenance of exemplary personal hygiene difficult. Nonetheless, in the summer of 188_ I happened to develop in addition to the rheumatoid or lumbago-like condition to which I’ve alluded, a watery flux, perhaps an advanced and chronic catarrh, maybe incipient consumption characterized not only by shortness of breath but also profuse ‘night sweats’ that I tried to alleviate by bathing at least three times a day, frequent changes of linen and exposure to cool air.
“Despite my efforts, my condition would not improve! Oh no, and I cannot imagine how much worse it might have been if I lived in a damper climate!
“Then one evening while the sun drew its last streams across the lawns of Denver’s City Park and I listened to a brass ensemble, my mind again turning to the difficulties presented by my lungs, Tk’s ectoplasmic projection emerged! I checked if my neighbors saw this remarkable sight, too, first merely a bluish penumbra and then the very image of him, but the performance in the pergola evidently distracted them. For me, though, all sounds from the outer world ceased as I stared into the kind and generous eyes of Tk’s spirit-presence while he floated nearer and nearer until he spoke a personal word of greeting. His lovely voice and those ever-so-dear eyes prompted me to share my concerns about my health.
“‘Leave it,’ he said.
“‘What?’ I asked, noting his demeanor had changed -- he was staring at me now most earnestly, his look having attained that very dark, almost black hue illuminated nonetheless from within when his energy is especially focused.
“‘Leave it.’
“I questioned him again: ‘What?’
“‘Leave your body,’ he said.
“This order did not resemble any human command I’d ever experienced. First, unlike normal everyday remarks it was not an overtly articulated message. Indeed, to this day I find it hard to believe he expressed himself in words, per se. Second, the directive ‘Leave your body’ resonated as if it were my own command, or rather a longstanding requirement I had only now discovered, a decree issued by an all-powerful authority encompassing so much more than any simple individual’s will, and thus there was no occasion as in ordinary communication for misunderstanding.
And then I found I had left my body and was flying naked above the park! Not that he was naked. I perceived him as neither naked nor clothed -- instead, he was wearing an almost inconceivable raiment.
“Free above my companions, the band, the lawn chairs and flower beds, I observed as one can only from a great height, as if from a balloon’s gondola, the patterns of seedlings, rose bushes and boxwoods that grace this beautiful oasis in our city! Can you imagine it! Soon I found I’d become almost used to my new condition -- in fact I heard myself emit a belly laugh, I presume unnoticed, from my place in the sky -- and took the opportunity to perform two somersaults and three cartwheels! Then I returned to my seat, fully clothed I assure you, although feeling quite altered, in time to see Tk’s last traces filtering away. Even after he was gone, though, and the sounds of the concert suddenly broke upon my ears, there remained an emanation beside me, or above or around me that I can best describe as my own joy brought to life by HIM. Oh, forever more, although it was a transitory joy it was a nearly annihilative transformative joy!
“I wonder do you remember ever having felt it, dear ________?
“During the next several hours, I confirmed that after having left the constraints of my body for this brief time, I no longer felt bound to my physical being! Instead, having experienced my departure and return to the corporeal realm, I felt my body and I were complete!
“And after a profound night’s sleep I discovered I could breathe easily without wheezing, gasping or rasping.
“From that day forth, I have experienced improved physical and mental health, circulated more freely in public and enjoyed life more than I could ever hope.”
COMMENTARY
Relying upon several internal clues, including our correspondent’s unfortunate fondness for underlining upon which we have already remarked, as well as the sprightly nature of her script, we may conclude that the author of this letter was Tk’s “wife” -- although they were married in name only and separated long ago.
First, her loops resemble those of a well-meaning simple woman of her age.
Second, she was burdened by vexing physical infirmities.
More specifically, she suffered sanguinary and pulmonary disturbances during their brief time together that sometimes caused her to breathe in a labored way.
Her physical problems later progressed to the alarming extent that her joints with the exception of those in her right arm and hand were stricken with diffuse pains and she was diagnosed with consumption: afflictions which the best medical consultants opined required her to renounce almost all bodily exertions, including the physical act of love (which he and she never experienced, in common with all of Tk’s women). He decided to send her to the salubrious air of Denver, Colorado, and they were to spend the rest of their lives apart while arthritic neuralgia and consumption took their course.
It was clear before this separation, however, that theirs was not a love match. Some even whispered that she had tricked him into marriage, taking advantage of his youth and general ignorance. Though described as “artless” and even “simple,” her demeanor was marred by moments of cunning perhaps derived from her experience as a performer of light opera. Although Tk refused to dignify the topic with discussion, it may be repeated that they never knew each other as man and wife. He once admitted to some of his more advanced students, in fact, that he found it difficult to love her as she should be loved, given the dire effects upon her of his merest touch.
Last, the letter’s handwriting bears a close resemblance to the few samples certifiably by her.
And then of course there were her tender expressions toward him, so sweetly shared with us.
All things considered the letter was hers.
What gives us pause, though, is that this woman passed over to the Summer Land several years before it was written. The circumstances of her death being highly unusual, indeed tragic, you shall read them later.
Might Tk himself have carried her words to us in Thought Matter from her new home, fully aware that he must not risk calling her spirit down to earth?[19] Or, knowing what we now know about him, could he have sent this missive, himself to “reveal” in his own pathetic way something lending luster to his name, or at least to elicit sympathy? We know he had a master forger’s skill. Or could it be that her story, as well as what he told us about her, substituted for a far more lurid account of one of his victims, if not the first?
At any rate, it cannot be denied that this missive, from whatever person or being or place or plane it arrived, expresses a lovely sentiment, its recollection of the achievement of bodily confidence and freedom having been made all the more poignant by its author’s present state. Nonetheless, her account is next to nothing compared to Mrs. Huntley’s.
A picture of a spiral.
* * * *
A second letter of greater length was written in the firm fresh hand of Mrs. Florence Huntley, although she appears to have pressed a little harder on the paper than usual, a sign of her unmediated sentiments. It is to be treasured -- and for more than its being her only written communication since Tk’s departure. We will say no more for now about the circumstances under which this remarkable document found its way to us with the exception that of all those who responded to our inquiry she alone bravely and unreservedly ventured beyond haphazard, emotional reactions to try to discern Tk’s effect upon her in Thought Matter.
Although she referred to Tk in the third person, her words express that insight which she alone possesses, as if she knew him better than he knew himself, which only he might dispute -- and if he did, he could be wrong.
She writes almost entirely as follows:
“Dear ______, you’ve asked me to respond, and after reflection I accept your challenge. I reply with some uncertainty and even fear, though, because with each moment I understand Tk less and less until even the image of his sweet face begins to fade. And if so much remains hidden and the very parts I thought I knew best are blurred, how much more will pass from memory? Thus I must try to preserve what is left of him. Thus I must acknowledge that I bear some responsibility for my prior silence. I’m sure you understand that while the most terrible moments have evoked previously unknown resources in me, I proceed down this path at great risk, especially because of my condition. Nonetheless, I must continue. I therefore authorize you to share these observations of him for what they’re worth.[20]
“If you think it wise, by all means distribute this letter to our fellow Workers, to whom we owe so much.[21] I ask only that you respect my desire for a respite from all other duties and undertakings on behalf of the Great Work in America, the School of Spiritual Light and the Technical Work -- for example, the responsibility to commune in these coming days with all those others who do not yet know the joy of Thought Matter,[22] as well as anything to do with the Tonic and the Cream.
“Oh, forever more, where shall I begin? Of course it’s true that his leaving broke my heart[23] -- how could such a nest of spiders bring him so low! Of course you may respond that Tk has himself to blame. And yet if this were true it’s to me less than half the story, because his ‘self’ combined all that is golden with a spoonful of human dross making me wonder whether his greatest act was taking on certain imperfections of ours to be with us more completely! Thus the more I reflect the more I believe he must have done everything he did for a good reason! That is, his ‘failure’ must have been a purposeful and uplifting sacrifice.[24]
“We may think we know a man with whom we’ve developed a close, even a loving relation, but sometimes we’re forced to admit that we see only what we want to see. And to be honest I know I first observed him from a false perspective, although I intuited there was so much more to learn, as if I was looking from nine inches off the ground, like a little cat. I know you’re aware, having heard of certain regrettable incidents in my past, that my personal history was ‘mixed,’ although I should not have to reiterate that among its best qualities the Great Work lets us start anew. Who hasn’t found trouble in things they’ve done? In any event, I was carrying this burden when I first attended a ‘gathering’ and witnessed Tk’s effect on the people -- they were almost begging for Thought Matter -- and I asked, ‘How does he do it? He’s hardly working and they’re like little lambs!’ I seemed the sweetest dodge I’d ever seen, because you know I’d learned as a girl if you wave the right flag you can lead anyone wherever you want, especially if they think they’re going someplace else! Just wave that flag.
“He was talking about a new religion, and it seemed perfect. Why hadn’t I thought of it? Don’t be shocked. After all, it confirms the deep inherent goodness in people, the power of their faith, that what he was saying was so right.
“Then when he approached as if he’d chosen me, I felt as if a gentle genie had smiled, and I glowed with the certainty one so rarely has that I was looking my best. I felt this night would change my life.”
A picture of Mrs. Florence Huntley. She relieves, she soothes, she loves. She reads the map that leads to the most beautiful places.
“He was so handsome! As you know, he was of medium height, trim and muscular, and with a fine, shapely head. Really such phrases cannot capture him, though, because of the indomitable spirit emanating as if from his whole being and also from beyond, as if in waves of power and light. I must emphasize his ‘love’s true messengers,’ were the sweetest, darkest blue when we met, wonderfully offset by his flawless skin, which glowed like moonlit snow. Always so gentle and kind except for those rare times we know so well, he appeared especially beautiful at that moment, as I dared to imagine my presence was evoking his mysterious aura.
“What I also remember about that night was his most unusual haircut, because someone had trained it to stand in a wedge over his forehead almost like a piece of chocolate pie, and I could not help staring while raising my hand to my lips.
“Tk colored, looked down and said, ‘This is most unfortunate,’ and then -- his cheeks turning pink -- touched his hair with his elegant fingers while breaking into a delightful smile. Oh, if only I could see him again! He was such a fine man! He was so lovely!
“Then he said, ‘I had him cut it differently for a change,’ and he looked down. ‘I’ll fix it,’ and with the endearing expression I came to know so well -- so eager to please -- it was as if he caused his hair to rearrange itself in an entirely new and most attractive pattern without even running his fingers through it, as if he’d performed a spell. And the next evening when we met again his hair lay close to his skull like black velvet, as it appears in his most famous photograph reproduced in all our books, and I knew he’d done it for me. Oh, forever more, it became him so well, complementing his features to a ‘T’.”
An oval photograph of Tk, circa 1893. His hair is cut so close that it seems to be a thin black cloth. His face is youthful and clean-shaven, although at the same time ageless. In his elegant left hand he holds a bowler hat.
“After this start, we managed to overcome our shyness -- I attributed the ease with which we conversed to a natural affinity -- and became so preoccupied with each other that towards midnight he told me he was feeling guilty for not paying enough attention to the others. Indeed, I noticed some ‘looks’ being thrown my way!
“You might find it interesting that I intuited his ‘wife’ was not present at this gathering, which was one of those small get-togethers before the Work caught on strong, and in fact she’d ceased for some time to play a role in his life. Actually, Tk and I did not acknowledge her existence until we’d moved on to a far more lovingly intimate and profound level of friendship, having formed what he called our ‘bond’ and I described as my ‘discipleship.’ And by then my awareness of her did not in the least affect our relations beyond planting a kind of sympathy in my mind toward him, because she obviously had taken advantage of his innocence. He was also kind enough to inform me that upon their ‘wedding’ night and certainly afterwards he had been careful to avoid all customary ‘sex encounters’ between husband and wife, knowing, as he told me, the terrible effect he could have upon others if he imposed himself when they were not in a state of perfect readiness.
“By then, as I said, I’d come to understand Tk much better and to admire him far more than I would have thought possible -- as much as anyone can be regarded, in fact -- because he was like no man I’d ever met. I blushed to have ever thought he was a kind of confidence man, like a Quaker Act! Oh, forever more, he wasn’t. Faith he evoked, and joy!
“I need give only one example of his true, manly and forthright qualities, which occurred a few months after our first encounter, although naturally he showed his mettle many times over. During an unannounced visit to ‘headquarters’ on Kinzie Street, one of my former colleagues who went by the name of Grocock managed to collect a crowd of new Technical Workers (who are at their most vulnerable during that particular stage of the Instruction) by claiming the vibrations of the device he’d strapped to his wrist could knock down a building in thirty seconds. And at the same time, he had the nerve to assert there was no such thing as a spirit, or even a soul, just scientific fact, of which he was a master. He was causing quite a stir.
“After seeing this boasting, Tk approached our group. Of course, my former friend’s antics were causing me pain, and I was worried about their effect on Tk, too, but with one of those expressions only he can bestow, he assured me that he bore no ill will.
“In fact, I saw he had only the best intentions toward my former friend, intervening only to save him from a most humiliating and dangerous mistake.
“‘But why,’ Tk said, ‘do you concern yourself with this bauble? You should know,’ he said, ‘that it’s a terrible waste of energy. Nothing made by human hands can replace the spirit, regardless how it’s tuned, and knowing the workings of the spirit is the only true ‘science.’ He paused, eyes quite dark, and concentrated solely on the braggart. ‘The most important thing, you know,’ he said, ‘is that we seek Thought Matter, and I can assure you if you persevere under my guidance and complete the Personal Demonstration, you may strike down a hundred, hundred buildings if you choose, and not in thirty seconds, either, but five!’
“Our group exchanged the most excited looks! I swore we heard a rumbling above as Tk said, ‘Why, I can cut down a mountain with the edge of my hand! But don’t think for a moment,’ he said, his voice filling not just the room but our very minds, ‘that you’d do it. In fact, you’d choose not to, because you’d have learned that such things are wrong. In fact,’ he said more softly, ‘it’s only when you understand this -- in other words, when you have the power of the universe in your hands -- that you know good from evil as they should be known, an insight, my friend, far exceeding the paltry emissions of any simple seismic device. Yes, my friend,’ he said, ‘you must change your life or live in constant danger. Listen to me carefully,’ and then he touched my old friend above the heart, eliciting a gasp as the man buckled. ‘You must shrink, sir. You must shrink to grow!’
“Well, forever more he was beautiful! Some of us actually jumped for joy, and we were clapping, too, with the exception of my former colleague, who looked away but then raised his moist eyes to Tk. And then my master grasped his hands and stared at him so benevolently that this man, whom I knew to have a most overbearing disposition, began to weep! And with this first damp expression of gratitude Tk’s eyes turned that dear sweet blue again, though with the exception of the night Tk and I first met I’d never seen them grow as dark as when he was setting that old rascal straight!
“Yes, although ignorant people may associate him with the dead, visiting them was only a part -- a small part -- of Tk’s mission. I could tell you things he’s done that would amaze you, like when he predicted the future after I swear he’d turned into a little piece of straw floating in the air, but time and my sad heart won’t allow it. Do you know how hard it is for me to recall these things, knowing what I do?
“Soon afterwards, I chanced to observe my old acquaintance slip the worthless little bauble about which he’d so foolishly bragged off his wrist and into his pocket. The next day he enrolled in the School of Spiritual Light, and several months later, having pursued its course to the obvious improvement of his health, character and prospects, completed the Personal Demonstration!”
A picture of Tk’s portrait bust, inscribed, “For one and all.”
“I know, though, that I’m only beginning to suggest what Tk aroused in me. You must believe my feelings for HIM encompassed much, much more than normal womanly admiration for an accomplished man. I am not too proud to admit it, though I trust I continue to earn the respect due a lady.[25] I must acknowledge at times my emotions resembled the effusions of those love-besotted creatures you sometimes see almost literally melting into a man as they pass by arm in arm down the street, because despite my purest devotion I could not prevent the intrusion of such sentiments. I admit there was a time when I realized I loved him to the point of danger -- it was when he’d said he’d ‘known me before and was still seeking me.’ I don’t understand what he’d meant, really, or the source of my submission, which I say without fear of contradiction was unique in my experience, but I affirm these feelings, which I believe to have been honest and good. Perhaps I can explain the remarkable spell he cast by recalling another event.
“To my great happiness, Tk and I held several consultations about the interlocking topics of morality and immortality, ideas forever conjoined, he explained, not only by their similar sounds but also by the fact -- of which until then I was unaware -- that the latter cannot be assured without strict adherence to the former. Of course, his knowledge of both subjects surpassed all others’ with the exception of his companion Big Spokes on the Knowledgeable Wheel[26] including of course the One-hi. But it was Tk’s passion when he explained the transcendent understanding of right and wrong in Thought Matter that shot so deeply into me! He so keenly experienced injuries to others, in fact, that at times I feared he might take a peculiar kind of joy in the distress they caused him.
“I recall how he once put aside the morning paper, his face aglow and his lips moving without a sound until he emitted a deep sigh and said, ‘I saw this coming.’ Obviously trying to master himself he paused, although he could not suppress a tear that brimmed and fell onto his plate. He waved his right hand and said, ‘I forget myself,’ but it was not until sometime later that he -- yes, the Tk! -- controlled the tremors coursing through his body.
“‘This must never happen again,’ he said.
“Then he told me the story of Gwen Mahoney’s, which was only one instance of his compassion for the wretched of this earth. With the greatest sympathy -- empathy, really -- he spoke of that young woman, or rather girl, because she was just a girl. And before I continue you should know one of the most striking aspects of this episode, almost more remarkable than the intensity or purity of Tk’s compassion, was that when later reading about it in the papers I saw only the barest outlines of what he’d revealed with such conviction that I knew he’d witnessed it himself. And no doubt he’d seen it, because he was everywhere and anywhere and always complete, if sometimes winnowed down to the merest corporeal presence like that little piece of straw I mentioned -- at times as simple as a piece of straw.”
A picture of a summer rose lying on some cut grass.
“Gwen Mahoney should have been playing with the puppy or helping her mother prepare dinner when Vartan Zuta, that is, ‘Zutty the Gyp,’ lured her to the six-day bicycle races. Tk told me Zutty’s father was a gypsy, his mother had abandoned him almost as soon as he could walk, and in time he’d become a professional rapist, unfortunately not an occupation unique to him in the vice lands of Chicago. Having led her from the velodrome to a nearby saloon, he pulled Gwen through a false door, dragged her down a passage to a Levee ‘house’ -- the terrible future only then entering her mind -- and told her that this was her new home. Then in the Levee slang he ‘broke her in.’
“Afterword he slipped her knockout drops and had a large pink and green dragon tattooed on her thigh!
“Gwen Marhoney never saw her family again. In fact, she never left the building. Indeed, she seldom left her little room.
“I sometimes wondered whether Tk liked me because of my ‘unconventional’ past, but I assure you I have never been inside one of those places. I can only imagine the horrors they’ve seen. Why, even the music I’m told they play is a mockery.
“We know Gwen Marhoney’s story unlike those of countless other girls, Tk said, because she killed herself and showed the good people of Chicago what they’d suspected but never acknowledged: thousands of souls, children of light who perhaps know only a little more or dream a little less than she, live as no one should.
“That is, Tk said, the other night, some weeks after she was taken away -- and how much must be left unsaid in that phrase -- Zutty entered her fourth-floor crib and pulled her down without kissing her -- cruelly, as he’d taught her to expect. Then, Tk said, having pushed aside the clothes he’d given her, he leered at her tattoo. Fearful yet loathing the man who’d trapped her in a life of shame, she reached for the knife she’d hidden, thinking only to drive it into his heart.
“However, who cannot doubt that each of us -- even the most despicable -- can read others’ thoughts, or at least be moved by the ideas of those nearest us? Having lived and relived the moment that she’d kill him, this poor girl had no thought but murder. A spark of her plan must have flown to him, a foretaste of death, because when she sensed whatever was worth saving make its plea to her, she slipped her knife under the pillow and gasped in wonder.
“Soon afterward, he left and instructed the madam not to send anyone in until he made plans for her further exhibition.
“For hours she rocked on her bed, every now and then rubbing her forehead. An hour before dawn, when it had grown almost quiet, a deep red flush rose from her chest to her ears, and in the letter that she left behind she wrote, ‘I have done too much. If I don’t stop now, I’ll do more,’ and hacked off her left hand with the knife she’d planned to use on him. Her arm a fountain, she threw herself to the street and died minutes later. Those who’d gathered remarked that she’d not said a word, just stared up.
“‘My dear,’ said Tk, ‘it must never happen again!’ and I felt a shiver run through me and the very hairs on my head stood up.
“Tk’s jaw was set with extraordinary firmness, his expression as bright as I’d ever seen, his eyes so dark they were almost opaque, and yet they emitted a piercing light. It was almost as if I was seated before two presences -- his body and his soul.
“Well clearly Tk lived in an unusual way through the lives of others. They brought him out, especially if they were wronged.
“Alight from within as much as from the sun streaming through the window, he paused and said with the deepest conviction, ‘Some laugh when I say their life beyond depends on what they do on earth, but I’ve seen the other place, and I know you know I’ve seen it! And this is the essence of the Great Work,’ he said, ‘I’ve seen people howling because of what they did to their brothers and sisters, their mothers and fathers, their wives and children, or to complete strangers! Howling terribly, not like beasts but like men and women, which is much, much worse. They were lost -- beyond hope! We must help them! We must! We must!’
“And then he let out such a sob it seemed he was going to tear himself apart! Oh, we made quite a sight, because by then I was blubbering, too, and through it all the sun was shining as if there was nothing else going on in the world. That was our morning.
“I saw him like that once again, although I didn’t know what he meant when he’d said through his tears, ‘The poor sad shoes!’ He turned away when I asked him to explain, although he’d surely been weeping again. I know, though, I know to a certainty that these exceptional feelings, these tender feelings were always with him.
“And once or twice I felt that he was like those people, too, the howlers he’d seen. But that could not be.”
Mrs. Huntley’s letter continued in another, different colored ink:
“I know you know, though, that he wasn’t a ‘weak sister’ -- no morning glory but foursquare! What a fine, dear man! And at times he was more than that, on another level entirely than I’ve described, although you might not expect it from his scholarly research, invaluable as it may have been. Those who knew him well needn’t be reminded of what he called his ‘life in action.’ For example, he championed hygienic development, family planning and the advance of oppressed races, especially the Negro.
“The success of the Great Work attracted all types, though, even, I admit, miscreants crawling around the corners of our home -- fixers and fakers and ‘bosses’ like Hinky Dink and Bathhouse John.
“I thought I knew the reason, and I told him so, but he wouldn’t hear it except that it may have helped him formulate the 12 Ethical Problems we promulgated. They challenged him. He needed to speak to their souls, which was impossible, I said, because they didn’t have any.
“Nonsense,” he said.
“He should have seen those two weren’t true, though they said they rated loyalty above anything. But great men like Tk have a tender trusting nature.
“Oh, how could he have been so wrong!”
The next sentences seemed to have been written as if Mrs. Huntley returned to her letter after a long pause.
“Before Tk’s arrival Hinky Dink and Bathhouse hadn’t given much thought to those in the furnished rooms and boarding houses around ‘headquarters,’ since they didn’t bother to vote and scarcely made their presence felt. It must have dawned on them that Tk was stirring them up as they enrolled in the School of Spiritual Light, first in ones and twos and more after I worked out the supply for Vitalite and Vitaclear, which Tk so cleverly renamed the Tonic and the Cream. They had to see there was money in it.
“I warned him, told him they were the biggest fakers, the greatest rascals I’d ever seen. Always pretending to be looking out for you, doing you favors, saying they’re your friends! Shameful! But he wouldn’t hear it. ‘I can handle them,’ he said.”
Again, the ink changed.
“I keep hoping it was a mistake, that he didn’t do anything wrong and he’ll come back and make it right, but he hasn’t.
“And the whole time they were using him.”
A picture of Tk dealing cards captioned “The Official Four Flush.” On each card is the word “Pretense” followed by “of Honesty” or “of Loyalty” or “of Truth” or “of Respectability” or “of Goodness.” The king of clubs bears the thin-lipped image of Michael “Hinky Dink” Kenna, and the jack of spades displays the lumpy mug of “Bathhouse” John Coughlin, aldermen of Chicago’s First Ward.
“I’m not sure when they met -- did they come calling at ‘headquarters’ one day when I was out selling? Or perhaps he went into one of their saloons, because I know the free lunches fascinated him, and Hinky Dink holds a person’s attention when he wants to. Tk came home once bubbling about the spreads in those places, all the free meats and cheeses, pickles and herrings and hard-boiled eggs laid out on the bar. ‘I tell you, it’s a wonder how they feed them,’ he said. ‘The men so poor and hungry.’
“‘It’s not magic!’ I said. ‘You don’t think they give it away, do you? NOTHING’S FOR FREE. ‘do you think he gets their votes? Besides,’ I said, ‘they’re not too poor to drink, are they? And what do you think goes into the price of beer?’
“’Well, you know best,’ said Tk, but I sensed his disappointment in me. I think he wanted better from me.”
A cartoon of Bathhouse John Coughlin, who is wearing a checkerboard suit and a white derby. “Oh ‘hobo floto voto!’ he shouts, “Ain’t I the Latin scholar!”
“I might have told him that he of all people should see they were baiting a hook. But his look, as if he didn’t want to see me, shut me up
“Of course, he knew I knew my way around that type from before, so well in fact that when our show came to town and we needed a place to pitch and the law to look the other way I was the one sent in. ‘Leave it to Florence -- they’ve never dealt with the likes of her.’ You’ve got to keep an edge, you see, show them something while hiding everything else or they’ll turn around and skin you! They’ll just flay you, take their piece in boodle or ‘spec,’ fines or flesh, so I kept them wondering, eyes on the prize, and soon they’d be sitting in the front row clapping and stomping and whistling and buying everything we had. Hinky Dink and Bathhouse were the same, only worse.
“I got angry with him. ‘You’ve stepped in it now,’ I told Tk, just like my father used to say when I was little. I heard him in my voice, my old Dad. ‘You’ve stepped in it now,’ I said, ‘and you know it. Unless you start playing them, they’re going to take you -- you might as well accept it. They’re going to shake you down, they’ll find a way.’ Oh, I was awful. All the things I thought I’d forgotten coming out. And I thought, ‘He’s going to hate me!’ because he was looking at me as if he had a plan again. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘you’re not the only one who can make plans.’ It was just awful.
“Do you know, though, that he just gave me a smile and said, ‘I do good work, and every day is a new day.’
“‘Tomorrow’s going to be a bad one!’ I said, and he looked at me as if he was seeing my soul and walked away. I was so afraid he’d turned his back on me!
“I shouldn’t have let him, I know. At least I should have been brave enough to tell him those two owned the house where Gwen Marhoney worked and scores of others.
“But I let it go. I felt sick, but I let it go.”[27]
A drawing of Tk, who is shouting, “Free eats!” Before him on a platter lies a naked woman under glass.
“Later, after I took some of the Tonic and saw him again, he told me he had to help those two because they’d signed up for the Instruction.
“I asked, ‘Are you going to keep them on the books? Are they paying?’
“‘Oh no, no, no,’ he said, ‘We have to keep it secret because they can’t risk the newspapers getting a hold of it. They’ll make their contribution, though,’ he said, ‘quietly.’
“‘Then you’re as good as dead,’ I said. ‘Haven’t I told you, you’ve got to get something on them?’
“He looked at me, his jaw tightening, and I felt so afraid I couldn’t move. Slowly he said, ‘I’m older than you think, and I know all about them. I’ve seen you, too, you know,’ and I started to tremble. ‘If they do what they want,’ he said, ‘there’ll be a reckoning.’”
“He wasn’t perfect, you know -- he was too good. And this makes me think of the last thing he ever said to me. He was always so far ahead, even if I found myself wondering sometimes, ‘Is he a piece of work, after all? What’s his game?’ Of course, now I see how little I knew him. He didn’t want anything from me, I suppose, or from them, either, except that we’d get better.
“This is what I’ve been leading up to. What did Tk do that was so bad after all? Did he do anything he shouldn’t have? And was any of it really wrong? I can say with some certainty that he did only three things I have to forgive -- but I can do it, even the last -- so why can’t you?
“First, he gave those two the idea for the First Ward Ball. That is, he told them to throw a party, and not just any party -- it would be the biggest blowout, with women and music and all the liquor they could sell -- and told them to start off their next campaign with it, too, which Hinky Dink must have thought was a good joke because there was no chance of his losing any election he wanted to win. Why, they didn’t need a fancy dress ball to put themselves over! But a party was a splendid way to begin the New Year, Tk said: they could charge admission to anyone who owed them a favor or wanted one, and from all the rest, too, who’d think it a privilege. I’m sure that perked them up. And then Tk told them to say they were putting the money to good use. Coal for the poor, milk for the kids. Oh, they listened!
“Think about it -- in one night they could collect a year’s profits while giving everyone the time of their lives!
“And Tk did that bad thing to me, which I prefer not to talk about -- and maybe he didn’t know what he was doing, either.
“And then he gave in and left us. Why didn’t he fight back, why didn’t he reveal those two as the snakes they were? Weren’t we worth fighting for?
“He must have thought that he held us all in his hands, our whole world, because no one was as tight with Hinky Dink and Bathhouse, and they are the most powerful men in Chicago. Oh, what a profession! Is there anything more disgraceful than a politician? And of course the School seemed to be on a firm footing and was growing every day -- all I’d hoped for, really. We were talking about turning it into a college. Not to mention the Tonic and the Cream.
“He must have been too good for us. I know it’s an old story, like the thought that keeps coming back, something you can’t stop when you know you should and you find yourself thinking it again. Why couldn’t Tk have done something more, though, unless he wanted it to happen?[28]
“And then he left me!”
Again, she seemed to have paused.
“It was soon after the First Ward Ball when he told me about the great Super Ape.
“He’d been thinking a lot about the Ape, but he’d kept it secret and it’s never really come out as it should. The essence of it, Tk said, was that there had been a pure and strong creature -- the great Super Ape -- over nine feet tall, who strode the earth thousands of years ago, almost before time began. Tk had seen him, though, and the creature made such an impression with its extraordinary brain and glossy pelt and had such glorious strength that it was clear he’d mastered the earth! Its strides spanned yards. After thousands of years, though, generations upon generations, Tk said, its kind had disappeared, replaced by our flawed and lowly race. ‘Because how else is it,’ he said, ‘that we know giants unless we’re reliving our memories of that magnificent creature?’ The Ape was good to the core, he said, pure as its pelt.
“It was wonderful -- I can’t do it justice except to say I listened as closely as I ever did when he came up with something new, and I swear he’d seen the Ape. He described its green home, the vines and swamps and two giant lizards -- or dinosaurs -- a pair the Ape and he watched from behind some reeds. The male followed her back and forth, bellowing, and circled round, thrusting and pushing and eventually going off to the river to feed on some rushes while she swayed in the bushes.
“Tk told me that he was still searching for what had caused the human race to succeed the Ape, but in the meantime he’d learned at least one thing for certain.
“‘I believe that I am descended from the Super Ape,’ he said. ‘And I have talked with my forebears, even the first, and with only a little time I shall return and bring you to them, and not you alone, anyone who wants to go. Anyone can return with me to the pure state embodied by that magnificent beast!’
“Well, Tk’s convictions were extraordinary, and his plan for the Super Ape may have been the next breakthrough we were waiting for. Surely everyone at ‘headquarters’ would have liked it, and it would have made a wonderful topic for a lecture series or a new course at the School, especially if we’d located its tracks or some other remains, although I confess I might not have seen it as clearly as I should. Sometimes I think it might also have been Tk’s reaction to everything he’d gotten himself into with the aldermen and the law and maybe with me, but does that really matter? What matters is, I didn’t help.
“I was worried by certain signs among the Great Workers and the newer Technical Workers who are always at risk of becoming little skeptics. I feared what might happen to us, because I could tell something was going on behind our backs.
“I also recall during this time a rumor spread that one of the elephants in the Lincoln Park Zoo was saying Tk’s name out loud, which distracted a lot of the Workers.
“And then I confirmed that something was indeed going on, resolutions were being moved against us in the City Council and the State Assembly. They weren’t after us alone. But they were saying the worst things about Tk and the Great Work, and then one of our friends told me if we stopped selling the Tonic and the Cream, turned them over to Hinky Dink and Bathhouse, we might scrape by, but Tk wouldn’t do it. It was the practical foundation of the Work, he said, and my creation, too, because I’d made the formula and built up the business. I didn’t tell him, but some Italians tried to muscle it away from me, too. Then Hinky Dink sponsored a bill to shut us down -- even the School -- and Bathhouse made a speech about closing our distribution arm, and the police stopped us from selling prophylaxis and the Tonic and Cream and other necessary things. Why, they were killing us!
“But I suppose I didn’t understand Tk or was unworthy of him.[29]
“I believe that the other investigation, though, the one I’ve only guessed at until recently, was at least as dangerous as what I’ve described. It succeeded where the others might have blown over.
“Almost from the date of his disappearance it was rumored that the Order of Free Masons had singled him out for punishment, and now I can reveal that they actually may have driven him from Chicago. The great and powerful Free Mason Lodge of Chicago! He wouldn’t say what he’d done to them, but of course he knew what the Masons could do -- perhaps in league with the Spiritualists -- and I’m sure his fears were justified. This was the last straw after everything else that seemed to be falling around him.
“It was terrible. He was like a wild animal who’s been locked in a cage, deprived of the sky or whatever it is in Nature that sustains him. Oh, forever more, in those days I thought no one could bear it, not even him!
“When he appeared before me at ‘headquarters’ during our final gathering, I said, ‘Tk, you must have faith. Don’t give up. We want to help. All of us do.’
“Of course, he knew I doubted him. If only I’d shown him how much I could believe!
“Then I said something inspired. ‘Tk,’ I said, ‘I know the answer. I can see it. You must turn over your life to a higher power! No matter what you think, no matter what anyone does, what any of those people do to you, even what you may think you’re doing to yourself, you’ve got to turn yourself over to a higher power! Let it save you!’
“Not waiting a moment, as if prepared for what I was going to say -- as he must have been -- Tk said, ‘No. I’m it, and you don’t know what you’re saying. You may never understand,’ and then he turned his back on me for the third and last time.
“These were our final words, although I’m not ready to admit it.
“I love him so!”
Mrs. Huntley’s letter did not end at this point, because in closing she asked us to pass along some pleasantries to mutual friends, but we conclude our excerpt here.
COMMENTARY
A Commentary may neither be had nor is required with the exception of noting Mrs. Huntley’s defining quality, the source of her strength and beauty -- she lived more completely in the present than any person on earth, even if that led her to speculation and confusion, her mind perpetually inquiring, hoping and deliberating.
A picture of a beautiful woman’s lips.
Oh, Mrs. Huntley, is there anything that you do not know about Tk notwithstanding your deductions, womanly intuition and transcendent love? Yes, there is.
* * * *
A Cartographical and Socio/Anthropological Analysis; the First Ward Ball
What is the Tk? We note that although Mrs. Huntley has revealed much pertinent information about him, certain things that this great and good lady omits must be analyzed.
Although she correctly placed Tk in his worldly context, she could not resist surrounding him in the sweet perfume of her nature, almost as if she’d hung a sign like the billboard by the slag heap in “Smokey Hollow”: “The odor that you detect does not emanate from this location.” We are compelled to rejoin: “No! No! No! No! There is no greater stench than Tk’s own peculiar smell! We say, he stinks!”
CHICAGO: A CARTOGRAPHICAL AND SOCIO/ANTHROPOLOGICAL ANALYSIS
Thus must we dive far beneath Mrs. Huntley’s account to anchor Tk in the fetid depths of the great city of Chicago, the place of his worldly demise, because it is this scientific, or socio/anthropological rigor that her recollections lack, eloquent though they may be. By applying the strictest scientific discipline, we shall expose the fallacy of one of his most important claims: that he had, and that we may obtain with his help the power to foresee the future as clearly as changing the past. To the contrary, we assert Tk’s claims of prescience were false not only as they pertained to everyday life but also to himself. The only way he could change the future was to change the past, but early on he learned that to change the future by changing the past endangers the balance of the universe and thus of all Mankind, and so to his credit he took suitable measures to prevent such occurrences. But of course this limited him. And in any event the past was always present in him, if often misunderstood.
Nonetheless, we can describe the past and the present by employing the disciplines of History, Economy, Sociology, Social Psychology and Anthropology as well as the teachings of Biology, Taxonomy, Phylogeny, Eugenics, Criminology, Statistics, Political Science and Topography to reveal the strata, or layers, or rings upon rings of the great city of Chicago. With that schema in mind, we may place Tk in situ. And so having revealed past and present in their proper places, a most worthwhile endeavor in and of itself, we may at last express probabilities about the future with some hope of accuracy! And what a great future it may be!
A schematic drawing of the city of Chicago, which to some may resemble a diagram of Dante’s Inferno. That is, from a bird’s or worm’s-eye view (depending on one’s perspective) one sees the inwardly contracting or outwardly expanding rings, bands and swaths of this city -- each outside or inside the others -- labeled in bold, “PERMANENT RINGS OF ACTIVITY, INSTABILITY AND CHANGE.” The last or outermost ring is a large green patch labeled in a lighter green shade, “Farming, Gardening and Residential Areas,” and within it are green and brown loops descending toward the center and labeled in red: “Farms, Outlying Country and Villages,” “Estates,” “Suburbs,” “Commuter Districts,” “Residential Neighborhoods,” “Family Dwellings” and “Bungalows.” At the bottom of these rings, near the Lake are three narrow white bands labeled in silver flecked with gold: “Restricted Residential Precincts,” including the “Gold Coast,” and lying with some open space between are two white patches inscribed in black: “Zones of Commerce” and “Zones of Culture,” while on all sides surrounding them are busy grey swaths labeled in white: “Zones of Industry, Processing, Rendering and Storage.” Moving toward the center is a large ring of grey marked in tan: “Zone of Multi-Family and Workingmen’s Flats,” and it contains inwardly contracting white bands labeled in black, yellow, orange, green, red, navy, light blue, maroon and stucco: “Deutschland,” “Swedeland” and “First-generation Immigrants: Italians, Irish, Poles, Ukrainians, Lithuanians and Bohemians,” followed by greying and charcoal swaths labeled “Flats to Let” and “Tenements.” Less embraced than anxiously encroaching on this area is an orange band marked in pink, “Red Light District -- Scene of Diverse Pleasures.” Within it is the next-to-last ring before the center, or core: a yellow band marked in chocolate: “Zone of Transience,” which contains the following purple-labeled maroon, amber, iris, tangerine, crimson, copper, beige, plum and piebald swaths descending tightly toward the middle: “Cheap Entertainments,” “Slums,” “Kilgubbin,” “Little Hell,” “Roomers,” “Flops,” “Cribs” and the “Underworld,” as well as a small bronze lozenge marked in crimson: “Chinatown,” and a threatening mahogany band shooting to the south labeled “Black Belt.” The core or nub of this schema is silver marked in turquoise as “the Loop,” and it thrusts up like a tower as the Lake and the River squeeze it. Only then does one realize an odd oblong white shape transects it and spreads over, into and overlaps with or absorbs a portion of the aforementioned rings of “Roomers” and the “Underworld.” This splotch is untitled and mysterious, and it seems that cloudy emanations from its amoeba-like presence are almost imperceptibly altering the motion of each of the other rings, bands and swaths (because each is revolving in an orbit of its own at a different speed within or outside the others, some steadily, even nobly, some more erratically, even disconcertingly, around the core). This white splotch is like the mysterious emanation of ectoplasm, and it reflects the reach of Tk’s Great Work.
It remains to populate our urban “rings of activity, instability and change.” And here, too, we write with confidence, because dedicated field-work -- not only our own but also investigations and reports by academicians and specialists from the best university departments, public agencies, foundations, churches and social service clubs across the Midwest -- informs our observations. With expert assistance, therefore, we have concluded that the inhabitants of this powerful and dynamic city of a million and a half souls may be divided into four groups. Before describing them, we shall emphasize perhaps their only, and certainly their most telling, shared characteristic: a profound psychological, psychical and spiritual distance from each other, even as physically they pass “cheek by jowl” in the struggle for existence, because, as observed by a prominent sociologist of our acquaintance, “There is nothing more various than the thoughts of the people who at the close of a workday throng up Michigan Avenue through the Loop: shop girls, brick layers, grain brokers, men of affairs, women of fashion, butchers, storekeepers, waitresses, inventors, bankers, vagrants, clerks, lawyers, artists, peddlers, newspapermen, criminals, politicians, teachers, cooks, pharmacists, philanthropists, mechanics, socialists, socialites, salesmen, demimondaines, priests, poets, bookies, typists, haberdashers, shop stewards, newsboys, milliners, maids, accountants, doctors, messengers and those who could not describe their occupation more specifically than “laborer,” although like most of the others they hope that their luck will change. How many are their interests, how diverse their ambitions, how vastly multiplied their chances in this great city compared to those in the European villages and small American towns and farms from which they or their forebears, at most one or two generations removed, arrived! What plans, plots, conspiracies and dreams swirl beneath their hats! What except the presence of these dreams do they have in common as they jostle each other in the street? Very little indeed except for the freedom that only on special occasions they celebrate. What diversity they exhibit, though too many are close to starving while at least some may be better filled with the world’s bounty than any other people at any time in history and many, many more realistically aspire to such a state!”
Notwithstanding such variety, we repeat that the best research divides the people of this city into four groups -- “the Wealthy and Powerful” (including those “of good family, not employed,” as well as champions of industry, commerce and the professions), “the Middling Masses” (including “hopeful immigrants”), “the Roomers,” and “the Lost.”
Let us begin with the next-to-last group -- “the Roomers” – who, although numbered in the thousands and perhaps scores of thousands, are so unobtrusive as to go almost unnoticed, except of course by Tk. They reside in the tenements, boarding houses and furnished rooms comprising the second innermost ring of Chicago, those who having come to the Gem of the Prairie to discover something new all too often fall into a kind of baffled fecklessness at times interrupted by chance sex encounters.
“Roomers” are identified as the strangely inarticulate, those who receive no mail except by mistake, who pick up and move on if only to another tawdry establishment with a card in its parlor window announcing, “Rooms to Let,” those each day left more baffled than thwarted. After these “Roomers” go to work, the streets they’ve crossed are empty, because children make neighbors and they have no children, although if they look quickly enough they might glimpse the image of a little sprite of Hell sizzling around a corner, because all too often Satan’s minions test their luck here, too, peering into doorways and first floor windows to inspire someone to grasp more than they could in good conscience take. But regardless of such efforts, Roomers’ faces mostly reflect puzzlement and skepticism, their lives broken into a series of events reminding them of their loneliness, confusion and fear.
Rarely do “Roomers” encounter each other in true intimacy, let alone members of the other groups populating this city.
How do those groups experience each other? Quite frankly they rarely communicate in the true spirit of Thought Matter, either. The Rich Man senses only from afar the mingled smells of stock yards and scrap heaps, tanneries, spice warehouses and rendering plants that are inextricable from the “Hopeful Immigrant’s” existence. In fact, these smells at best form only a nostalgically recalled backdrop to certain of the Rich Man’s nocturnal adventures. Or perhaps a Powerful Man will pass a few debauched hours with a Lost Girl, or he will praise his wife for packing a basket of socks and canned goods for her welfare committee to deliver to the Kilgubbin slum or the tramps on Clark Street, and every now and then he will make a decision bringing happiness or misery to hundreds or even thousands of poor strivers and their families.
On a rare sunny Sunday, a “Hopeful Immigrant” may walk past a Rich Man’s door on the Gold Coast and marvel as he emerges at the beauty of his trousers and the fit of his coat. Or an Immigrant’s daughter will pine for a frock that the Rich Man’s darling wears once a year.
For as long as we can recall, only two forces have linked these groups -- the Order of Free Masons, assisted at times by the Spiritualists (for the Masons and Spiritualists are ecumenical, entrapping anyone remotely predisposed to their fulsome fables, although even they have little success in recruiting “Roomers”), and, second, the sticky webs of the fixers and ward bosses like Bathhouse John Coughlin and Hinky Dink Kenna.
Then came Tk with his own net, spun to bind not only Rich and Powerful, Middling Masses and Hopeful Immigrants but the Lost, Lonely and Benighted, too, and, to their amazement and fear, for a while even the Bosses and Masons! Yes, he tied them together. But before considering whether he differed from the fixers and the Masons -- namely, whether he simply perfected their techniques of corruption and vice by more profoundly exploiting loneliness, depravity and the fear of death -- let us examine his erstwhile competitors.
It should go without saying, though, that the rule of secrecy observed by the Free Masons of Chicago and the retribution exacted against anyone who tries to shine light on their practices renders stillborn any investigation of that evil order.[30]
The ward bosses are another story, given their propensity to imitate peacocks -- their greatest talent being “hiding in the open” (to use one of Bathhouse’s favorite phrases). And those two cocks of the walk, Michael Hinky Dink Kenna and Bathhouse John Coughlin, aldermen of Chicago’s First Ward and proprietors, both openly and as silent partners, of scores of saloons, brothels and other disreputable ventures[31] exceed all the rest of Chicago’s politicians in their plumage.
In his youth, Bathhouse John Coughlin was a steam room “rubber.” That is, he’d meet a rich man exhausted by a night of sin -- the memory of wife and children slowly returning to his guilty brain -- on a steam bath’s bench and manhandle him onto a table, rub him down, push him into a shower, and now cleansed of grit and pink to his pores, wrap and unwrap him in towels, dress him and lead him down a passageway until with a blessing and a wave he pushed him -- a new man! -- out the door. And how did these ministrations lead to John’s success? There was never a better feeling than the pummeling of his meaty hands, which when coupled with Bathhouse’s healthy breathing, his fatty sheen and that last sunny benediction made his customers feel the great possibility of life anew, and in gratitude they’ve smoothed his way.
A man’s man who doesn’t let life’s joys pass him by, Bathhouse often repeats his friend Hinky Dink’s maxim, “Chicago ain’t no sissy town,” trying it out in various voices as if to remind himself of its promise. Accoutered in derbies, vests, cravats and trousers so resplendently colored in pastels and odd patterns that he regularly resembles an Easter egg, Bathhouse casts a mysterious spell even on those who profess to know him best. Perhaps it derives from nothing more than the play of the deep shadows beneath his eyes against the gleam of his grin. Or perhaps it’s the suggestion of utter irresponsibility lowering beneath his brow. When asked by Mayor Carter Harrison, Sr. what accounted for Bathhouse’s behavior, was it simply drink or perhaps lunacy, Hinky Dink responded, “To tell the truth, Your Honor, we ain’t found a name for it yet.”
Nevertheless, we dare anyone to locate a greater scoundrel than Bathhouse John Coughlin! Consider how he and Hinky Dink have in return for hard cash voted time and again to run a tramline along the shores of Lake Michigan and then for equal sums killed it, half-built! But that’s only the beginning, because they’ll find profit in any scheme proposed to be laid on peoples’ backs, preferably in recompense for services plausibly rendered but in fact paid for nothing with the exception of looking away while others share the loot. And does not Bathhouse encourage the consumption of every alcoholic drink known to man while extorting, if not outright owning, three quarters of the city’s brothels? His poesy (for he’s fond of reciting light verse), beefiness and iridescent sheen thus disguise utter venality. Simply put, Bathhouse John Coughlin has chased bribes, promoted vice and mulcted the people of Chicago for nearly his entire life! Worse yet, a day will come when his contempt for justice and decency spawns a murderous successor before whom Hinky Dink and he shall cower like piddling pups, a man who will spread an even darker cloud of horror and shame upon a once-great city, a man who will make the name “gangster” feared throughout the land.
A picture of Hinky Dink Kenna playing cards with a beautiful woman, the City of Chicago, while Tk observes. Hinky Dink is uncovering a joker with Bathhouse’s face. Women surround them, and one can almost smell the liquor.
Michael Hinky Dink Kenna is a small man, about 4’10”. From a normal vantage, he seems to be almost all head. But while his dome balances on a slender reed indeed, even more than Bathhouse he is Lord of the Levee, because for years he’s perfected the art of winning elections by at least five thousand votes. To an undeniable extent he controls the political as well as criminal fortunes of the Gem of the Prairie. Comfortable with sin, harvesting patsies and trimmers while encouraging the crooked as long as they aren’t “sissies,” Hinky Dink lives to learn the next damned thing to happen, and the next and the next, in order to squeeze it dry. No one surprises him except, for a time, Tk. In his deep voice, which resembles the murmur of the panther in the Lincoln Park Zoo, Hinky Dink offers to anyone who’ll listen the advice that for decades has ruled his life: “Leave the big stuff alone, settle for the little bit, and you’ll get on.” It’s as close as he gets to a personal philosophy. To be sure, Hinky Dink has obtained all the “big stuff” he could want, an empire, in fact, founded on beer, women, votes and bribes.
Now there lives a mystery within the hearts of these two that when deciphered reveals the cruelty of human endeavor. And please note, as Mrs. Florence Huntley has confirmed, that Tk linked his fortunes to them, showing that he was wicked or duped or both, despite his extraordinary powers. What then was he? Demon or dunce? Threat or prey? And what may be said of his peculiar use of Thought Matter as applied to them?
In answer, we suggest that, as Mrs. Huntley also observed, no small part of their success may be attributed to their seeming generosity. In Hinky Dink’s saloons, for example almost five thousand men of all ages and races -- “plug uglies,” beggars, day laborers, drunks sweating liquor, thick fisted bangers with thicker heads, toothless wanderers, cross-eyed scouts from Coxey’s Army, ex-convicts, single-taxers, bunged up Grange men, dull-witted youths, aimless wanderers and others with sore backs or a little down on their luck, eat their lunch for free, usually their only meal of the day.
In return, on election day these hard cases stream from watering holes like the Workingman’s Exchange and the Alaska Hotel, as well as resorts owned by their publican allies instructed in their civic duty, having first feasted on slices of ham, hard-boiled eggs, wursts, pickles, cheeses in slabs and wheels, chicken parts, potato salad, smoked oysters, pretzels, tinned meats, sardines and biscuits, not a healthy meal, for sure, and certainly not the fruits, nuts and legumes favored by Hinky Dink’s protégé, Representative Peach’s health faddist friends, but more than enough to earn their vote. Primed, too, with Hinky Dink’s beer, beautifully golden in schooners nine inches deep, these worthy constituents take true delight in exercising their franchise two or three times or all day if so instructed by Bathhouse, who never tires of greeting them with open arms, yelling, “Look me over, boys, look me over.” In fact, at times they must be warned not to vote too often! And then, released from their duties at the polls, many try their hand at other forms of electioneering, welcoming with barely governable enthusiasm the opportunity to brawl with champions of the opposing party.
Of course, Hinky Dink and Bathhouse also court their Hibernian brothers and Italian, Polish and Bohunk co-religionists confined to the city’s “Ring of Slums,” men eager to lend a hand to those who’ve helped them -- especially if some mayhem is in the offing.[32]
And the aldermen have garnered a different kind of support from the vice dens of the Levee, so that in addition to winning any election they choose they can also settle almost any problem for a suitable fee, knowing they may rely on the cooperation of any number of the “well-heeled” who, to the aldermen’s knowledge and often instigation, have disgraced themselves in some Levee hole and thus if their greed had not already predisposed them are persuaded to entertain the aldermen’s schemes for mutual profit.
And so, in the most dynamic and perhaps greatest city in America THERE IS NOT ONE DECENT HOPE AS ALL MATTERS OF IMPORTANCE HAVE BEEN TURNED OVER TO THESE LIVING, BREATHING ABOMINATIONS!
A picture of desperate women.
A picture of workingmen walking into Hinky Dink’s saloons and emerging besotted.
A picture of Bathhouse John handing dollars to hobos.
A picture of brewers with barrels of beer.
A picture of pimps and gamblers shearing men like sheep.
A picture of policemen turning a blind eye.
A picture of well-groomed men carrying sacks of gold.
A picture of the same men laughing while harlots rob them.
A picture of Gwen Mahoney at the moment of death!
A picture of a steaming bowl of Irish stool.
Although for too long unstated, the strongest and sometimes only tie linking the Middling Masses and “Hopeful Immigrants” to the “Rich and Powerful” is the evil work of these two scoundrels and their ilk, whose price is tolerably less than what their supplicants can pay.
They live in propitious times, moreover, no better example being this: shortly after Chicago’s population exceeded one and a half million, the City Council led by our two aldermen decreed that they would host the greatest of all expositions. It would celebrate the 400th anniversary of Columbus’ discovery of America, although really promoting what they hoped would soon be the greatest city on earth while, naturally, increasing their take. With news that the World’s Columbian Exposition would be illuminated by the greatest invention of the age, electric light, the whole city took on a rude wicked air as the aldermen’s profits exponentially grew. Through front companies they bought most of the land that they eventually sold to the city for the Exposition at several times markup, and, having made one fortune, moved on to a host of kickback schemes with various contractors and jobmen. No wonder Bathhouse reached the peak of joy, a prancing pachyderm, a waltzing walrus, a balletic bull as he marched down the Midway and back on Columbus Day as honorary drum major of Russell’s First Ward Marching Band, the finest band in the land.
Their invocation of civic unity combined with the glamour of power also led Representative Peach, scion of an old family, champion of diverse causes, to seek them out. Observing that Hinky Dink and Bathhouse sometimes spoke to the better as well as, regrettably, at times the worst aspects of our natures, Representative Peach, a civil service reformer and good government leaguer if there ever was one, praised their forthright, manly ways. Thus Representative Peach recognized as he continued to mock them that the aldermen brought him within touching distance of their constituents. Thus Representative Peach basked notwithstanding his wealth in the undeniable affection of the frightening throngs of Chicago. And thus Representative Peach, who’d already endured various vicissitudes of his own, indeed nearly every other form of succor -- drink, women, magnetic belts, vegetarianism, Unitarianism, cocaine and even a desultory study of the Great Work -- embraced the aldermen when they announced that they wanted to advance his political career.
But none of this explains the influence we’ve accorded them, as if they were children we’ve indulged. But what terror lives in a world where child-men attain power without learning right from wrong, wisdom from egotism, mercy from viciousness, Thought Matter from dreams, those supreme distinctions which to be acquired require security, serenity and insight, those fine considerations whose perception ultimately leads to the golden realms of the Summer Land. What terrors await if we permit child-men to lead us! In fact, by allowing such creatures to rule, we cannot not know ourselves. Thus, we ask again, why do we permit these monsters to become our masters? Is it simply because we, too, are monsters? The conundrum revealed by these two, the riddle they pose, therefore, is that they are only human -- if in some ways more evil -- and yet they rule us.
A picture of the Dream Child, who looks sickly.
Yet if you think their success means there is no hope for the human race, consider the following account of Bathhouse John in Colorado Springs, Colorado, which shows that even he awaits the true light of Thought Matter. When he first saw this place, in his fitter days, Bathhouse challenged an Englishman to race up Pike’s Peak.
A picture of Bathhouse waving a pennant, facing up.
From the mountain top -- or not far below it, because, having left his opponent far behind, he’d stopped to rest -- Bathhouse saw straw-colored grasses, warm boulders green with lichens, a high sky, a bird in flight and an expanse of empty space that made his temples clamor and his chest fit to burst. In fact, the mountain seemed to be singing hymns to him as down in a valley a line of smoke extended from a chimney while horses circled in a corral. He heard their whinnies like women’s shouts. Sniffing the wind bearing the memory of thunder, Bathhouse strode around the rocks and exclaimed to no one in particular, believing he was alone, “Ain’t this grand!”
But after he made his way down, he looked tired, and a perceptive observer could see the nauseating effect of habit pulling him back to the Levee, which is where he returned, although we’re informed that he bought property near Pike’s Peak and built a summer house, a small fairgrounds and a menagerie -- a cross between a fantasyland and a disgrace, the elephant, for example, being a drunk -- although he at least decided against opening a brothel nearby.
Now what Bathhouse found atop that mountain was peace, honesty, innocence, square dealing, magnanimity, tolerance, compassion, love, serenity, reverence, fervor and tenderness, in sum, CLEAR THOUGHT MATTER -- but it made him nauseous because he was born, grew up and lives in the city of Chicago, and that is where he shall bring down physical, moral, psychical and spiritual ruin upon himself and the rest of us if we do not act, because, notwithstanding his desire to find the good in them and perhaps in us, Representative Peach was wrong about Messrs. Bathhouse John Coughlin and Hinky Dink Mike Kenna. Beneath their alluring patina, they are in aspiration and practice forever calculating their gain, and they do so most effectively by seeming to be their friends’ enemies and their enemies’ friends. ALTHOUGH THEY HAVE LEARNED HOW TO WIN EVERY ELECTION, FROM TIME TO TIME THEY GO SO FAR AS TO DIRECT ENOUGH OF THEIR CONSTITUENTS TO ENSURE THE VICTORY OF THEIR PARTY’S OPPONENTS AND SECRET ALLIES, SO THAT BOTH SIDES MAY SWILL MORE BOODLE! In other words, they sell out in a way (because they continue to stand up to their “enemies” in public) requiring every last one of them, the whole gang, to be bribed, all of them oiling and corrupting the beautiful city of Chicago from every angle![33]
A cartoon of Bathhouse John Coughlin, who is wearing a lime green overcoat, yellow bowler hat and cream gloves. He is shaking the Mayor’s hand and shouting, “Your Honor, you have prevailed because of the spirit of justice that has caricatured your every effort!”
* * * *
How and why are these monsters of evolution tied to Tk?
Is it not because their existence proves the very principles of ignorance, rapaciousness, shamefulness, immorality and mortality Tk came here to destroy?
Then, more specifically, what did Tk do to fight them? Did he convert or even confront them?
As this inquiry has recorded, a nameless person replied to our handwritten solicitation in re: the Tk by referring to a debate between him and another gentleman, which concerned our two aldermen friends, too. However, our correspondent, who claimed to be an eyewitness, did not remember the night as accurately as he might. Before the strings of memory grow silent, then, let us relate Tk’s debate with “the Big Whatzit,” which we hope may answer at least some of these questions about our subject’s “life in action.” The encounter is fast being forgotten, but we can date it accurately, because it occurred at the first First Ward Ball.
But before turning to that night let us observe that in a different place not too long ago these two would not have shown their faces except in fear, and Tk would have been burned as a witch. But in that age men were not free, which is the blessed state fostered by the great inventions of our time -- the telegraph, telephone, the typewriter, the railway, stockyards, refrigeration, canned foods, and the catalogue.
A picture of a Master, who is wearing a magician’s miter and a star-spangled robe and is staring at a lake into which a man is about to dive.
Having moved for over a year around Chicago like a fiery cloud, or more insidiously an infernal gas in a way that even today is only vaguely understood, Tk was that night in the midst of a dancing, kissing, band-playing, yipping, yowling fancy dress revel promoted throughout the city and especially on the Levee and the Gold Coast as the “First Ward Ball” -- a celebration to whose novel enticements and many uses Tk had alerted Hinky Dink and Bathhouse several weeks before, suggesting proceeds go to benefit a newsboy, “Lame Billy.’ They held it inside a derelict brewery resembling a degenerate’s memory of the caves of our ancestors. Recalling a dare that the structure wouldn’t earn a cent before renovations, Hinky Dink rented it to himself, or more accurately to his election committee, because he owned it, spending a large percentage of the Party’s discretionary fund.[34]
Until driven off by Bathhouse and a brute known as the “Miscreant,” medicine show pitchers barked spiels from wagons out front, backlit against the night by kerosene torches. Gaily proceeding inside, bright-eyed youngsters gave themselves up to the affair, although once or twice a girl screamed when she noticed that she was standing in some sort of prismatic fluid. The chandeliers’ flames cast an orange glow at once soft and garish on silks, feathers, hats and masks as well as on the bare flesh of revelers who seemed to be forever filing through the haze to more intimate quarters. Soon all were bathed in the smell of beer, champagne and animal spirits. Open to anything, willing to endure any momentary squalor in the hope of something wicked, all seemed in unspoken electric agreement. With the first hurdle passed, in fact, scores of women adopted a recklessly competitive state of dishabille. Indeed, many who had only recently left adolescence were seduced that night into a life of commercial immorality.
As Tk predicted, over a hundred thousand dollars of “donations” poured into Bathhouse and Hinky Dink’s treasury. Of course, the aldermen were much in evidence, campaigning in their fashion, Bathhouse pouring drinks, telling jokes and winning a bet over how much ice cream he could eat, while in a corner away from the crush Hinky Dink explained a real estate scheme to a tight circle of swindlers. Meanwhile, two brass bands played on different floors while two pianos, a tuba and a banjo did lesser battle.
The party was most notable, though, not for its exhibitions -- if by evening’s end they exceeded even the Levee’s standards -- but for the moment Tk convinced “the Big Whatzit” that wishes are cheap while Thought Matter is dear.
In the middle of a large upstairs room, “Whatzit” had taken the floor, or rather a table upon which he was standing. Even in this setting his presence startled because he wore blackface as if he’d stepped from a minstrel show as he shouted in a kind of a sing-song that the “bad ouns” are with us, “as sure as an itch,” scratched himself and pointed a finger at the crowd. Every now and then linking a cultivated expression with the most degraded slang, he increasingly angered the crowd until someone yelled, “Who is that git?” and another said, “I don’t know, but he oughta shut his mouth,” while another cried, “Get off ya high horse, ya shiney,” to which the Whatzit replied, “Why I’m an A-Rab, ya mutts -- and I loves ta dance!!” But this didn’t seem to go over well, either. In fact, they decided to have none of it. Someone shouted, “Shut up, ya shiney!” while others threw peanuts and sawdust and a large man muttered that someone needed a beating.
Fearless, the Whatzit whined, “Now massa, if ya jass don’ look, ya ain’t goin’ t’ see ‘em!” while three men started to shoulder their way forward. They hesitated, though, when one of the brass bands started up almost literally in their ears. It made Whatzit stop, too, but only for a moment, because he broke into a grin and waggled his hips, shins and knees so lasciviously that a few young bloods switched to throwing coins while their girls raised their hands to their eyes. It was a shocking scene, no doubt. “You should meet my sister, ‘WhoDat’!” he cried.
Then lifting a bottle, he cackled, “Sons and daughters of darkness -- obey the cannibal king!”
At this moment Tk chose to make his presence known, and Whatzit stood to attention. Soon, though, he resumed his dance, and as he shucked and bucked he aimed his index fingers at Tk, who waved back. The crowd grew uncertain -- some murmured, some laughed, and the three men started to shoulder their way forward again -- until, as if to protect him, Tk spoke, his voice carrying without being raised. “He’s a live one, isn’t he?” The crowd fell silent. It seemed that the band had decided to take a break, too.
Then Tk asked, “Have you heard about the ‘sighter’?”
A picture of a Master, who is wearing a miter and a star-spattered robe. In the distance someone is swimming, elbow in the air, as the Master shouts, “Come back!”
At first, Whatzit didn’t understand. Rapidly, almost as if on wings, Tk parted the crowd, reached up, grasped the man’s ankles, for Whatzit was still standing on the table, and said, “There’s a machine to cover your eyes -- for the blind. The sights travel the canals to your brain.”
“What?” said the Whatzit.
“And you see clearly, and when you don’t want to, you don’t have to because you can take it off and your eyes will be smaller than specks.”
While he was saying this, Tk ascended the table.
It seemed that Tk’s eyes were now shooting beams of light into the other’s, which had become quite red.
“Now that’s what I been saying,” sighed the Whatzit, as if repeating a truth no one would hear. Then more cheerfully he added, “You can see it, or not.” But this seemed to engender a new thought and he wailed, “Oh, give me moicy!”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Tk, his own eyes emitting a golden glow. “You need mercy. No money!” said Tk, “No love! No lust! No wives! No friends! No pain! No judgment! Nothing! Not a thing! Not a blessed thing! Just mercy, my friend! Do not judge lest ye be judged!”
As he finished, the crowd stirred but fell silent soon enough, and Whatzit lost all sense of them. He couldn’t help himself, groaning with pleasure because Tk understood him. It was as if Tk had been speaking to him and he’d been speaking to Tk without saying anything, as if Tk’s voice had merged with his own thoughts, and he begged, “Oh forgive me!”
A picture of a Master in a robe and miter who is looking at a lakebed with only a little water -- a puddle, really -- and says, “I don’t see him.”
Tk said, “I’m so sorry, I profoundly regret what you’ve endured.”
Then he put his arms around Whatzit and said, “Oh, forever more, you’re so good!” At least for a moment it seemed that a beautiful woman was embracing her child.
Nearly weeping, Whatzit hung his head over Tk’s shoulder. “There’s no one better than you!” Tk whispered, although his words continued to sound in every ear. “You’ve done your best!”
Whatzit closed his eyes, and tears started to streak his cheeks. Tk stepped back and took hold of his wrists. It was all Whatzit could do not to fall to his knees, but Tk straightened him, moved his hands to the man’s temples, and then as if Tk’s hands were all that was holding him up, Whatzit swayed, tilted and in a moment that for years he regretted more than anything else from that night, puckered his lips.
“Why are you so lonely?” asked Tk. “Why, don’t you know?” he said as Whatzit’s eyes closed. “But you know now!” said Tk. “You need to know, and you shall know!” said Tk. Try it,” he said. “Try it -- say it with me. Say it! Say it! ‘I am so good.’ Say it!” said Tk. “’I! . . . Am! . . . So! . . . Good!’” Whatzit’s eyes were closed, although tears fell from them, and it seemed that Tk, too, had begun to weep as he whispered into Whatzit’s ear, and then as Tk’s hands let go, Whatzit’s eyes and mouth opened and he stood swaying like a flag.
“Listen now!” said Tk, and Whatzit looked up. “You are going to live forever! And you’ll meet those who await you with open arms!” Tk gripped his shoulders, and Whatzit’s lips started to move as Tk said, “They’ll hold you and love you, and you’ll be with them always!” and embraced him and perhaps kissed him, too, or his breath brushed his cheek. Then Tk stepped back and sobbed, “Oh, my friend! My dear, dear friend, oh forever more you will have it all!”
A picture of a Master, his hat on the ground and gown awry, looking like a man in search of an exit.
Tk pulled him close, and for several seconds they clasped each other until Tk turned him to the crowd. Peering through his tears, Whatzit wiped away the blackface with the backs of both hands, and after a few seconds looked out like a child.
But as he rubbed off the last splotches of his ridiculous disguise, some who’d pressed closer gasped.
“It’s Peach!”
“By God, it’s Peach!”
“It’s him!”
“It’s Representative Peach!”
“It’s Peach!”
“It’s Peach!” they cried and started to laugh. And then poor Peach/Whatzit fell off of the table and struggled to more gasps and cries and then a great collective cackle that circled and burst back on him as they witnessed an expression of terror, shock and shame that none, not even in that crowd, had ever seen. He’d lost his soul, Tk had restored it, and then he’d lost it again among these thieves!
Some said they’d heard him bellow, and then he stumbled into the crowd, hands raised, until he disappeared, a ripple of heads and shoulders marking his path.
“Go on,” said Tk, who still stood above them. And so he -- the “master,” the “teacher” -- had exposed him! Here indeed was Thought Matter in action.
Some also said that they saw a look of pity on Tk’s face
Or was he as shocked as the others by Peach’s fall, if not more so because had not Peach been one of his most prominent students? And did he also know that Peach was a thirty-sixth degree Mason and therefore that his humiliation would turn the Free Masons of Chicago against him?
Was he “sending a message” no matter what the cost?
Or did he simply forget to look into the future before he acted, as we surmise?[35]
A picture of a bear eating a wizard.
Surely Hinky Dink and Bathhouse felt no pity. Hinky Dink was seen skipping a jig, in fact, because he realized that Tk had solved the riddle of the upcoming election. “So much for that sob sister,” said Bathhouse. “Yeah,” said Hinky Dink, “that Peach was killing us. Now we’ve got it easy.” Because, truth be told, Hinky Dink and Bathhouse so controlled their constituents that they could have tied a ribbon to a little grey mouse and made him a credible candidate for mayor if they hadn’t found the idea vaguely wrong, but they’d come to realize that they just didn’t like Peach, and also they’d feared he might be fool enough to oppose their planned alliance with the other side. Arms outstretched, they approached Tk, who was cleaning his cheek with his handkerchief.
A picture of some bones and rags beside a pointed hat.
Soon someone handed Bathhouse a baton. It was midnight -- time for the Grand March! Time to lead Russell’s First Ward Marching Band! The floor cleared, and off they went, round and round and round, sashaying to the most astonishing din, Bathhouse at the fore, a yellow sash encircling his chest, baton pumping, until it seemed there had never been a second without such music. He was never jollier, a description that could be applied to most of those present.
The Ball so degenerated that few could recall its closing stages. Some thought they remembered a disturbing event, though, near dawn: showing off, Tk announced he was going to pass through a wall as the One-hi had taught him. Some laughed, others shouted encouragement and a distraught woman begged him not to do it. Taking a running start, he lowered his head and hit the wall at speed. Many saw a hazy light appear and smelled electricity, and then Tk tottered backward like a winded horse and stood shaking his head. Some said it had disgusted them, although what he’d done hadn’t much differed from what a lot of others were doing that night, making fools of themselves. It was the especially bewildered look on his face that was so troubling, though, as if he’d been betrayed, if only by himself. Few Great Workers were present, however, and when told the story they thought it was a lie spread by Peach’s friends, if later they gave it more credence.
A photograph of the assembled delegations to the Parliament of World’s Religions, held in September 1893 during the Columbian Exposition. They have congregated in characteristic garb -- dolmans, high collars, robes, turbans, yarmulkes, fezzes and strange stovepipe hats without name -- upon a stage that could belong in a high school auditorium. A large bust of Plato and a statute of Buddha stand on either side of the gathering onstage, which is rendered odder by the presence of a freestanding blackboard. The “Three Wise Men of the East” -- Roshi Soyen Shaku, Anagarika Dharmapala, and Swami Vivekananda -- feature prominently, seated solemnly in the front row if also joyful at the prospect of a new world opening up, as does Miss Mary Baker Eddy, who sits slightly to their left. Standing in the right-hand corner is another happy person. He is in fact beaming wildly, as pleased as a child with a new puppy, or like Bathhouse in front of Russell’s First Ward Marching Band. This most happy fellow -- at that moment the happiest being on earth, actually -- is the Tk, and sitting in front of him, although not close enough to touch, is a beautiful woman, one of the few present, who shyly and possibly secretly may be reaching for Tk’s hand. No, on further reflection Mrs. Huntley would not have reached for his hand, romance being foreign to her. In any event, Tk is so excited that he seems to have no inkling of her, although he would nevertheless have evaded her touch with scarcely concealed terror.
COMMENTARY
May we posit, notwithstanding our democratic age, that some people, or beings are fundamentally different, or possess materially superior characteristics than the mass of humanity? And yet might we also state that there is nothing new, that there are only re-combinations in the contest between good and evil that sometimes test the uneasy equipoise, although certain re-combinations may startle us more than others? And true to both these observations, may we acknowledge that we live in a most remarkable era?
Amidst the pain and squalor, a great event of our day proves each of these propositions: the First Parliament of World Religions, a gathering on these shores graced not only by champions of established western faiths as well as creeds more recently sprouting from American soil, but also representatives of eastern and southern Buddhism and its great progenitor, Hinduism in the towering presences of Anagarika Dharmapala, Roshi Soyen Shaku, and Swami Vivekananda. Simply listen to Swami Vivekananda’s opening address to the aforementioned Parliament and dare to contend that all humanity is the same and there are no elevated beings:
“Sisters and Brothers in America:
“It fills my heart with joy unspeakable to rise in response to the warm and cordial welcome you’ve given us. I thank you in the name of the most ancient order of monks in the world. I thank you in the name of the mother of all religions. I thank you in the name of the millions and millions of Hindus of all classes and sects. . . .
“This august assembly is itself a vindication, as it is a declaration to the world, of the wonderful doctrine preached in the Gita: ‘Whosoever comes to Me, through whatsoever form, I embrace him. All men are struggling through paths which in the end lead to Me.’
“Sectarianism, bigotry and its horrible descendant, fanaticism have long possessed this beautiful earth. They have filled the world with violence, drenched it in blood, destroyed civilizations, and sent nations into despair. Had it not been for these terrible demons, human society would be far more advanced than it is now. But their time has come, and I fervently hope that the bell which tolled this morning in honor of this convention may be the death-knell of all fanaticism, of all persecutions with the pen or the sword, and of all uncharitable feelings between persons wending their way to the same God.”
Amen, we say, amen! Amen!
And we are compelled also to quote the following pearl from that great presence: “Each one of us is the maker of our fate. We, and no one else, are responsible for what we enjoy or suffer. We are the effects, we are the causes. We are free, therefore. If I am unhappy, it is of my own making, and that shows I can be happy if I will. The human will stands beyond all circumstance. Before it -- the strong, gigantic, infinite will and freedom in man -- all the powers, even of nature, must bow down, succumb and become its servants. That is the result of the law of Karma.”
And yet we must note that the bell has now tolled for the poor Swami himself, taken before his pure light might burn its truth throughout the world! And let us also observe that the exceptions to most who trod this earth are clearly exemplified as much by the two men upon whom our attention has been focused, Hinky Dink Kenna and Bathhouse John Coughlin, as by those like Swami Vivekananda before whom we thrill with admiration. For those two are more like wicked excrescences than men. They cannot be like us! For example, such monsters only appear to lessen the chaos, when in fact their actions cause the increasing disorder of the universe as they impose their own horrid reign of lies. To change our rulers and our world, we must change our lives, and to change our lives, we must change our rulers and our world. IN FACT, THERE IS NOTHING WORTH DOING EXCEPT TO DESTROY EVIL! But how shall we do it? Where is the key? Shall it be the Great Work?[36]
* * * *
Thus we turn again to Tk. And as we did with Bathhouse John and Hinky Dink, we seek him in his youth, the boy who became the Tk at fourteen, hopping a freight car at a slow grade crossing on Chicago’s West Side, and then we see him three hundred and eighty miles later, walking away with a jump and a skip, bouncing with joy because he hadn’t been killed, hadn’t been stripped, made a punk and thrown out and down an embankment by a gang of hard men, tramps. Instead, he’d found friends, he who had come from nowhere. They’d shared their food with him and exchanged names: brothers “Thin” and “Fat,” “Greasy Bill,” “Soupbone,” “Buzzy” Cooper, the “Dearborn Kid,” “Papers” (a magpie philosopher). And on another night not much later during a round-about seven-hundred-and-fifty-five-mile journey to Chicago, we may see young Tk, merely one in what he only vaguely sensed was an army of poor boys and men crisscrossing the country, riding on the roof of a freight car too close to the engine and praying not to die, the smokestack hurling cinders against his head while dry mouthed he grips an iron handhold until his fingers are only a vise. The next afternoon he finally slid off as stiff as cordwood while the train slowed into the yard and every muscle in his body trembled.
But then in the night among the ragged men and boys with whom he found himself after the noises had died down to a drone of breaths, sighs and snores scarcely interrupted by the sleeping utterances of those nearest him, he saw the stars and had a vision of the shadow of time crossing the earth, and he saw beyond his own death and knew that he would always be with these unshaven, filthy, lousy people, inhaling the stench of their bodies, and he also knew he’d discovered a harmony beyond them in the vibrations of the aether in which the stars swam, and he saw that these men and boys, joined by countless other sweet and beautiful men, women and children, would look on him one day as a marvel if only he could teach them that he was. Yes, it may seem he’d gone off his nut! But what if he hadn’t, what if he’d only discovered his destiny? Having scarcely started to become Tk, he was the Tk, and so with all of the eloquence he possessed he would urge them to observe the spirits that he saw everywhere in the air and around them and be good. Was this, then, his essence, the essence?
What nonsense! And not at all good!
Yes, was not Tk akin to a man-god (at least a demi-urge) and probably still is unless he’s returned, as some have alleged, to his home above. Tk (we still don’t know his true name) saw the swirling, bubbling, coarse, piggish flood of life on earth or more specifically a tortured girl’s dying sob pricked his conscience, and he swooped to help us. He was that sensitive! He cut easily here, where we live, and his blood, the very finest, ran strong! Poor Tk, “poor” because only occasionally, as someone watching a dying fire is imperfectly reminded of the most beautiful sunset, was he able to add something heavenly to our lives, something new, good and pure. What misery he must have endured, though, when he tried to remember what he could from his god-life, when he tried to recall what he’d carried to us from the Wheel of Knowledge yet had almost forgotten after he joined us, or when he saw a person in need or pain who could not break from our flawed, feeble, fickle senses into Thought Matter!
OH, WHAT PAP! We say again, WHAT NONSENSE!
And yet Tk did the best he could, if stymied because when he first breathed our air, before he could talk, he had to permit his brain to change into our brain. Or the source of his demise could be as simple as this faithless, corrupt, rootless, grasping, querulous generation not being able to recognize him except in its own image. Or could it be as simple as our inability to hear him, with every other word lost, or the letters on the page changed even as he wrote them?
OH, FOREVER MORE, WHAT IDIOCY!
Yes, this Tk-god’s life had to be a human life after all. Only then could he be good, only then could he be a champion, and yet then he must fail. He made beautiful plans, but the evil and ugly webs of others enmeshed him in a sickening example of modern engineering. He came to us because he foresaw the horrors of corruption, violence and breaches of public trust tainting us, yet because venality, malefaction and cruelty drew him to us, misalliance, degradation and wrongdoing overwhelmed him. Was he therefore a weakling, no better than those he purported to teach? Was he forgettable but for the extent of his shame? Coming here was he doomed to be a minor figure among the fakers, showmen and purveyors of vice he encountered, a sham, an embarrassment, until he turned thoroughly, noxiously bad? And then what is to be learned from his demise? Wherever gods reside, did he know that he would add to the loot of the Lords of the Levee, that he would advance the perversion of democracy in America? Did he know that he would become a betrayer, a faker, an embezzler and perhaps a murderer -- a soul murderer, at least -- little better than the horrible Dr. Henry Holmes, the worst of Satan’s crew and his one-time pupil, or that his lessons would best reveal, despite all his hopes, the depths of human degradation? Was this the only way he could teach us?
Need we say it?
THIS IS UTTER RUBBISH!
He is far better off dead. Scalped. Murdered.
But by now the sprite at first no larger than the merest homunculus who had been suggesting these things, whispering them in our ear, has expanded to an enormous size, larger than a house, and cannot be ignored, only fought. THE HUMAN WILL STANDS BEYOND ALL CIRCUMSTANCE!
Consider that gods know the truth and the future. Therefore, Tk must have sought evil by choice, and therefore he was more evil than anyone in history! When he could see the best of humanity, he befriended the wicked. He could speak like thunder or touch as mist, penetrating to the very soul, but was there ever a worse missed chance than Tk’s humiliation of Representative Peach, was there ever a more appalling wrong than his failure to expose Dr. Henry Holmes, not to mention what he did to Mrs. Florence Huntley?
THE FRAUD!
Know, though, Mrs. Huntley has persevered and became free with the most miraculous insight! And so can you!
Or perhaps Tk:
Had no conception of the power of a casual proposal made to a tiny alderman;
Was no more bother than a ticklish hair;
Did not change history one molecule;
Could not see beyond his nose;
Almost merits pity.
What was he, then? Who? Who? Oh, forever more, who?
A picture of an owl.
A newspaper clipping from the police blotter section of The Chicago Tribune, which refers to a “Tk” but is so smudged as to be almost unintelligible.
Might one simply say thar he was born to a father who often beat him and a mother who ignored and then deserted him, that he learned early on to look after himself and while still a youth discovered a racket which mostly sustained him if also required occasional strategic retreats?[37]
Perhaps another episode from Tk’s unfortunate experiments with “life in action” may be recalled.
One day in 1893 he was passing down an alley near “headquarters” when he heard strange sounds and stepped into the darkness of a warehouse where music from a violin and a kind of beaten whirling noise like nothing he had ever heard fell upon him. Astonished, groping past crates and boxes under the greasy sheen of a dirty skylight he saw three men, one playing a violin, another hammering on a barrel and the third crashing the tops of two ashcans. It seemed as if the music was making the only real light, as if the light and the music were coming from three silver pedestals or urns that in reality were neither instruments nor sources of light as one would know them but instead the presence of the musicians themselves. It was barely credible, Tk knew, but he swore it made the most remarkable sight, like exploding silver. The violin sounded a long wail, like a bird flying from the walls to the rafters, back and off again. Then came a pause followed by even more extraordinary sounds -- screech, bang, crash, screech, bang, crash, screech, bang, crash, screech, bang, crash -- five full seconds of silence -- and then bang, bang, bang and two seconds of silence -- and then bang, bang -- one second -- bang, crash -- one second of silence -- and then an explosion of screeches, crashes and bangs as if they were throwing off showers of sparks and the place was going up in flames, and then it stopped and Tk felt the silence approach like a wave.
He shouted and ran to the violinist, a Negro, who jumped back. But Tk calmed him, swearing that he meant no harm, only that he’d never heard anything so beautiful. It worked. Having sensed the violinist was the creator of this music – indeed, the others seemed to be vagrants -- he spent the next minutes praising him.
Soon they became friends.
He was of Caribbean descent, although born in New York. Having trained as a classical musician, even studied in Berlin, he could work only in minstrel shows and the most insipid dance bands because of his race. Tk inspired him, however, and they began to plan a great day together -- at least one day when the Negro would be respected, a day of grand and glittering entertainment, of serious and ennobling music interspersed with speeches and lectures. Tk said there would be a parade to begin it, with a dedication to music, not only the brass band music favored by Mrs. Huntley and Bathhouse John, but also classical music and a wholly new music, music filled with surprise and joy, one of his friend’s compositions, perhaps a performance of the piece Tk had just heard, at which the man laughed, smiled shyly and shook his head. It would all happen at the Exposition, right on the Midway, said Tk. Surely it would: they would call it “World Negro Peoples’ Day,” and it would astound! Of course, Tk’s aldermen friends would help! There was nothing they wouldn’t do for him.
His friend repeated that they shouldn’t play the warehouse piece. Warming to Tk’s enthusiasm, though, he said he could write a new one, something he’d been planning, which required a classically trained soprano from Buffalo. Then he asked, how would she get to Chicago, afraid again that Tk would think him a beggar. But it was not an issue, really, said Tk, who promptly volunteered to pay her way, and then Tk said he’d pay for all the musicians, the best available. “It’s not an issue really,” he repeated, “for something like this to be counting pennies!”
But a few days later as Tk’s friend worked on his score, Tk had a vision of sunlight striking milk urns in the dairy house on his childhood farm, of the cold light on them and of straw and dust, and he also had a sense, barely retained but chilling, of men in a back room, a kind of annex, who were sawing -- a terrible rasping noise -- and he saw them look over their shoulders at him before they resumed their work. Nothing could stop them. Shaking himself from this manifestation, he saw others would not share his enthusiasm. He didn’t speak any more about it to the aldermen, although they’d expressed some interest, or to anyone else. Actually, it was for the best, he decided, if he didn’t meet his new friend for a while -- sure that if their project came to pass they would be mocked, or worse. Of course, he didn’t send any money to Buffalo or anywhere else.. There was no World Negro Peoples’ Day. It changed to “Colored People’s Day,” with melons and piccaninnies and an almost forgotten Frederick Douglass enlivening the crowd with a speech that was almost immediately forgotten. Tk did not attend.
Tk saw the man only once more, from a few blocks away, but stepped inside a doorway to avoid him.
Later, given some reverses, Tk thought that his friend might have put a curse upon him, but this fear passed. Eventually, he learned the man had returned to Europe. In fact, the musician had experienced much worse in America than Tk’s betrayal, but the bitterness of this episode contributed to his decision to leave.
One asks, what more could Tk have done? Of course, the answer is clear -- he could have done MUCH, MUCH MORE, and so the puzzle remains: why, with the powers at his command, with his sense of right and wrong beyond all others’, didn’t he?
* * * *
The time has come to turn, if carefully, to his own sayings. After all, with the possible exception of observations by the woman he loved, Tk’s own words, including the most quotidian, reveal him best, even when false -- between the lines so to speak -- or at least reveal what he could and could not find the courage to admit, as well as the tics and foibles that are as much a part of him as any summary of his failures and achievements. What better way, then, to start than by quoting an early recollection of Tk’s on the topic of Thought Matter?
In her reply to our handwritten letter a former student of the School of Spiritual Light noted that he possessed a remarkable facility to heal the infirm and the afflicted. Several others have also recalled his involvement in such work, and it is this interest in troubled spirits that informs the following autobiographical excerpt. Indeed, among Tk’s fondest claims was that he could treat the abnormally withdrawn and insane. He said for example that he soothed, relieved and healed the patients in the Inally Asylum near Portland, Oregon on his way to Chicago by the simple method of walking through their wards.
We know better, of course, actually holding a declaration by the chief resident of that institution confirming that he neither has seen nor heard of a doctor called George E. Rogers, the Tk. Nonetheless, in The Great Psychological Crime, the second of the Three Great Books of the Harmonic Series, Tk wrote most eloquently about his “curative faculties.” Later he disassociated himself from some statements in that volume, noting for instance that he’d unduly emphasized the practice of long-distance, even trans-continental hypnotism, which might be misused when exercised by the wrong person, but to our knowledge he never disclaimed the following excerpt.
This selection therefore may serve as a taste, however bitter, for those who have not yet read the book in its entirety yet want more than a précis.[38]
“When was your first contact with someone who was deranged?” wrote Tk. “Early on, possibly before you reached the age of reason, a poor aimless spirit may have crossed your path, because they are all too common. Did you laugh? That is not unusual, don’t worry. Did you also feel almost sick, nervous or strangely softhearted, and did your throat seem to constrict until you could scarcely breathe? These reactions, though less common, also are not unknown during such encounters.
“When I was young, I knew a girl who was a little older than I, although we were both really no more than children. In our little farming town, we’d been friends, and now we were sweethearts, as people were then who couldn’t rhyme in poetry but felt it -- although we were entirely circumspect.
“She was a thin little thing, and I was much different physically than I am now and so uninformed as to seem almost simpleminded. Our world was small, too. My dark-haired neighbor-girl was a tender sweet spirit, nothing is sweeter than to love, and, as if our souls had taken wing on the eternal aether, she and I flew together on the bright white clouds that often cross that region.
“But she changed. I began to notice her spirit cry out and pause as if preparing to drive her talons into me, and in response I changed, too. I winced or furrowed my brow at her advances and sulks. I smiled and offered advice of a moral nature. I regret this now: perplexed by her fickleness, I attempted to control her so that she could feel my moral strength and recover her equilibrium.
“But then she started, albeit almost as if slyly, as if she knew she was deceiving me, to act sensibly again, so that I delayed the application of any more corrective measures. Then, as if a phantasm had come between us, her ways changed for the worse again, although more subtly, as if an argument with nature was building like a storm. And dear maiden that she’d been, now her moods often left me inquiring and deliberating.
“After finishing our chores, we’d meet in a field of clover between her guardian’s farm and my guardians’ kennel as the sun was setting. During that summer in which she changed, this small fallow field smelled especially luscious, was soft to the touch, and I recall that its colors of green, pink and yellow stained our feet.”
A picture of a field, with the caption, “Take them to the clover.”
“That July was especially hot, but we’d enough rain and the corn was growing nicely. The bordering stalks hid our meeting patch except for its two approaches. Be assured, though, we were still a most virtuous pair. In our patch, we talked or sat still and watched the night approach.
“Because our region rarely saw strangers, I was surprised on walking to our field one evening to encounter someone I’d never seen before coming down the path. I wished him good night, observing that he had no distinguishing marks, as some hobos manage to look innocent enough to the sternest judge.
“It is odd, I admit, but as he passed me I felt somehow he’d been inside me but that I’d returned to myself.
“Then I heard cries from beyond, loud cries from our field, and I felt the strongest urge to turn and chase him, but I ran toward her instead, because my girl’s voice was frantic.
“I report that I saw her lying on her back with her clothes disordered. I saw this scene clearly -- she was lying on the ground and kicking her legs out, and yet I stood away as if gripping a ladder, unsure how to use it, my feet planted, my lips moving as she lay on the grass, apparently undone. Why, I’d never been so shocked. She seemed not to know what was happening. I could not move -- I felt almost as if the wind had been knocked out of me.
“The air was extremely close, and I believe that I saw a white and misty light. Our patch was otherwise still except for her. It may have been no more than a second or two, though, before I found the strength to raise her in my arms. I will take this moment, I will at any time recount to any tribunal that at that instant I felt something like fire leap from her body to mine! It was as if I’d been scalded! I also heard the wind blow around us. Then all seemingly in one movement I bent her arm behind her head and let her down again, until, her teeth showing strangely between her lips, she lay upon the grass, unconscious.
“I’d dropped to my knees. The heat continued to circle us -- it or the touch of her skin left red marks upon my hands and face that did not go away for weeks -- while my girl, two damp strands of hair across her forehead, lay limp. I took her hands notwithstanding the scalding and rose and pulled her up. Then I became dizzy and we collapsed again, raising some dust and causing her to moan. We lay on the ground like that, breathing heavily, until her heat sent me rolling over and I lost consciousness. Believe me, this was the first time we had ever touched.
“I awoke with her face near mine, her eyes imploring me as she said something about a child, and then when I discovered that I could not talk she spoke in a new, rapid way, telling me that I was her baby, although sometimes she called me the father and sometimes she took me for a stranger. Her skin was quite red. Once she touched my head, but immediately drew back her hand.”
A picture of a flame.
“Naturally, I was confused. Fending her off, I moved away, but she continued to press on most disconcertingly as the heat rose again.
“Then I thought of a trick, and my voice returned. I told her that her child was ‘away and coming down.’
“In a state approaching awe, she stared past my finger and appeared to enter into another realm. The air grew still.
“Why did I do this? I have asked the question more than once, how this ‘lucky’ turn of mind ruined my life for a long time and perhaps destroyed hers, or at least sent her back for years to come. I sincerely regret my action, because it was my action and not simply her fate that was profoundly wrong.
“I admit at first I welcomed the respite as she looked off for the baby, and I used that time get up. All around there seemed to have been a struggle. But although she was still quite red, she no longer appeared to be in pain. Indeed, she barely noticed me as I urged her to get up come home.
“After that, we could not do much for her. Night and day she looked into the distance with innocent expectation. With all my heart I tried to protect her, but I had my work, which kept me from giving her attention she deserved. The ugly human race: need I tell you there were those who took advantage? She became, as a Levee song puts it, free and single and disengaged, big for her size and young for her age! As for her once lively spirit, it became a mere filter or sieve. But before she could get into much trouble, I agreed with her guardian that she should be placed in an asylum, and some time after that we lost contact.
Only much later did I comprehend that I might have been the cause of it all by my effect on her, you understand, or, more aptly, what I’d failed to do.
“WHAT MIGHT I HAVE DONE?
“I should have done what anyone can do! That is, I should have avoided committing the ‘Great Psychological Crime.’ That crime, I submit, is the failure to respect the Thought Matter outside as well as in our minds, that is, in the minds of others, and includes the egregious failure to perceive the Thought Matter emitted by another’s mind in times of trial -- which is in fact the most easily detected of all kinds of Thought Matter -- if we have the courage to see it. My trick of conjuring up a child therefore was merely a selfish expedient, an indulgence, the avoidance of personal responsibility and practically a knowing evasion of Thought Matter, which is nothing if not the best of clear, active thought. In our ever so briefly and imperfectly shared mind I created another world with her, but I did not live in the realm of her thoughts in truly loving, clear Thought Matter! And of course I could not then have taken her UP.
“I tricked her! I lied! I convinced her that our imperfectly shared mind comprised true Thought Matter, and that was wrong. I did not make the right choice!
“Instead:
“1. I should have stifled every selfish notion. I should have forced such thoughts to the back of my head if they could not be obliterated and then pushed on into the Thought Matter of the beloved. I should not have judged her!
“2. One must sense when the beloved thinks she is being followed, is living a distant past, near-present or future, is attributing volition to inanimate objects or natural processes, is staring at one place for too long, is experiencing pain for no reason, is uneasy, dreams too vividly, fears the dark, sees things when she puts out the light, fears to look at your picture or escapes into reveries, repeats actions because she believes bad things will happen if she doesn’t, or saves things of no value. When she acts like this, stride into her presence and with all of your full force of mind, without hesitation and in complete open and public view and with the most profound sympathy, stare at her. Become her and think the honest, reasonable and practical truth. Gently but firmly share the truth with her. And lead her UP. The alternative is at best acute neurasthenia.
“Although I have referred to a young woman as the epitome of the ‘beloved,’ my advice applies to people of all ages, including children, who may be united by the expression of love. The course of the School of Spiritual Light is no more than learning to think in loving sequences like this, because such concepts embody the full, vibrant nature of true Thought Matter that in addition to being clear is inherently sympathetic, kinetic, affectionate and transformative because true Thought Matter entails all of the pathologies of thought and all of their cures and all of the beauties and beatitudes of the highest love within itself. I have heard this stated while riding on the Wheel of Knowledge. In fact, I have heard it from the One-hi himself.
“3. Be aware that at least one-half of all thought-pathologies start with our failure to resist, or, even worse, our admission of, spirit-invaders. NEVER SUMMON the spirits of the dead or those yet unborn. NEVER INVITE THEM IN. NEVER CALL THEM FROM AFAR. If you desire to commune with the spirits of the dear dead as any inquiring and perceptive person will at some time want, go UP. That is, always visit them where they live.
“4. Teach the beloved to sleep with her wrists crossed, ankles crossed, and palms pressed over her heart. It will slow her blood for the sake of calmness.”
A picture of a young woman resting like a baby.
“5. Persuade the authorities to build communities in which the afflicted live among the healthy, where those who exude well-being, reason, compassion and understanding may lend their Thought Matter to the afflicted. How can the afflicted recover their equilibrium if surrounded by each other and governed by uncaring, unenlightened custodians? Should we isolate our asylums from the world? No! Their improvement is a true measure of our worth! Outsiders, you healthy ones, come with me. Perceive and soothe them. Share. Be merciful. Lead all UP!
“6. Be confident. Mix. Love.”
A picture of the Tk, who is surrounded by the heads of seven radiant women that together form the shape of a heart.
COMMENTARY
May we observe that at times Tk’s books resemble pornography? See them, buy them, throw them away and buy them again: a fine way to behave!
Might we also suggest that this shocking incident never happened, or at least didn’t happen as told – that instead Tk adored his farm girl from afar, that his shyness, innocence and plain stupidity kept him from uttering more than a few sighs in her presence while he colored a deep red, and that when the foregoing events supposedly occurred he believed himself to be one of the loneliest creatures on earth? Indeed, one must ask again was anyone a greater failure, not only when young but always, than Tk?
Of course, the perhaps accidental prurience of Tk’s works advanced his cause, if not necessarily his reputation, because people crave easy enticements, though rarely has this nation experienced anyone who could so readily promulgate such misleading ideas with such peculiar allure. Honesty, reason, altruism, compassion and reform: Tk understood their power. As a child senses the desires in its mother’s heart, Tk discovered our need to hope and opened his mind to offer the most striking visions, as if he were making a gift of flowers or the glossiest summer leaves or unmediated desires. Because no man can find gold without becoming filthy, must he turn his back on it if he wants to stay clean? Of course we know the answer -- he can wash! But Tk, when you learned so well how to help, why did you choose to soil yourself so thoroughly?
For years Tk emitted his fog of confusion in ever widening circles like so much rippling, flapping gas until he endangered a great swath of this nation, including a great American city -- perhaps the most dynamic city on earth -- by his “life in action.” In the past there have been talented men with liquid tongues and fiery eyes, “masters,” “wizards” or “teachers,” and undoubtedly such monsters will reappear. The most troubling -- and let us at least hope he is the last! --“master” of course is the subject of this study, though fortunately you shall see, indeed you may already have seen, that he was his own worst enemy. Before we print more of his autobiography, however, obtained by us alone and never before seen by the outside world, we issue one last warning. We repeat BEWARE Tk. And we list several of the most important reasons why the enrollment and endowment of the School of Spiritual Light increased so rapidly and so many fine men and women held him so close that they, too, were burned:
2. Tk’s private life appeared to be spotless, though he was filthy.
3. Tk propounded certain apt moral lessons, such as the importance of individual responsibility and clear-headedness when deciding right from wrong. He was not only a moralist but also an idealist. Yet he was a chameleon, a charlatan, and worse.
5. Tk had enormous powers and perhaps a guardian spirit, totem or “familiar,” but they were too often powers of darkness.[39]
Did he not lead on his neighbor girl and countless others with visions of a “dream child”? Regardless whether that vision was of an actual baby, a cure for loneliness, an expression of hope, or a golden stairway above our loved ones’ graves, did he not lead all and sundry in the wrong direction?
We trust, though, that he, like us, will reach his equipoise, his unique balance of failure and success. Only his special equilibrium will take longer to achieve, because when the scales of justice measure him, they will have to extend across a far broader swath of space and time than previously conceived. The question is, what will be learned from his moment of truth, will we better ourselves, or will we wander more lost than before?
Tk Must Tell His Life Story
Unlike so many of his pronouncements Tk did not write the following autobiographical account on that special paper “upon which the contents appear when you read them and disappear as soon as you understand their message.” No, he wrote this “testament” on heavy white bond in Higgins Eternal Black Ink.
It may come as a surprise that Tk, so prone to secrecy, succumbed to memoir. But he was driven to try to capture his life or at least its most meaningful events, including in this “autobiography,” crude though it is. We think he wrote it soon after doubt began to circle his head, challenging the very basis upon which he’d established the Great Work in America. It therefore reveals him in an especially unguarded state. His own words at that time being in some respects more illuminating than anything we could now conceive,[40] what follows is:
An Autobiographical Sketch; Capers, Arkansas; the Great Fire; the Spirit Realm
Students of Spiritual Light!
Devotees of the Great Work!
Members of the League of Visible Helpers!
Aspirants to the Technical Work!
Friends of the Cause!
Others Who Are Waiting!
You know me, or you have seen as much as I have been able to reveal. I have traveled to your towns and cities and lived near you or occupied your homes to engage in the truest communion in Thought Matter, and during that time I have not stopped hearing requests that I “put something of myself on paper.” For about thirty years I have worked under assumed names in inconspicuous places with the sole purpose of advancing the Great Work in America. For months now I have been working more publicly at this fine “headquarters,” the Edgemere Facility on the corner of Kinzie and Dearborn that you have provided me, but with the exception of the Three Great Books of the Harmonic Series I have not chosen to write, and they were less written by me than through me.
You good men and women have helped me beyond measure pull nearer the day when the Great Work in America will be ready and hot -- and you know I like it piping hot! I have discovered more in you than you may ever know. That is, mysteries are revealed because of your confidence in me. And so I have decided that I should present you with what you have so long sought. I therefore deliver “my pledge in trust,” handwritten so that you may be assured of its origin: the story of my life.
Know that I have not written for worldly reward or even solely for you -- after all, these words cannot describe more than you’ve already learned -- but also because the health and happiness of future practitioners of the Great Work may depend on this portrait of that long-gone crazy coot, your Tk, who for a time tended to his chores. After all, they, unlike you, will not have known him in the flesh. Yes, I see that my days may end. This is a new speculation, to leave something for when I’m gone, although of course that may not happen for a long, long time.
In the past, people believed in Earth, Air, Fire and Water. Now science has identified new elements, some lasting only a few days or even minutes, while others, awaiting discovery, for less than a second. I, too, will not hesitate to reveal the full scope of elemental truth, no matter how small, before I “expire.” Know, too, that the first step toward the aspirant’s making the right choice is the clarification of all that has ever been and ever shall be, provided she focuses Thought Matter on the most minute and ephemeral particles as well as on the most profound waves and noblest gases, neither sidetracked by the profusion of one man’s powers nor limited to the confines of her fallible impressions. For these reasons, therefore, I have chosen to write:
This Autobiographical Sketch.
If I could describe my origins more fully, I would, but I do not know much with the exception of a certain rush of sound and a bright light upon emergence. In the family Bible in the firm and even joyful hand by which Father revealed his nature, it was recorded: “Came today, 12 February, 1855, a baby, ‘George.’”
So I had my first name -- George Rogers, which I left unchanged until my fourteenth year, when I called myself George “E.” Rogers. I also believe that Father placed special emphasis on my being a “baby.” Perhaps he saw unusual promise in me, perhaps he needed to highlight his superiority, however ephemeral, although I was not able to ask these things because he was taken soon after.
His syntax and the manner in which he dated my arrival suggest he was not native born. Although she left even fewer reminders before she departed, I understand Mother also was an immigrant. In fact, a sociologist once told me that I come from English, Scotch, French, Belgian, Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, German, Swiss, Bohemian, Italian, Polish, Russian, Armenian, Rumanian, Bulgarian, Greek and Hungarian stock, which I think is wonderful. To have the world’s blood in my veins! Health is in multitudes! There is health in myself!
As I’ve stated, my parents passed over not long after my arrival. Although I do not remember them, I have reflected on our life together and actually returned several times -- first with the One-hi and then on my own -- to observe certain moments during those long-gone days. We lived in the State of Kentucky, by the river near Cincinnati. My parents were “Two-Seed” Baptists, having been assured they were of the first, divine seed, and I am told they had started me in that faith, although they were not yet certain of my seed. I cannot say more, though, because on most of my later visits they looked different than I believed them to be. Of course, when I returned to my age when we shared our lives, I could understand but little, because I was not more than two years old when a steamboat explosion took them. And when I remained in my current bodily form my parents could not recognize me and were also, I surmised, alarmed by my presence, so much having occurred in between! Nonetheless we’ve managed to communicate after adopting special precautions taught me by the One-hi and without which such encounters are no better than a farrago of distressing impressions (when I saw my parents without employing such protections, I was under the influence of Spiritualist practices, and they told me in no uncertain terms not to try the stunt again).
I will continue to warn of the ill effects of Spiritualism, unmediated as it is by Thought Matter, until the day I, too, pass over, but having said all that can be said of my parents, I turn to the start for all practical purposes of my life.
A picture of the beginning.
* * * *
The Dream Child
March 8, 1870
He was a baby, almost a doll baby he was so beautiful, not so little anymore, though he still said “ma” and “ba” like a bird. He was a relative whom I have christened the “Dream Child,” although he also went by “Tom.” In his very self, he’d given his mother what she most wanted, and these two were on a voyage that would make me, hundreds of miles away, wonder whether an invisible hand pushed them on their path.
With a curve, a man fell against their seat, turned and sprawled across the aisle. Because the child studied her in new situations, she was careful to maintain a respectful expression -- he mustn’t believe he was superior to this gentleman and certainly not inferior.
“Ma!” Tom pointed as he turned to her.
A picture of a general.
“Yes,” she said. “Look at the flags!”
“Bas!”
“Yes -- flags!”
“Bas!”
There were several flags on the buildings as they made their way out of town. He climbed off the seat and, steadied by her knees, jiggled with the train’s movement. After he pressed his hands together and laughed, she lifted and sat him down, but he wouldn’t sit still and fell against her side until he struggled behind her.
She straightened him, and he tried to sit like her, ankles crossed, but he fussed. He was sleepy. Not so loudly that their neighbors heard, she said “tut, tut” and nursed him. It was time for him to be weaned, but she loved him so! As it was starting to rain, he fell asleep against her shoulder.
She realized their speed no longer excited her, and they had such a long way to go! The Dream Child rested without his cap, which lay on the seat, his dear head so silky and fragrant, and she let the train rock them. The rain fell harder until the windows clouded and she saw only streaks brightened by the few lights in the car.
In the dark she awoke, still holding him. They laughed at each other, and then, the rascal, he slid off his seat, ducked from her hands and crouched like a monkey. As she stood up, he stood on his toes, not quite hopping, his fingers moving like butterflies, and then fell down on all fours and cackled.
“Oh no, no, no, no!” she said, but she wasn’t angry.
It was a long ride. She’d never been on one like it. An honest hardworking woman -- cook, laundress, cleaning lady, having sold pamphlets, taken care of a railroad clerk’s children, been a maid-of-all-work, she did anything to help feed her little family and save some. Her husband worked for the railroad, cleaning up at the station, and the clerk had let them pay half-price to find her brother. People could be wicked, but they were good, too.
They were late, and some wanted to get out at the next place to eat, but the conductor said it was out of the question -- they would be stopping soon enough. Nel thought of her favorite place. People across the aisle worried that her baby was staying too long on the train, and she kissed him. Then they warned her about Memphis, and soon they were talking about various bad cities and towns, but she said proudly, “We live in Chicago.” Then Tom turned to blow a kiss, the cupid! “He’s a dear!” a lady said. Nel was glad when he rested on her shoulder before they could get him to do more -- she didn’t want him to show off -- but she was angry that the conductor hadn’t smiled.
Some were still looking at Tom, and he stared out the window and concentrated, until several of them also looked out and put their hands up, because the rain had stopped and there was a rainbow!
They pressed their faces to the glass, and the rainbow disappeared. The child was laughing in sputters.
A picture of a rainbow with six bands.
A picture of the Dream Child laughing.
* * * *
Capers, Arkansas
March 11-12, 1870
“Are you all done? There. You can go to your room now, or whatnot.”
I, a lad of fourteen, did not say yes. I understood Uncle Wallace, and yes, I would be back for supper. I leaned my broom in a corner and climbed the stairs. I kept my room tidy, because you know I like to sweep. On the wall hung a picture of skaters up North, couples in the moonlight, daredevils, children and an old man. From Harper’s Weekly I’d also tacked up a picture of some Texas Regulars under General John Bell Hood, as well as a picture of the Heart of God. I’d hung a picture of a long-eared mutt in a frame I’d made. I’ve always liked dogs. I didn’t hate the store, either, but I could take or leave the town, which was more like a hamlet. My older brother was luckier because they (who “they” were I did not know) had left him with people in southern Illinois, which I thought would be better than here.
The store wasn’t bad, though. In a town like this it was a busy spot. It smelled of pickles and soap and chicken feed, a sweet smell. Men would stop and find they’d stayed all afternoon. I remember it well, better than I remember what I looked like, although I recall I was thin, dark-haired and with pale skin. For reasons that I did not understand but nonetheless credited, pensioners and loafers and what passed for men about town needed a store to spend time in, and they needed a boy to be around, too, it seemed, to tell all the foolishness that struck them, all to him, to scare or trick him.
I walked downstairs over to the store and heard Mr. Ralph Tibbert ask, “Do you all recall the Spider Man? Do you remember the Spider Man?” and he winked at Uncle Wallace.
I smiled in his direction. Men were leaning on the counter or sitting around the store, tipping their chairs backwards and forwards as if testing how close they’d come to falling off and now and then picking at the backs of their necks or scratching their arms. Sometimes a man would get up, walk around and touch the merchandise, hoping to get a rise from Uncle Wallace, whose store it was. He also handled the mail in an “office” in the corner, having taken the appointment of postmaster.
He bore their chafing, which was what they expected, sitting back, smiling and talking -- why not? Once, though, Uncle Wallace had scattered some mousetraps among the goods, which they would never let him forget, and even now someone might jerk his hand up and shake it and shout “d**n-it!” and without taking his eyes off whoever was talking, Uncle Wallace would have to say, “Listen, it serves you right -- just put it back now!” Oh, forever more, we had a splendid time in that store!
Mr. Tibbert asked about the Spider Man, but Uncle Wallace told the story. In fact, I’m not sure Mr. Tibbert knew how the words “Spider Man” came into his head. Of course, Uncle Wallace would tell it. A person often had to speak loudly in that store because of all the free spirits, but his voice, which was a cross between a rumble and a snarl, kept people quiet.
I don’t think I was the only one who didn’t know what to make of Uncle Wallace. As if he could cause them to do what they didn’t like they seemed afraid of him. He could bring out the worst, it seemed, although luckily it didn’t happen often. I tried not to think about him much, but he would come into my thoughts -- not that I decided much from it. He was powerful and weak, dirty and clean. One night in my sleep I saw him beside the bed, I stared up, and he pushed me back and said, “Go to sleep, baby.” Next day I wondered if it had really happened and whether it had happened before. He left me alone for long times, too, and then he’d start ordering me around, telling me how much I had to learn, and told me I was like the dust blowing.
“Do you know,” he said now, loud and deep, but as if his voice came from somewhere outside, “a spider bit a boy a while back and gave him the sucking urge.”
“Haw, haw, haw,“ said Ames Stimms. “Now that reminds me of a girl I knew once -- Betty Johnson -- Miss Betty Johnson.”
“Aw hell, Ames!”
“Everyone knows Ames Stimms’ll chase whatever squats,” said Ed Eliot. “Ain’t I right?”
“Haw, haw.”
“Now I don’t deny it,” said Ames as he wiped his face with his handkerchief. He was a naturally red-faced man.
“As I was saying,” growled Uncle Wallace, “a long time ago a boy was bit -- no one knew where or when, but it was a spider,” and he opened his jaws and snapped his teeth four times, and the men’s eyes grew wide.
“Then they forgot him,” said Uncle Wallace. “That is, until they found the traps in the water or what they thought was traps. Do you know those traps, boy?”
Someone sighed, “Aw now.”
I nodded and said, “Yes, sir,” because Uncle Wallace’s look made me shiver.
“Oh, yes,” said Uncle Wallace. “Those traps are the sacks you see floating in the water round here.
“They’re those pieces of cloth and things that get hung up in the river,” he said. “On the snags and trees and branches -- caught -- and sometimes they look like they’re filled with air?”
I nodded.
“But more are sunk way down,” said Uncle Wallace. “Well now, the Spider Man’s traps -- the Spider Man because he grew up -- weren’t ordinary neither,” he said. “People just thought they were, but they were webs with some flesh inside. Yes, sir,” said Uncle Wallace while the men shifted around, “it was human flesh in there, human remains in those sacks!”
“You don’t say!”
“And they weren’t made of cloth or anything else you’d think of, because they were not made by human hands,” he said slowly and distinctly. “They was finely wound!”
“My, my,” said Mr. Tibbert, and several nodded.
“Well,” said Uncle Wallace, looking straight ahead, “they learned about it by mistake. Some people pulled one up when they were fishing, and what did they find? Human bones and meat inside, all tanned like leather! Oh, forever more! And the stink! It’d fetch you up! Then they hauled up another and another one and another one, and then they seemed to be finding them everywhere, and then they pulled up some more after that, ‘cause they was looking all over the county for them by now, not surprised so much as trying to get to the bottom of it – all up down the river, fifteen, twenty miles at least. And inside those sacks they found human remains, bones and skin and such, but not a drop of blood. Well, by God those traps had been under water a long time, a long, long time, and they stank like hell! You’d expect blood, though, but they never did have any.”
No one laughed, although it seemed Uncle Wallace might be hoping they would, as if he was getting scared, too. “Well, there was some tannin’ goin’ on,” he said, “I suppose,” and shook his head.
“Then,” he said, “some people from around here started to speculate why there wasn’t any blood, and they said maybe it because the ones inside, when they were put in, or when they were trapped, had been sucked dry. Yes, they said after they thought about it, that was why they had no blood. Then someone recalled the boy who’d been bit a long while ago and said he must be the one that did it, and they called him the ‘Spider Man.’”
“You mean he drunk their blood and ‘et their skin?” asked Mr. Tibbert.
“Something like that, but no one knew fo’ sure,” said Uncle Wallace. “And then,” he said, “because the thought just made them sicker, they tried not to talk about it anymore, but they couldn’t help it, and someone said they should send for help, but most said don’t because no one would believe it. But they couldn’t forget it, really.”
“Haw, haw,” laughed Mr. Stimms.
“And I know,” said Uncle Wallace. “Because I couldn’t forget it,” and two or three of them looked puzzled, not expecting Uncle Wallace to make it personal, and then they were a little scared and looked away, and he looked at me and said, “I know for sure, because one night two boys be sleeping out in the country.” And Uncle Wallace winked at the men, and one of them got up and went to the door. “I told you,” he said, “not to talk about that,” but Uncle Wallace ignored him, and he went out.
“I guess they thought they’d go fishing and spend the night in a little tent,” said Uncle Wallace, “by the river. Two boys in a tent.” A couple of men were shaking their heads and smiling, but he kept on. “Now when they were good and bedded down, they heard a moan from some trees by the water. There was no trace of wind, so they heard it clear and knew something down there was in a bad way. Then when it wouldn’t stop, they started to shake like the bejesus, like they had chills. You see they hadn’t ever heard a sound like that, kind of a rebel yell except hurt and mean and worse than they’d ever heard any animal in pain. Surely, they weren’t going to go out and see what it was, so they stayed in their blankets waiting.”
All was quiet.
“And then if they’d trembled before, they started to shake hard,” said Uncle Wallace, “I suppose their teeth was chatterin’, because they heard that moan start to come up on top of them, closer and closer, louder and louder, high and sharp, right up onto them, and it just kept coming closer every second, and all the while it was getting louder and higher and angrier, too.
“And then -- this is what you can never explain -- it was too much for one of those boys. Maybe he didn’t know any better, maybe he thought he had to do something, or he just couldn’t take it. At any rate, he stuck his nappy black head out of that tent, and what did he see but a big ugly beast!”
Uncle Wallace turned to me, and I laughed a little, but then was quiet and looked back at him. No one else moved.
“And what was it?” asked Uncle Wallace. “It was a big ole thing, a man beast, I’d say -- at least like a man, I’d say -- standing up and hunkering down! And moaning for all he’s worth, and he screams like a woman, like a fiend from hell and starts coming on with a howl like he couldn’t help it! He runs up to that tent and stops and stretches out his arms like so, wide, right on top of them, and makes a kind of a whoop! And then he and the boy look at each other and it whoops again, and then it screams, and the boy screams, too.
A couple of the men shook their heads.
“Now surely that was the end for him,” whispered Uncle Wallace. “The end of his days! But then that pickaninny rips out of that tent like a streak, like a shot of fire -- where he found the strength I do not know, but he was. . .
“Pure survival!” said someone. “You shouldn’t . . .“ started another, but Uncle Wallace didn’t stop.
“. . . he was running into the night, right through the Spider Man’s arms, and he didn’t look around, neither. He must have felt that beast grab him, and then the Spider Man come right down on the tent with that other boy inside, kicking and screaming and trying to get out, too. But the first one, who ran, he got away and didn’t look back.”
There was some laughter.
“He ran a long way, a long, long way, into the woods,” said Uncle Wallace. “He must have, he was running so fast -- I expect you could’ve seen the marks from the bushes and branches -- until he couldn’t go no further and stopped, almost near death he was breathing so hard. And from afar he could hear howling and a different kind of screaming.”
A couple of men nodded.
“After a while, the noise died down and the boy started to think about his friend, I suppose, and turned back. And when he came to the edge of the field, he heard a kind of a scuffling. It was dark, just a new moon and some stars when the clouds passed. And then up comes the Spider Man! It was the Spider Man for sure, but he wasn’t howling any more, just panting, as if he was rising out of that field, but he was dragging the other boy with him, wrapped inside of that tent!
“Well, the first one just shrank into the bushes and made himself small.
“The Spider Man was pulling, kind of bending up and down while he was dragging it, until he stopped and sniffed. The clouds passed so the boy could see his friend wrapped in the tent like a baby, just not a baby you’d want to see.”
Again, someone laughed, but most looked scared. “The cloth was pulled around -- like so – and his head was sticking out and flopping around. And, OH!” cried Uncle Wallace.
Having barked loud and angry like the Spider Man himself, he looked around, nodded and went on, showing his teeth but with a trace of amazement in his voice as if he’d seen it or at least seen the boy who’d seen it. Some of the men shook their heads.
“Now just then,” said Uncle Wallace, “that man or beast or thing, whatever it was, clamped onto that poor boy’s head and bit down so hard the blood came out. No, that boy didn’t look too good, wrapped up and bleeding so! In fact, he looked near death, champed ‘most dry, and his head swung around and dropped, and then he struggled once and looked up.”
A man said, “Aw shucks,” but Uncle Wallace said, “And what’s more, his eyes was rolling around like so, like they was alive! And the Spider Man pulled back and looked on in wonderment!” Of course, Uncle Wallace rolled his eyes until it seemed just the whites showed, and then he was the Spider Man biting, and nearly everyone scraped back their chairs.
“He was dead,” said Uncle Wallace, who stopped, eyes back in their place, and looking like he was peering around a corner while the men straightened themselves and muttered. Then he stirred and said, “Hell of a thing to see that boy die,” and one of the men said, “Don’t you know.”
“Well,” said Uncle Wallace and looked like he was bringing them all into it, “you know the other one boy didn’t say another word. And he hasn’t been seen around here for a long time.
“By God you know why!” said someone.
“I guess he won’t be seen, neither,” said another
“What of it,” said Ames, “they was just . . .”
But Uncle Wallace didn’t let him finish, saying, “And you know they never caught the Spider Man. Never,” he said. “And they never will!”
Some were laughing and looked kind of proud, while others stretched and looked away and back again as if deciding to go along, and then Uncle Wallace laughed, too, like he was sorry for telling such a story, working it up until they all were all laughing, even the two who’d looked away. Someone said, “Who’d you think you scared -- not me!” “Me, neither,” said another. “Damn it,” said a third, “what’s done is done. They was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Ain’t that true,” said Uncle Wallace.
Then one who’d stood up and sat down said as if a little surprised at himself, “How could you tell it like that?” But Uncle Wallace just stared at him. There was a pause until another said, “Why, you old devil!” and then Mr. Tibbert shouted, “It ain’t me, boys!” and someone else said, “Of course it ain’t you.” And then one of the others said a little more quietly, “Well, I don’t believe it,” to which Uncle Wallace replied, “Of course you don’t have to believe it -- believe what you want,” and Ames Stimms said gravely, “Well you just can’t never know. You just can’t never know what’s done in this world. But I believe it.” One or two looked at me quickly.
Soon they were talking about something else, as if they’d forgotten the story, and maybe they had. Uncle Wallace was talking about a scandal over some missing ballots.
“They ought to horsewhip that old man for sure,” said Mr. Tibbert, “all the trash he puts in his paper.”
“And smash the press up, too,” said Uncle Ed Eliot. “Break it down!” They were getting worked up, their voices loud.
Red Bumpas, always a skeptic, said, “Now who cares about that nonsense anyhow, if it happened?”
But Uncle Ed put in, “When you think about it, I do suppose our sainted governor might deserve some of his own medicine -- might end up in the penitentiary, if you ask me.” This observation did not receive anything close to agreement, though -- quite the contrary, for many believed Uncle Ed was not a loyal Democrat.
Then Uncle Wallace, who’d been watching, said, “Why, he’s alright with me since he turned on the blackamoors. Kept ‘em in their place. Paper don’t seem to understand that -- can’t go soft.”
“The what?”
“The blackamoors,” said Uncle Wallace.
“Haw, haw!”
Everyone nodded.
Mr. Stimms said, “Former property cannot get up on two legs in front of me,“ to which someone said, “Ames, you never owned anything in your life except the clothes you’re wearing, and they about do stand up!” which brought more laughter.
Then they talked about ways people were making money, until someone said he was going out to take care of a few things and left looking hard and bright, as if he was up to something. Uncle Wallace smiled.
A picture of a man standing up and hunkering down.
Most of the others had laughed at the Spider Man, but I thought Uncle Wallace might have been telling the truth. I’d never heard of it, but I’d seen the things in the river, those sacks or traps like dirty bubbles, and thought they had a use, though I had no idea what it was. What else could they be for? And how could he have made up that story?
Uncle Ed Eliot, Jack Everson and some of the others had fought in the War Between the States. Uncle Wallace had not served but didn’t mind when they talked about it. In fact, he encouraged them, although he might call them a bunch of rascals. Jack Everson had ridden with General Nathan Bedford Forrest. He was a pale hollow cheeked man, and when he talked about the General, he spoke like someone enraptured -- not just by his soldierly exploits, but also his life afterward, which was well known if confusing because he’d led and then disavowed the Ku Klux and some said he still led them. “Gawd what a man!” said Jack. “Still is,” someone said while Jack said, “Fooled ‘em all, he did! Many a time! Don’t you know he had us fightin’ frontwards and backwards on the same line -- all along the line! And we whipped those Yankee sons of b*****s ‘til they wasn’t nearly one left! Proudest day of my life, somethin’ like that!” There was a pause. “Oh God, they had blacks with them, too, fightin’! Those Yankees had their blacks fightin’ with ‘em, by Gawd!” he said, and spat. “Against all decency!” someone muttered. “What else can you do when it’s like that!” said Jack. Because the others knew it by heart, they waited for this part, Uncle Jack’s way of saying “By Gawd,” like someone whose dog had bit him. It was like a tonic, sharp and bitter.
Ames Stimms had been separated from his friends after a skirmish and found himself in Missouri with a head wound and jewelry he claimed was stolen from him later, as if they had a life of their own, but no one pressed him. He could tell a good story even if he wasn’t so clear in his head.
When it came time to change the subject, Uncle Wallace said that some people were running a lot of stock up from Texas. And when they’d finished with that someone talked about gambling and women in Hot Springs, but I’d heard enough so I concentrated on playing patience on a barrelhead. Then when Mr. Stimms left to “free his body of its corrupted burden,” he looked at me and said, “Why, you might be that Spider Man.”
“What?” I said.
“You’re the Spider Man, the one that took those two.”
“I am not.”
His eyes were moist, and he looked away.
The men were gone, and it was raining. “I want to get out of here,” I said. “Please,” I said, and looked at my pictures. I performed a muscle tightening exercise I’d seen in a pamphlet, and then stared at the rain. I smelled Mother Doris’ cooking and prayed to a Being whose image I could not see but thought I understood that I would be free, that I would be safe and that I’d be good. Then I went downstairs.
Mother Doris was skinny and had thin black hair. Her hair and damp skin, which was very pale, made her look frail in the kitchen, but if you saw her legs you could tell she wasn’t. She wasn’t my real mother, although even at my age I sensed she wanted a child despite her peculiar and angry denials, someone she could bear and deliver and raise herself. But apparently she was not allowed it. A year before Uncle Wallace had taken me in, he’d married her, and although I’d lived here for more than twelve years, I didn’t know what to make of her. Uncle Wallace had said that after being alone for so long he wanted to set up house, but Mother Doris must have disappointed him. “Are you seeing angels?” Uncle Wallace asked her once, “or have you just gone up with them?” For a long time, he’d been staying in the store except for meals, even sleeping there, and often behind the door you could hear him talking. He didn’t have much to do with me either, at least when she was around -- it was as if she was on guard -- but he made sure I did my chores. And of course we were an audience.
Mother Doris kept mostly to herself, too, working and humming. Sometimes she paced and stared out the kitchen door, and every now and then she’d turn and look over her shoulder. Once in my presence Uncle Ed Eliot’s son Tanty -- no one knew why Uncle Ed had given him such a sissy name -- called Mother Doris a “dog in heat,” and he told me she’d rutted with the whole county. How else could Uncle Wallace take her in, he asked? That bothered me a lot, it seemed so unlikely, until I decided he wasn’t talking about a real person, speaking more in awe of her, or that he was just a fool, bless his head. Being slow at social relations, I didn’t actually understand all he’d been talking about, either so it just added to my puzzlement. I was beginning to notice the fairer division of humanity, and sensing they possessed a frightening power that sometimes led one so young to the verge of self-abuse, I suspected this might be how Tanty felt about Mother Doris. In any event, when I looked at her, I couldn’t see what he was talking about. In fact, going from one task to the next in her house slippers, she didn’t seem like a woman at all, more like something in nature, like one of the wild onions we picked every spring.
“More rain,” I said and looked down. “When it’s like this I wish I didn’t have anything to do my whole life. I’d just go and disappear. But then the men start talking,” I said, “or Uncle Wallace starts singing, and I’m happy.”
Mother Doris was staring at me, although it seemed from my angle her forehead was taking me in. Much later I concluded that she might have the Third Eye, but there were reasons to think she was just dense. Eventually she said, “I’m working.” It was quiet, with a kind of sadness, and after a while she added, “Just look at the rain. The road’ll be a mess. Did you do your jobs? All right now, there’s not much else for a day like today,” and she smiled. That was a long speech for her, and her smile just lit me up. Then she said that tomorrow was chicken and dumpling day, which was something I always looked forward to. And then when she finished another chore, she startled me by slapping the back of her hand against the palm of her other hand and said, “There!” And then “There!” she said after another was done and slapped the back of her hand on the palm of her other hand, and then she did it again when she’d finished the clean-up, and then “There!” she said when the last things were put away, slapping the back of her right hand hard on the palm of her left. There! There! There you are, Mother Doris! And here I am, and what a treasure of knowledge I’ve built up in-between! The appearance and marvelous blessings of the One-hi! The teachings of the Great School of Spiritual Light! The revelations of the Great Work! But oh, my dear you must have known how to love. You must -- I saw it in how you looked at me!
She seemed to be expecting something. Then she looked around the kitchen, frowned, said, “Go on!” and walked outside into the drizzle.
I stood still and thought about Uncle Wallace. If I had to think about them anymore, I’d just have to shout. I banged a chair into the table. No doubt I’d a temper! Then I heard Uncle Wallace call from across the way, “What the hell was that!”
I decided I’d go lie down on the old oilcloth-covered couch until it was time for supper and try to control myself -- and one might observe that more often than not good things attend such efforts, as they can lead to Thought Matter, although I could not have had such an idea then, being a boy. In fact, you could say I was so unformed that I could almost have been an object of pity.
Then I saw Mother Doris come in from the rain. Her face was bright and her arms were moving quickly like towels on a line in the wind. I was about to get up and leave, but as she stepped forward, I saw a healthy young woman coming in behind her. She was holding a large baby. Mother Doris said, “This is your sister!”
“Sister!” I stared and Mother Doris bobbed her damp head and shoulders.
“Sister?” I said again, even as I listened to the sweet sound emerge soft and reedy from my lips.
“Yes! I’m from Chicago,” said the girl, touching a damp curl. “This is your nephew, Tom,” and she reddened and said, “My name is Nel.”
“I’m George.”
“I know, hello.”
“Hello.”
“We’ve been traveling a long time.”
I saw Nel wanted the baby to say hello in the worst way. “Hello,” I said and touched his hand. His cold fingers opened.
“Hello,” he said!
Oh, my friends! What a marvelous day it was! I’d found my sister! I had a family!
Nel was tired but excited. After I carried her bag upstairs, she told me we didn’t have a brother -- no one called “Peas.” I hadn’t asked her about him, but she must have known I might expect him. Leaving Nel and the child to my room to dry off, I ran downstairs where I wrung my hands and strode through the parlor and kitchen and back as if I was looking for something. Then I lay on the couch, turning and fidgeting almost to spavin myself.
I managed to control myself, though, by folding my arms tightly over my heart and crossing my ankles.
Then the day cleared, and a soft light glowed.
At supper, Uncle Wallace laughed and set his jaw like a patriarch, at least a kind of devilish version, and kept things hopping -- he couldn’t stay quiet for long. For example, after he said grace, he gave us a talk about travel and Joseph and his time in the pit. It was a pretty good one, and I thought this was the first I’d heard that biblical figure mentioned without little Joe Tibbert coming to my mind.
“Of course,” growled Uncle Wallace, “I never learned much about your family. How many and where and such.” As he spoke, his voice grew louder and rougher until he said, “Move it, Ma, you’ve got to feed this young girl and her kid.”
Then after he listed all our relations he knew, noting some were very distant cousins, he narrowed his eyes and said, “Come to think of it, that boy and she might not be related at all, Ma. Not necessarily. Not necessarily, Ma.”
Mother Doris said nothing.
“Oh no,” said Nel. “I remember George had a mark on his thumb from some broken glass.”
This I had! Its origin had always puzzled me.
“Well, well. So there it is,” said Uncle Wallace. Mother Doris nodded, relieved, and Uncle Wallace shouted, “You’re right as rain, little girl” and laughed. “Well, forever more. I guess I must seem like one sorry son of a cuss to you,” he said. “I apologize, my dear. I apologize to you, too, my boy,” and bowed to me, “but you can’t be too careful, you know?”
“It’s all right,” I said, shocked that he’d told me he was sorry, and I felt I loved him at that moment -- why, it seemed he was harmless and free and had more than an ounce of nobility.
“About twelve or thirteen or years ago,” he said, “you came to us. I found you at the depot with a letter pinned to your gown. I suppose I threw it away. But I swear I read it through,” and then he rubbed his face and beard as if he was waking up, which turned his skin grey and then red. “That letter must have said, ‘I have a sister in Illinois,’ but that’s not how I recall it. I thought it said a brother!” And then he added, “I don’t know where that ‘Peas’ came from, though,” and, looking sheepish he winked and said, “What do you think, Ma?”
Mother Doris laughed, a rare thing. “Why, sometimes I wonder where you came from,” said Mother Doris. “You just might be the Devil in disguise, making up such stories!”
“Yes, I’m a real Devil Baby!” shouted Uncle Wallace, happy again.
“What are they talking about?” asked Nel. “I told them we don’t have a brother.”
But Uncle Wallace and Mother Doris looked so happy Nel started to laugh, too.
And then the baby cackled, sputtering little firecrackers, which made all of laugh, and then he started to cough and whimpered as if he was tired, and Nel took him to my room to put him down for the night.
After a while, Mother Doris came and reported that both of them were asleep.
I’d never seen Mother Doris like thqat. She put her finger to her lips as if she had some secret power. Then she placed her hands on Uncle Wallace’s shoulders and beamed until he shrugged them off, and I realized that it had gotten dark and it was time for bed. I said my goodnights and got out of there.
Next morning, Nel and Mother Doris and I were shy around each other. Should we dress as if it was Sunday? Mother Doris got busy, though, and so we began to pass the time -- Mother Doris, Nel and me in the kitchen working on our supper while Tom sat in a basket and Uncle Wallace kept out front in the store. The women and I were so pleased that we had our chores to do! Then Uncle Wallace called, and I walked backwards from the kitchen, waving at the child.
Uncle Wallace stood thinking, moving his lips as if trying to work a piece of food off a tooth. Then he positioned himself in a certain place behind the counter, I stood on the other side, and for a while he peered around at tins and dry goods. He looked a little strange to me, spruced-up and puffy-eyed. He’d trimmed and combed his beard to a point, his black eyebrows stood up in peaks, and his hair was slicked down and plastered across his forehead. Also, his face was very red -- he was overheated, I suppose, because a drop of sweat fell from his cheek onto the counter.
“I don’t know how long they’ll be staying,” said Uncle Wallace, looking at me, “as long as they want, I guess -- well, not really. I want you to keep up with the store, George,” he said. “You’re a good boy.”
He called me George!
“Mother Doris can’t understand, but I don’t have no one else,” he said, “and she won’t let me have a child of my own. You’re mine, you know. I got you a long time ago. You may think you can go off with that little girl, but I’ll be damned if I let you, . . .” and then it seemed as if something inside took a hold of him, because he stopped and grinned as if he’d been a fool for saying it. But after a while he worked his lips and said, almost choking, “I guess you can thank Mother Doris for that!” and he looked at me a little fearfully. “You turned out pretty good.”
Then he looked down as if he was in pain, and said, “No, I take it back. You can’t tell your arm from your elbow,” and his eyes grew bright and he seemed to grow taller, larger all over, to expand in every direction, in fact. “You’re the sorriest boy I ever saw!” he said in a kind of strangled voice. “You always will be.” And then Uncle Wallace, still growing, reached down, clapped his hand on my shoulder and grimaced as broadly as I’d ever seen him, huge and wet. And then another drop of sweat fell onto the counter and I noticed his ears had turned an even darker shade than his face. As if fighting something, he shook his head.
Then something stranger happened. As his hand held my shoulder, descending from far above me, I seemed to fly up and off into a wilderness white with snow – snow that was blinding, because I was in the teeth of a blizzard. It was whirling around, I could just see the outlines of trees, and I knew that I was deep in a forest that was as cold and as far away as I could imagine. The cold’s sharpness surprised me as much as anything, because it was colder than I’d thought possible, like a bee sting, it almost made you shriek, and that snow was so hard and white that I thought to myself, “why, I must be in Siberia!” which was odd because I’d never seen snow before, just some ice a few years back, and I didn’t remember even thinking about Siberia except that it was someplace at the end of the earth. Still, I thought I was there in the center of that great cold place. This, I believe, was the first of what later became a fairly common occurrence for me -- a long-distance journey through the medium of Thought Matter. But at the time it was brand new, and I had no idea what was happening or what might happen next. Then I was flying, although I was my own size, too, tossed up in the air and thrown over the forest.
I looked through a hole in the clouds to a frozen lake, and there I saw the head of Uncle Wallace deep down under the ice. The snow had stopped but it was still that sharp cold white. He was pinned deep down in the ice, very straight, arms at his sides, which was why I saw mostly his head. He was tall, a giant even, but encased in ice. I could see his whole face, his head was tilted up. I could see his forehead and eyes, his nose and mouth and chin, and even his beard. I saw him clearly, he was extremely cold, and he was looking up through the ice with a terrible expression of fear and hate. He was enormous! His eyes were red, and his face was as pale as marble and mottled, too, patched red and blue, and just as suddenly I found myself across the counter from him.
He was his own size, but he still he seemed to be dazed and in the grip of something, and he was sweating.
I heard myself say, “But I’m not sure I want to go,” as if my flight to that place had not happened -- though it had. He’d let go of my shoulder and was standing behind the counter as before looking very tired and as if he’d endured a lot of pain.
“Now you’ve got to go,” said Uncle Wallace, but it was as if the thing inside him of was still speaking in a weak breathless voice, and then he smiled as if he couldn’t fight it anymore and shook his head and said, “Why, you’ve got to get away from here.!”
Well, people that made me feel so good!
“My! My! My!” said Uncle Wallace, and I felt that I was turning pink and noticed that he was no longer red, nor pale nor blue except for his ears, which were still throbbing. We looked at each other -- I beaming, he, sly and weak, although coming back some to himself -- until he said softly, “Well, that’s how it’s got to be,” and paused and said, “Now I don’t want you to leave mad, either, when you go.” And then maybe to hide his feelings, but probably because he was experiencing any number of conflicting sensations, Uncle Wallace started to hum. He turned his back to me and paced around and shifted some cans and boxes, humming. It scared me, Uncle Wallace not acting like himself -- in fact he was reminding me of Mother Doris, beaten down, something I’d never seen before, and I started to feel sorry for him.
I said, “No, sir, I don’t know if I want to go,” although I did want to, more than ever. And then I said, “I’ll miss you, you and, and. . . .” But he looked sideways, like a dog, and said, “Don’t make it harder, baby.”
I said anyway, “I will. I will always miss you.”
“Now go away,” he said in his new breathless voice.
“By God,” I thought, “I’m gone.” And then I started to leave.
“Now look here,” he said, with some force. “I’ve lost you for a while, you know, but you’ll be . . .” and I swear he looked at me as he had when I’d seen him in the ice.
I straightened up, wiped my nose and walked to another part of the store where a sunbeam fell. I knew for sure I was going away. Passing through the doorway, I noticed Uncle Wallace had started to hum again, a kind of a low drone, almost a snarl with something of a whine in it, and it appeared that it was getting mighty hot in there!
Then as I look again, everything seemed to split in two and he was gone! And then I thought I had lived this moment before, longer ago than that time in the forest, before I was born. Then I heard some new sounds from behind the counter, from Uncle Wallace, but I couldn’t make them out -- they seemed to be coming very fast, and I walked through the parlor to the kitchen and heard the door to the store slam behind me.
“You finished talking to him, have you?” asked Mother Doris.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll look after the baby while you and she share a walk.”
Walking beside the river, Nel and I admitted that we didn’t remember much about each other. She said she thought she’d once covered me with powder from a bottle, but she didn’t know why. I recalled rubbing my cheek against her dress.
“It really wasn’t much of a farm I was on,” said Nel, “more of a country place for the people I was put out with. They were rich. They would bring me to the city sometimes, which is where my husband’s from -- Carl -- Chicago.” Her eyes were bright. She was a handsome girl, beautiful at times. She had a friendly way about her, a rolling gait and a cheerful disposition. We talked about school. I didn’t want to keep up with it, though levels ahead of my age and already teaching the others, but she was sorry she’d left off with her studies. Still, she seemed happy. “You can live with Carl and Tom and me in Chicago until you get a job and a room,” she said. “That’ll be good,” she said, as much to herself as to me.
We walked far from the store. “Did you seek them?” I asked.
“What?”
“Did you seek the people who took you in?”
“They stopped by once or twice after I moved to the city,” Nel said. “They have some money,” she said, “and I didn’t ask about them again.” I felt that I had sought out Uncle Wallace, or something had sent me there to him as now it was pushing me away. “They were good to me,” she said. “It’s just I don’t know why I was so glad to leave. They took me in, and I was almost like their daughter, and then I took the first chance I could to leave.”
“I know,” I said.
“You know,” she said, “Carl’s very good.”
“Who?”
“My husband.”
I followed her. The movement of her skirt along the ground distracted me, and I stared at the grass and the little white and purple flowers upon which she trod, which rose up after she passed. We went a long way, and then the river split and we followed the smaller stream, stepping from stone to stone. I couldn’t keep my mind on her or on Uncle Wallace, either, it seemed, because I kept looking at the stones and the mud and the cool water that every now and then spilled over my feet. It was just wonderful -- it felt so good to be free, and at that moment I believed even the sun was brighter.
“It’s a real warm day,” I said, “it’s getting warmer,” and then I asked, “How did they separate us?”
“I remember that,” she said. “They may have seen Father swimming after the accident, but he died, and of course they never found Mother. After a while, our friends split us up. You went away,” she said sadly.
“That’s it!” I said.
I went ahead down the stream, scrambled up the bank and held the branches to help her pass. Now she was ahead, and then we went down over outcroppings and vines to the water, which was lively, gurgling and swift before an eddy. We stopped and sat on the grass.
“I like this place,” I said.
She nodded. We sat with our feet dangling, her dress looking like a tent waiting to be set up and her straw hat resting on the back of her head in a way that made me laugh. I tried to remember something from the years I’d lived here to talk about but felt sleepy and lay back. I was so happy! I was free! The thought had never occurred to me. She looked at me.
“Were they nice, these people?” she asked, speaking over the sound of the water. “You know -- Mr. and Mrs. Wallace? I think I like them.”
I sat up and leaned toward her. “But now you’re here,” I said.
Like plotters, we eyed each other, and then she took my hand and blew on it. After a while, the light causing its reflections to resemble so many souls or voices, we got up and brushed each other off. Then she kissed my cheek. “I like that spot,” she said, her hand on my face, and then trembled, looking at me with some puzzlement, while I thought, “I’ve never been kissed in my whole life.” Then I remembered a kiss from Mother, the real one, and the eddy and the trees seemed to bend against the light. The whole world was moving -- the most solid things shimmered. Then the image of Uncle Wallace rose before me. Nel was quiet and thoughtful as we walked back
We surprised Mother Doris in the kitchen, who started up from stroking the baby’s head. She looked happy, though, and Nel got happy, too, and took Tom, who reached back for Mother Doris’ hair.
“You’re good with the baby, Mrs. Wallace,” said Nel.
Mother Doris stared at the child and looked at me. “Why yes, I -- yes, I,” she said and patted Tom’s hand, which was still holding her hair. “I just love babies,” she said and smiled as I’d never seen her. “They’re the most beautiful things,” she said. “I think babies are just the most beautiful things, and he’s an especially good one,” and her eyes misted. “You must be good with him, he looks so fine. There isn’t anything as pretty as a pretty little baby!”
“You can hold him more if you want,” said Nel, and I thought I didn’t understand Mother Doris at all and gripped the back of a chair as hard as I could. And then I saw her face grow sad as she said, “Oh thank you, God has deprived me of a child,” or I only thought she said it, although upon reflection I believe that she thought it.
While I was packing, I could hear Mother Doris humming and Uncle Wallace hammering and scraping and droning.
“Well goodbye, my dear,” said Mother Doris a little after supper, her eyes very bright, as if she, too, was preparing a surprise for us.
“Goodbye,” I said as she looked at me with what seemed like a look of relief. “And goodbye, Uncle Wallace,” I said.
“Yes, goodbye, Mr. and Mrs. Wallace,” said Nel, always the dear girl.
“Goodbye,” said Uncle Wallace, whose hair and beard were dry and bushy again, and the place suddenly got very still. Then he added, “Oh here, I almost forgot,” and from behind his back he pulled out a large wooden doll. It was the thing he’d been working on. It had stiff arms and legs and wore a suit made from a burlap sack. Uncle Wallace gave it to the baby, whose feet were propped on Nel’s hip like he was like a sailor. “It’s for you,” said Uncle Wallace. “Here, take it, boy, his name is ‘Oneida,’” and Tom grabbed it and put its head in his mouth.
In fact, the doll had only one eye, a cowrie shell that hung a little loose, although from certain angles it and the slit where the other was supposed to be seemed to take you in. Uncle Wallace held the hammer in his hand, and I saw some wood shavings in his beard.
“Oneida” was so heavy that Tom had to use both hands to hold him while Nel rested him against her hip. Leaning out and holding the doll over her shoulder, Tom stared from Uncle Wallace to me.
Then as clear as day he said, “Thank you, master!” and shook Oneida at us.
“Oh Tom! Where do you suppose he learned to say that!” said Nel, because, as noted, he hardly spoke a word, let alone sentences.
Then he looked around and started to laugh in little explosions until he was shouting with glee and shaking the doll up down. We were all laughing.
Eventually we calmed down.
“I can’t believe I’m leaving,” I said.
“You’ll survive,” said Mother Doris.
“Me, too,” said Uncle Wallace and snapped his teeth brightly at Tom and looked away from me.
But Nel was already carrying the child toward the depot, her other hand toting her bag, while I, who had not shed a tear, followed.
Then I heard Uncle Wallace begin to sing a kind of a dirge, a strange wordless string of notes: “Ju, ju, ju, ju, ju,” and I turned back to him. He seemed very solemn, bowed but determined.
Then Mother Doris joined in with a high-pitched keening, not exactly a wail, more of a musical shriek, which made me shiver. Never had anyone heard her sing, and this display, which easily carried over Uncle Wallace’s voice, was so startling that I felt it would be remarked on in those parts for a long time.
In fact, it was the strangest sound I’d ever heard, as if she’d let loose some kind of animal. It raised bumps on my skin, but I turned and walked on. I looked back, though, when we came to a corner, and there was Uncle Wallace looking down, still droning, though I couldn’t hear him very well over Mother Doris. Then he looked up, his eyes hard and defeated in the afternoon light. I looked away and didn’t turn back again. But my mood wasn’t black.
I had received, it seems, the rarest dispensation -- a new start. It was as if I was that baby, as ignorant as can be, held in mama’s strong arms. But the world was embracing me.
I might have asked myself -- and certainly I did later -- was this leave-taking really “fate,” as I thought then, being so foolish as to believe in “destiny,” or was the idea of “destiny” no more than one’s vaguest memories brought to life so rapidly that they seemed to be the future? Had this happened before? Or more aptly do such memories create the future? Or even more aptly, are the past, present and future simply one and the same in Thought Matter, especially if that Thought Matter is shared with those with whom we’ve lived? Had I ever been their child, or did I arrive as I am? In any event, it seemed that those two now passed from my life forever. I came to see of course that all is our choice. Still, at that moment their influence on me for good or ill I scarcely considered, knowing only that I’d left whatever home I had for something new, and being free
* * * *
A Railroad Journey
Two days later we were still on the train, which excited me so that I found it hard to sit still. I loved everything about it -- I’d never ridden one before -- but I was most excited by the shadows that sped along the embankment, not only the shadows of the carriages rippling, shortening and lengthening across the ground but also those of the heads and bodies and arms, hats, pipes and bundles of the rounders, mostly men but some women and children, too, who were riding on top of the cars. Their shadows merged with the train’s so that they looked like giant animals. I also marveled at the unfolding world we passed. All the while, I turned a rock from the river over and over in my pocket.
Before we’d left, I’d pointed out a willow near my favorite spot at the bend and told Nel how, because of a slight drop, the water sounded strange. Often, I’d sat there after hours in the store, lulled outside myself by the sounds. I’d stare at the little eddy and return to my family, my first family, which until two days ago I’d believed was my lost parents and brother. I wondered whether Mother and Father had made it into the water alive, and I imagined trying to swim in the wreckage. And then I’d think about my brother living somewhere, lost to me. Was life merciful if they’d died instantly? These thoughts of muddy bubbling deaths, of reaching hands and forlorn cries had been the sad preoccupation of my youth. And now what if all my musings had been mistaken, because had not my sister found me? And now with her dear little boy didn’t I have a family, if a different one? Might this also mean that my life with Uncle Wallace and Mother Doris was different than I’d thought? It seemed I could truthfully say, “I am confused and therefore I am.”
Yes, how little I understood, although one day I would be confused no more!
Watching Nel with Tom, I wondered whether Mother Doris had ever held me like so. Then I turned to the window, and my eyes filled with tears, which I hoped Nel couldn’t see, and I prayed she wouldn’t hear me crying, either, but then I stopped because I thought it was my duty to love Mother Doris, that it was in fact my destiny! Yes, it was! And then she would love and protect me! And with that I couldn’t hold back -- it didn’t matter if the others heard! -- and bawled for all I was worth. I couldn’t help it. Then seeing Nel look at me as well as at Tom, I wondered whether Mother Doris could have treated me differently. That was like one’s face: why do you think you have that particular face, I thought. It was at this moment, I confess, when I first understood the importance of conceiving, bearing and raising a child who may become the Dream Child, although obviously I had been circling around that discovery for some time. And yet so overwhelming were my reflections that I was only dimly able to sense the power of Thought Matter this insight presaged, although I might not have been so conceived but simply had arrived.
Years would pass before I received my final answers, when the One-hi and the Great Spokes on the Wheel of Knowledge confirmed my mission: not only to live and learn but also to know there was something more to share with the human race, to teach the human race, from the outside as it were, so all could be loved! They would not be wasted years, though, and even now it seemed that I was starting down a special path. For example, watching Nel and the baby, their thoughts seemed to be as real as the river’s cold in winter or the sun’s heat in summer, if softer for their love. For a while, I sat still while Nel stroked my hand and every now and then patted my shoulder and murmured that it was all right.
Then I asked myself, had Tom learned a new trick? At least he was making a lot of noise with his lips, although nothing as clear as his expression of gratitude for “Oneida” or his first greeting to me. Each time he made the noise, his little face wrinkled and then shone with joy. I looked at Nel, who was staring off, train taking her thoughts. Then I looked at the new/old one-eyed doll seated between Tom and her.
At that moment, I fervently hoped that when this trip ended I would remember everything I had thought and heard and seen and done, every minute, every second. But then, I thought, I would be tired, and then I realized I was tired already and wanted to lie down as I used to on the old oilcloth-covered couch and clasp my wrists and cross my ankles until I made myself as still as possible and hold my hands over my heart to feel I’d disappeared. But I didn’t do it, because I felt a jolt instead and touched the baby’s chin and took his hands in my own as he trembled. “Tom,” I said, staring into his little face, but I felt I could not yet confide all the love I felt.
Then I opened my mouth almost as wide as I could, which was very wide indeed, and started to lower it over the baby’s head! My jaws went around the top of his head, and I felt my breath return from his hair. It was as if I was under a spell.
He turned under my jaws, my lips brushed against his hair, and Nel looked over and saw. Seeing her eyes open wide, I thought, “What am I doing!” but I opened my mouth wider, as if my jaws were on hinges pried by some unseen force, the blood rushing in my ears, and I had a quick sight of Uncle Wallace. Although Nel gripped my arm, shaking, I didn’t stop, because I couldn’t control myself. Instead, I continued lowering my mouth, wider than I thought possible, over the baby’s head, and he was alarmed by the energy emanating from me and pulled at my hands, which were still holding his. Then he started to whimper and wiggle his little head from side to side!
Under the heat of my wide-open mouth, I felt his hair and lifted my jaws a little. Nevertheless, I kept them open, saying “Ah!” and then brought them down again even wider, continuing to moan, “Ah!” and the child shook his head until he turned toward Nel, which brought his ear into my mouth as if into a cave. Taking her chance, she slipped her hand between my mouth and Tom and pulled him free.
I spoke first. “Don’t cry!” I said. “Stop! It wasn’t my fault!” as much to the baby as to Nel.
She had taken him and was looking wildly at me. Emerging from her embrace, Tom also stared. All three of us were trembling, as I was as surprised by my behavior as they. But the child’s eyes searched me like a pony’s and seemed to recognize that I would be with him for a long time. Then as if he saw I would never harm him, he smiled!
Of course, I smiled back, and Nel, who until that moment had seemed very disturbed, shook her head and rubbed her eyes as if waking up. Later she told me she’d thought the last few seconds could have been a dream. It would be all right now, she thought. She touched my shoulder and quickly brought her hand back, and again I said I was sorry. A little later, I said it might be because some stray notion had come into my mind, and I vowed it would never happen again. I rose from my seat and sat down.
Soon, though, Nel was bouncing the baby on her knees, hugging him close and almost letting him go, until he started to laugh. Apparently neither of them wanted to look at me, because when he was not watching Nel, Tom stared at the roof of our carriage, although he was laughing nearly all of the time as Nel gathered him in. She concentrated almost entirely on him, which was fine with me.
My face was still hot, and I was near tears as I stared out the window and thought about what I’d done, when there was another jolt, and I saw a thin old Negro fall from above, or more accurately he was in the act of falling from the roof above us. Scratching against the side of the car, he was trying to gain a purchase while he continued to slip, his face pressed against the window.
Then his cap flew off, and his eyes opened wider, as if amazed to see it fly, but still he clutched the window! Teeth bared, he hung on for what must have been five seconds, eyes straining not more than an inch from us. I found my voice and shouted, “Help him!” and hit the glass, as he kept his hold. Nel was shaking her head, too, and cried, “Stop! No!” which the man saw as much as heard. His face reflected surprise and then he looked as if he was sorry to have bothered us and let go, fell backwards -- first very slowly, it seemed -- bounced, and rolled from sight.
It had taken half a minute at most, and soon after we saw him hit, we couldn’t see him anymore.
Nel and I gasped, sat back and looked at each other, and then she put her hands to her face. Tom announced, “Hello! Thank you! Goodbye!”
Why, the baby’s ability to speak his mind was a miracle! We couldn’t help making over him, of course, praising him no end, Nell patting and holding him close, and my earlier behavior was forgotten. Nel’s head almost touched mine as we talked about the man and my new home. We assured each other that the old fellow must have landed safely, which allowed us to plan our future, so that by the time we arrived in Chicago the bonds of love and affection between us were strong.
A day later during a peaceful moment, Nel said, “I feel so sorry for that old man, alone,” and I knew that she was talking about him and nodded my head, although I thought of Uncle Wallace, too.
* * * *
The Great Fire
March 14, 1870 – October 10, 1871
I first saw Chicago through a clouded train window [continues his “Autobiographical Sketch”]. It approached almost without my knowing it, announced by fenced lots at the end of the prairie and then shacks and modest buildings and more diverse signs of human activity until it erupted into an almost unbelievable jumble of structures, and I thought, “Here is the hope of the World!” I promised myself, as I think any boy my age would, to surrender to this place even as I conquered it.
Nel had told me that she could afford our passage because her husband, Carl worked for the railroad, and therefore everything about that great enterprise, the dizzying, multiplying tracks, the yards and echoing station in which birds flew, and of course the magnificent engines, fascinated me. A little lightheaded after the confinement of our voyage and the sights and sounds that had burst upon us, Nel, Tom and I made our way through the streets to my new home, two tenement rooms that seemed humbly quiet after all the commotion outside.
My first year in the Gem of the Prairie quickly passed, but during that golden time with my new family I learned much. In fact, I could literally feel the exponential expansion of my powers as if I’d discovered a map leading to the greatest prize, a treasure whose worth I could only guess.
In Nel and Carl’s flat I had a cubby that we built at the back, on the outside stairs. How miraculous it seemed, mine alone! Inspired by the challenges that I ever more confidently sought, I discovered that I could perceive the second-by-second growth of a geranium across the shaft. I felt the thick heat of summer give way to Canadian breezes that in winter turned into literally breathtaking cold. And I was able to lessen the work of the children in the building whose job it was to scavenge coal, because Carl gave me access to the railroad yards with their ready supply. And thus in her extra time a little girl was able to find a new source of money for her family by collecting hair from barbershops for wigs. And daily through the walls I overhead the talk and songs and the spats and brawls of our neighbors -- three successive families, each last observed when the time came to leave us, evicted and surrounded by their wilting possessions, as if some invisible hand enabled me to learn ever more about humanity by multiplying the connivers, worriers, howlers, pounders and melodic truce-makers who lived nearby. And for several months I heard an old neighbor repeat the word “abomination!” once in the morning and once at night as if for my edification. None of these things I’d known before.
And when peace reigned, when strife was over and mothers cleaned after dinner while fathers attended their favorite watering hole, what calm befell me? The blissful balm of brotherhood! Of course, young as I was, I did not completely understand let alone sympathize with all of the messages being sent, but the news passing through those walls could not help but increase my sense of the great import of the world.
And soon I also discovered a kind of temple down the street, hushed, dim and beautiful, the library to which Nel introduced me, holding my hand as we crossed the threshold, and I decided to read every book in it, row-by-row, shelf-by-shelf, a vow I eagerly fulfilled!
Almost overwhelmed by the dispensations from life and books with which the great city filled my brain, I imagined I was a little skiff sailing through a vast green archipelago -- green with the colors of tropical islands, or sometimes the pale hue of cabbages whose smell filled our stairway -- where naked natives swayed and mermaids lurked, or I would glide into harbors in which great ships docked or were docking while dark smoke rose in the sky.
Then at dawn I would awaken and run to work, because Carl had found me a job at the roundhouse. There I swept, carried loads and in my spare time learned as much about the railroad as I could, which was everything! At that time, Carl was a pretty good sort, and I assure you neither he nor Nel nor the baby nor I quarreled like our neighbors.
We worked for our future -- Nel, Carl and I -- though of course Baby Tom did not, and thus we felt the peace of those who after immersion in the world’s hullaballoo go back to their own little home knowing that soon they must return to life in action. After dinner, I could usually be found reading, Carl and the child would be falling asleep, and Nel would be singing something quietly, although sometimes she walked over to the lakefront to watch the low waves meet the stones.
Imagine me heartily consuming the food I’d helped to buy, the way I plucked the crumbs off the table, licked the plate clean and savored the aftertastes of potatoes, cabbage or the occasional patty. I had worked for this! I was tired for this and my family! And if that made my senses wonder, imagine how my brain sparked after I made the acquaintance of some city boys who so differed from me that they almost seemed to be another species, imagine my disturbed dreams when I listened to Carl’s speeches when he lost his job after a freight-car door closed on his hand and, some said, addled his brain, imagine my fascination with the building sites that appeared seemingly wherever I looked.
Carl came home silent and pale after a day in the infirmary, still trembling from the pain, and took to his little room where he would stay for weeks in the dark. Only once did I hear him make an unusual sound, which was a roar like a bear.
But how could we be ruined by such a random event, I wondered, and I listened more intently to learn whether he’d really been broken or was growing stronger. Eventually, he emerged and began to talk, at first to my great joy. But in fact he never stopped talking, even, I assumed, after I had to go to work, because to my surprise and then dismay his words were still flowing when I came home.
All that winter, spring and summer as we scraped by, Carl told me stories about foreign lands, revolutions, flags and palaces, and his ramblings reinforced one of my earliest impressions of Chicago, that it was not simply a vast conglomeration of people and buildings but a great thought organized to preclude many former thoughts and capable of engendering countless new ones -- an idea I sensed forming in my own brain as Carl seemed to have found, ready-made, a whole philosophy in his. I saw workmen in derbies and caps, boots and clogs babbling different languages, crossing and re-crossing the river for their gain and others’. I saw hundreds of buildings being built, most of wood but some of brick or even stone. I saw poor people, immigrants from other states and of course faraway lands -- from small rocky farms and sleepy towns in Ireland or Norway or Saxony -- whose struggles confused them yet eager to get on, rejoicing in their new-found freedom. I saw some grow rich and hurt their brothers and sisters in need even as they shared their wealth without knowing it. Once I saw two elegant women who I believed had done nothing their whole lives except talk and kiss leaders of society on the cheek, and I realized that they, too, served a purpose and were as much a part of this experiment as the smoke and smells rising from the workplaces and manufactories surrounding our street. I saw poor women enter churches and emerge later into snowy afternoons to return to their husbands. I saw some near starving and felt the pinch in my belly myself. In yards I saw and heard the poor wasted cows that produced the thin blue milk that kept them from slaughter. What a grand story this city told! What beauty in suffering! And I saw that I could make my contribution, too, by growing as fast as I could and saying or doing something for this place and these people that no one else had said or done! But when, oh when, would I perform the great work that awaited me? Because I was coming to believe I had to make every single person speak directly to every other person in love and truth, however I understood it!
One hot Sunday afternoon, Carl’s musings interrupted my thoughts along these lines and actually drove me into the street. To my surprise, I saw Nel in the distance and trailed her, not to the lake, but to the home of her employer. I believe then I saw that unless we use Thought Matter the lives of others continue unobserved, separate and unknown. I saw Nel as I’d never seen her, and I asked had she not appeared sad and yet especially beautiful during the preceding weeks? Was this an example of the nobility of suffering? Or was she experiencing a different emotion as yet unknown to me? Surprisingly -- because I had literally not thought of him since my trip on the train -- I found myself thinking about old Uncle Wallace. Yes, the world was not governed by chance: there were instructions to recognize and follow in the will’s exercise -- and even if the day might come when I, like Carl, could not work, I could always think, because no one could take my thoughts, and with those thoughts I might bind up the world! But there was so much to learn!
Although I felt feverish after my walk and hiding near Nel’s employer’s door, I resolved to be more kind to her. She emerged with a small private smile, unaware of my presence, and because of my resolution I believe that I succeeded in penetrating her spirit. I felt sorry for her having to visit Mr. Van Braagh’s house (for that was the name inscribed on the mailbox), and I pitied her “keeping him company,” as she described it when I confronted her that night. Moreover, I realized that we would never get ahead without her efforts. It was all because he had thrown out his wife and needed a woman in the house, Nel said, although she said in her own cheerful way that he did not ask for much, a little cooking, a little talk, some special cleaning. She also told me, in all candor, I knew, that he treated her as if she was a kind of charity visitor come to relieve him, or revive him, and thus we had to believe her even if it seemed to me, and I know to Carl, that this Van Braagh was working not entirely welcome changes in her.
At the roundhouse, meanwhile, I pushed myself to the limit. I discovered that I had become very strong, and as if to justify my new physical prowess I promised to make something of the name “Ackerman” that I had borrowed from Carl -- his name, “Ackerman,” becoming my third name, my badge of strength you might say.
And then consider my confused emotions when instead of returning home one night, I decided to go to the place by the lake that my workmates frequented -- the “Levee.” Imagine my surprise when from a bright hall I heard an old familiar tune drift out: “You Boys All Look Alike to Me!” So this city of Chicago was not so foreign after all! Striding past scenes of frivolity, commotion and violence, I followed the music to a far corner of a loud and brightly lit room. There a heavy Negro was playing an upright piano, singing and grinning, and for the first time since my arrival I experienced feelings that I had known in Uncle Wallace’s presence, which was strangely comforting, more so, I sensed, than if I’d reunited with the old rascal himself![41]
After the man stopped, I followed him to a table where a woman brought him a bottle and a glass. When he looked up, I sat down and began to talk, believing we would become fast friends and sing some of Uncle Wallace’s “coon songs” together. But he narrowed his eyes, gripped his glass and said, “I don’t have to talk to you.”
I repeated that I liked his songs.
I don’t have to talk to you, boy,” he said and started to tap his glass on the table. Then, curling his lip, he said, “If you don’t believe me, stick around five seconds more and see if I don’t cut you up!”
But before I could set him straight, a gaudily dressed woman pulled me from my chair. Spicy aromas wafted from her, and I endured powerful dreamlike embraces, feeling her breath upon my neck, cheeks and forehead until I had to steady myself.
“I just saved your life, baby,” she said, trembling, so how about buying me a drink?” Her eyes seemed glassy and her lips were full.
“I don’t have any money,” I said, shyness overcoming me.
She stepped back and looked as if she was about to slap me, but said instead, “Well, if you don’t have the money, honey, why do you come around?” Then she brought her lips near my ear and whispered, “Do your best,” as she swayed.
Luckily, I remembered I’d hidden a dollar in my small clothes, and before I could do something else that didn’t meet the standards of this place, dropped it into her hand. It was more than she’d expected, but I made no effort to retrieve it. Instead, as she gave the coin a little kiss I fled into the street, although the memory of her lips near my ear continued to haunt me.
Almost the second I walked in, Nel guessed where I’d been and began to accuse me, her voice growing shrill until her neck revealed its veins. She called me a little devil!
A picture of Tk as a devil, or demon whose eyes have been colored in red.
I began to cry. What about the warmth of that woman, her pale bare arms and tiny waist, I thought, what about her lips? At the time, I admit, I didn’t ask myself these questions in exactly this way, reacting more like a colt someone was trying to break, but I did grow hot. Nel was shouting -- in fact, she raised her voice so loudly I could scarcely think -- but later in my room I asked some of them.
Before Nel let me go, she said it was only a matter of time before I’d become a monster. What did she mean? Then she pulled my collar and shook me like a chicken whose neck she had to wring, seeming almost to relish my shame as much as she hated me for it. Then she stepped back, out of breath.
Carl got out of his chair and boxed her ear!
That freed me to run to my cubby, tears pouring down my face, and I lay there as their shouts and the baby’s wails came through scarcely less loudly than if they’d been with me. Eventually, though, it got quiet, and I pulled the blanket over my head and fell asleep.
Later she stole in. By then I was dreaming of the Nile River, which I’d recently read about, and it merged in my mind with the night’s beautiful woman. But Nel’s light touch on my forehead awakened me. In the candlelight her eyes were clear, wide and sad. I loved her.
“It’s all better now,” she said, putting her hand on my arm, and then she fussed over me, whimpering a little, and bent to kiss my eyelids, although she pulled back from them and shook her head. When she left, I returned to sleep as if a moth had landed on me and taken off.
Next morning, I could see that Carl was happier, too, because he was positively bubbling over about the crimes of the rich. On the following Sunday, though, I followed Nel to Van Braagh’s house once more, where I waited outside musing over what they did. After I returned, Carl seemed to guess where I’d been, and that night we quarreled again. In fact, it seemed we’d become like the people behind the walls next door whose quarrels had for so long been a part of my dreams. But now without thinking much of the consequences I told myself I needed was to find a pretty girl to be my sweetheart, and I resolved to return to the dance hall to rescue the one there. What is wrong with the union of two unfamiliar spirits? Confusion? Delusion? Misunderstandings? Second thoughts? The risk of these things of course attends every strong emotive attraction, especially the sex relation, but I can assure you that after completing the study of the Great Work in the School of Spiritual Light you will know they are of no consequence, really, until on Graduation Day you’ll marvel at their irrelevance as you think in Thought Matter! And that is because your empathetic and loving communion after the Personal Demonstration will be complete in and of itself! Then you will know!
However, I am jumping ahead. Of course, I had only a premonition of the future then. Indeed, but for one event my life might have become of no consequence. My memoirs, if I ever wrote them, would have failed to instruct in anything new, merely recounting some unusual events, perhaps, which, however, would differ little from others’ not refined in Thought Matter.
Truly, after my little family began to fight, I felt we were fallen creatures, little different than the piles of ashes spilling from the sacks in the alley.
Then on a very hot day in early fall as I was watching baby Tom, something happened.
In many ways during the past weeks, he had become strangely passive, even backward, because he’d stopped walking and moved his limbs only in soft, gentle gestures. Moreover, he’d said only a few isolated words since the statements I’ve recounted. Convinced by those well-timed outbursts that he could use our language with brilliant facility, I’d spent hours trying to encourage him. He only looked ahead, though, usually sitting in a nightdress that Nel had made from a flour sack that said, “BEST IN THE WORLD” and occasionally wrinkling his little face. I could not decide whether these expressions were reactive or anticipatory or simply mindless, but they were fascinating, nonetheless.
Carl got the tin tub ready to give Tom his bath. As I think I’ve mentioned, it was very hot, as true an Indian summer day as Chicago ever had.
I confess that over the last weeks I’d grown disturbed by Carl, because in addition to his mistreatment of Nel the man had become almost intolerably windy, apparently having so entirely given himself over to rages that he predicted the coming revolution in a kind of euphoria. All too many things and people were a “disgrace” or “shameful,” and evil forces seemed to battle him everywhere. More than anything he raved about fighting, death and “justice descending on the priests of Mammon.” He didn’t like judges, either. We needed a new type of justice, he’d say. I’d decided to stop calling myself “Ackerman,” therefore, in favor of my old name, which oddly didn’t anger him as much as made him more interested in me, leading his ramblings into even more appalling sermons.
He began one as he propped Tom up and prepared to soap him down.
A picture of a tub.
In his own repulsive way, the whites of his eyes showing, Carl gestured with his good arm as he raved, until Tom slid into the water! Despite this unnerving turn of events, though, some force entranced me to the point of abstraction from Tom’s predicament -- because, if you have not yet realized it, he was special. Goodness knows I would re-confirm this soon enough.
I should have identified his unique nature before then, but I excuse myself by noting that I’d thought I actually was causing the unusual events around us. For example, one afternoon I was extraordinarily hungry (I was always growing, and there was rarely enough food to satisfy me) and so frustrated with life (how little did I know!) that I wished to break free from my surroundings. Tom and I were alone in the flat as I felt the sharpest desire to end the sentence I seemed to be passing. At that very moment the walls began to shake, our plates and cups rattled, the chairs and table slid back and forth -- one chair actually skipped across the floor -- and the rug began to flap so wildly that although I cannot say exactly what was happening to the floorboards beneath, they rippled as if played like piano keys! Years later I rode out earthquakes in California and confirm that this was not such an occurrence. Besides, I soon learned that no other place in Chicago had been so shaken. At that moment, though, I actually felt our room being wrenched not just from the building but from the earth!
I shouted, “Stop!” and to my surprise the ruckus ceased, and I saw Tom staring crossly at me as if I had declined a favor. This I clearly observed although I was still a little dizzy.
Something else should have alerted me to his unusual talents. One day I was saddened to see a thin little neighbor girl crying because she had no milk, not even the weak milk of the cows down the street. Tom was nearby, sitting in his little basket. That evening I noticed my glass of milk would not empty! And it was fine, rich, creamy milk! Taking the hint, I drank it down and said, “Enough!” and it did not re-fill. After dinner I decided that I would carry my empty glass across the hall and place it before our little neighbor girl’s door. As I stood there, the glass filled with milk! Then I saw Tom on all fours, peering through our doorway. I can assure you that next morning the glass was returned with an expression of profound gratitude! This series of events repeated itself until I thoughtlessly mentioned our charity to another. Let this be a lesson to give anonymously.
Because of these and other events I need not mention, I may have been more curious than alarmed when Carl let the baby slip into the water, so bemused, in fact, that I did not run to pull him out. Sure enough, I received my reward by seeing bubbles, beautiful soap bubbles emblazoned with pictures as if from Leslie’s Magazine or Harper’s Weekly, rising from the tub!
Most of them bore images of soldiers in red and blue uniforms.
“Once,” shouted Carl, oblivious as always, “all were equal!”
Oh, the idiot!
Then another bubble emerged, upon which appeared the image of an old man dressed in a long white robe and a broad brimmed hat. He was begging, a cross in one hand.
“One day, a priest must have called them together,” cried Carl, “and said, ‘Give me your money.’ Oh, forever more!” Carl shouted, turning to me, “I HATE PRIESTS! We should move to France where it’s legal to knock ‘em down! Knock ‘em down to the ground!” he cried. “They don’t have women, you know, so what do they do?” he said. I shrugged and turned my eyes to the tub, because another bubble was rising -- a large bubble showing cannons and soldiers in light blue uniforms, black boots and spiked helmets as it floated out the window.
“Dare they tell us how to live?” cried Carl, waiving his good arm like an axe.
Now more and more bubbles were rising from the tub -- some of them I admit showing scenes of gross carnality while others revealed debates in a kind of congress or parliament in which little arms waved and flailed like Carl’s. Then I saw a particularly large bubble with the image of a hot air balloon, an observation balloon like I’d once seen floating over the city. It flew past Carl’s head. In fact, the bubble itself seemed to be a hot air balloon rising over a grey and white city reflected in other bubbles that were now lifting and heading through the window bearing images of buildings grand and small, walls and outposts as well as of soldiers and guns -- a host of red, white, blue and grey bubbles! And I knew the people were starving and feared for their lives. A few bubbles popped but most wafted out into the afternoon.
Now more were rising, a new series, but somehow I knew the procession was coming to an end, because these showed flashing guns and cannons, bodies falling and fallen in rubble and everywhere people killing each other! When these last scenes of carnage, whose brutality made me wince, hit the ceiling, they dripped down and stuck to Carl’s hair and I suppose onto mine, too, and I shook my head. Still, he did not notice them -- instead he was babbling in a frenzy! It was the bankers, he said, the bankers and the Jews and the armies with the power! “We must take it!” he cried.
Suddenly stirring from my reverie, I remembered Tom! Where was he? Was he all right? Oh, how I despised Carl! And then I heard Tom’s laughter rising like little firecrackers from the tub, and at that instant Carl reached in and fished him out, his hair slick as a helmet.
“Of course, in the beginning, there was free love!” he cried, barely stopping for breath while he gestured more wildly, if that was possible.
Was he going to defend that abomination, I thought? And then I asked, will he ever shut up?
Suddenly changing his tone to that of a lecturer, although his voice retained its disgusting fervor, Carl observed that we need families to train the young, if done properly, and then he turned and focused on me and I saw an idea forming even as I thought, “The liar!”
“But it’s NOT the others,” he cried, his face strangely proud. “I’m going to tell you something, boy,” he said, and then he stood to attention and saluted, at the same time letting Tom slip back into the tub.
“This is the WORST country in the world,” cried Carl, “with the MOST people who’ve killed the MOST people!” He was pointing at me. “Once it was China, but now it’s us!” he shouted. “And the people here are the WORST people in the world,” he said, speaking so rapidly the words almost lost their form. “And then,” he shouted, “and then, this state is the WORST state in the country, and this city is the WORST city in the state, and this block is the WORST block in the city, and the people on this block are the WORST people in the city, and this street is the WORST street on the block, and this building is the WORST on the street, and the people in this building are the WORST, too, and you and your sister and Tom and me -- we’re the WORST people here, and I’m the WORST of them all!” and he pointed at himself and shouted, “I AM THE WORST MAN IN THE WORLD!”
He could not have been happier.
“You’ll thank me,” he cried, as I prayed with all my heart he’d be blasted to hell, and then he shouted, “my heir!” and bent down, dipped his arm into the tub and fished out Tom. As the child emerged clinging to Carl’s arm, I saw he was radiant, glistening, his large, soft eyes shining brightly! Carl looked at him and shouted, “Ain’t he a live one? Lookee!”
He cried, “What do we do with him?” and his voice took off again. “It’s a clear day!” said Carl. “Day is clear -- clear as day -- my day is clear, boy! The coast is clear!” and he shook his arm as if trying to brush off a swarm of insects. At first Tom clung, but when Carl dipped his arm into the tub again, he slid back. “A man doesn’t stand a chance!” shouted Carl. “Not a CHANCE! We’ve got to blow it up, boy! We’ve got to BLOW IT UP AND BURN IT DOWN, blow it up and burn it down, down to the ground, ground to the down, down to the ground, ground to the down,” he cried, but I will not repeat the rest, because used the grossest profanity, notwithstanding the presence, although largely submerged, of the child. Then panting, his face crimson, his shirt wet, whether with sweat or water I do not know, Carl shook his fist and cried loudly and distinctly, “There’ll be MURDER, boy! There’s HELL TO PAY! The streets’ll be RED, boy!” And his words started to slide together again: “They’ll run and they’ll burn! They’ll run and burn and burn and run and run! I see ‘em, boy! I see ‘em! They’re coming! I SEE ‘em!”
I took two steps forward while, I confess, I had a vision of Carl exploding into flames!
And in fact his eyes flashed, and then I heard laughter again come from the tub like little explosions as the baby popped his head out, hair shiny and smooth as a seal’s.
At that moment, I realized when his loved ones’ wishes coincided with his own, the Dream Child’s powers soared to their greatest heights! And actual events proved me right, just as other events in my life have confirmed the power of intense thoughts shared with others, because Carl pushed me away, took hold of the tub, Tom and all, and, water splashing, ran across the room!
“Tom!” I gasped!
But before I could reach them, the child pulled himself up, holding the tub and letting out a kind of a wail like a war cry, while I watched in horror and shouted too as Carl took one last step and threw it out the window! I had not yet grabbed anything when I saw the water, tub and baby hurtle into the air!
However, to my wonder and delight the child was floating serenely to the ground! Almost in an instant the tub crashed, clanged and rolled over, water disappearing into the street, but he seemed to be still in the act of falling until he landed delicately on his toes! Then standing on solid ground, his little body looking particularly pink as he turned one way and another, he began to hop and skip, waving his arms and whooping his war cry. Then off he ran! I didn’t know he had it in him!
Carl and I exchanged fearful looks and raced with great crashing strides across the room, down the stairs and past the threshold -- but it was too late! A fiery wind greeted us! For a moment we could not move! The flames were already high, and the heat pushed in upon us!
Oh, forever more, I confess I did not think of the child then but hated Carl even more, although one would not think it possible. I hated him with a fury.
Suddenly the wind shifted, and the fire moved away to provide us with a vision of the Dream Child naked in the street and shouting his rebel yell. Hollering, too, Carl leaped from the stoop, grabbed him with his good arm and raced back like a baboon. As he bounded up the stairs, I turned and ran the other way to summon the Fire Department.
In a most excited state, I sped for several blocks, terror seeming to surround me in the person of the hot and fiery wind already scattering cinders on my head and shoulders. Then realizing I was running in the wrong direction, I stopped and turned and saw the streets were all aflame! I had been racing the fire and winning, but it had been spreading behind me in widening streaks! I looked up, and a church bell began to toll. At the same time, I smelled smoke filling the air, and then everything turned to chaos with a stranger cacophony than I’ve ever heard, pierced so frequently by screams, shouts and the odd swish of fireballs that most sounds were almost unrecognizable.
But I remember the church bell rang through it all, soon joined by bells large and small throughout the city, each pealing its warning to the people of Chicago. “Oh, forever more!” I said, “I’m getting out of here!” But my caution was more defensible than you might think, because I sensed the Dream Child was safe, even if he had invoked what Carl and I had for months in our own ways desired: a great conflagration purging Chicago in flame. “But Nel -- by God, where was she?” I thought, and I ran to reclaim her as the fiery wind followed at my heels.
When a fire becomes large enough it jumps from place to place like a human spirit. Like a human spirit, you say? I tell you it was a human spirit, the creation of the Dream Child, his way of telling Chicago and all America, for that matter, that life must change.
And what did Chicago do?
I knew I must travel about a mile to reach the house where I believed she was, but the spirit of adventure was upon me, and I did not hesitate to turn to scenes of interest and desperation along the way. Sure enough, my quarter-hour’s journey became half a day’s. I doubt therefore that anyone saw as much of the fire as I, leading me to ask was this thing especially planned for me? And I answered for not the last time (and the One-hi and the Great Spokes on the Wheel of Knowledge have confirmed my deduction) that these sights and sounds indeed were intended for me and in certain ways existed because I was seeing and hearing them! I have also confirmed that my clear-headedness, self-assurance and bravery impressed everyone who observed me, for I soon regained complete control of myself in order to help others.
Few even approached my level of self-possession, because the fire intensified people’s choices, and although there is always one right choice, it proved most are too befuddled to see their choice clearly. Thus wherever I looked people ran in opposite directions, sometimes calling out, “Follow me!” or “This way!” Iif the Dream Child had lit the true path, so to speak, the people of Chicago could not find it. Yet somehow I knew my way in that braying panic!
I had gone toward Van Braagh’s house, but the streets, which were literally crammed with people and filled with smoke, shrieks and flames, closed their faces. If groups of refugees did not thwart me, blockades of flames did. This did not stop me, though, from seeing the conflagration in many different guises. One surprising thing was how often the fire resembled the odd human sights I saw, sometimes taking the shape of a stumbling man, sometimes resembling a flowing beard or the bouquet of flowers a woman had not thought to drop. But as the day progressed the blaze most often assumed the horrifying aspect of a monstrous unthinking wave over the city, although I continued to be impressed by its almost soulful nature.
After a time, I found myself on what seemed to be the seediest street on earth. Although cinders were falling all around, even the fire seemed to think twice about pouring in. Yet although the blaze had not yet touched the block, a great calamity seemed to have beset it. The buildings -- if they could be graced with that title -- opened their doors onto the street like empty mouths. Windows were broken and blackness appeared within, bricks seemed to crumble before my eyes, foul odors struck my nose, and already I was covered by the dust of the lives of the miserable inhabitants, all of whom had apparently fled, perhaps in shame at being exposed to their would-be rescuers. Then I realized that this was the “Levee” block I had visited only a few weeks before to meet the piano player and the gaudy woman!
Oh, friends never stoop so low!
I heard a gasp above the roar, and to my left saw a couple who, having soaked themselves in water, were passionately embracing. I looked away, took three steps and turned to stride past in my original direction. They were still there, of course. In fact, as I walked by, they laughed. Thereafter I have always shunned abandoned buildings and muddy puddles because they are signs of human misdeeds rather than nature’s work, which is exemplified by clear rivers, mountains, the One-hi and the highest expression of Thought Matter, the Great Work itself.
I admit that for a considerable time I wandered in a daze. Everywhere I looked I saw flaming buildings twist and turn and crumple, at times like sinking, waggling hips or sagging faces. Smoke burned my lungs, and I began to cough steadily. All around the dark red and yellow sky pressed low while sparks burned my clothes and my inner temperature rose dangerously to meet the heat outside. Everywhere people and things filled the streets -- chairs and tables, chests and bags, even a piano, and small herds of animals, too. More than once a wagon hurtled by, the poor horses crashing their burden against buildings, railings and anything else that happened to rise before them. Once, a birdcage fell from on high. Shaking my head, I took a moment to look at it and, seeing a canary lying on its side, reached through the little door and stroked it until it flew off. A number of drunken people also started to appear, bawling and staggering, and on some blocks an alcoholic haze contended with the smoke and flames.
I also think that I saw a murder about to take place after an argument between a man and a woman over who would leave a building first, and yet I believe that a glance from me saved her, although I ran on before she could thank me. That day I was especially compassionate. Thus my powers might have been multiplied. I acknowledge that I have not actually been able to stop bullets, but there is no doubt I was wonderful then. Many people have said so, some even remarking when I returned to Chicago twenty years later that they could remember me! For example, I comforted many children and reunited three with their mother.
It seems I managed to stay on the edge of the fire, not pursued by it as much as doing good deeds in front of its crest, though occasionally I was in its wake. From under some fallen timbers, I pulled a young man who later became mayor of Evanston, Illinois. And then I met a capable-looking gentleman distressed because all of his documents were going to be burned. I advised him to bury them under a deposit of clay, which he did. The idea simply came to me, and thanks to it we preserved the title records and architectural history of Old Chicago! Also, it led to the invention of a new type of fireproofing, although we may at least hope the Dream Child had but one such blaze within him.
I rescued many others, too, pitching in and organizing whenever I could. Eventually I reached the lake, where it was somewhat quieter, voices being distinguishable at a distance. Up to their necks in water, scores of men and women had congregated in relative safety, although sparks continued to drift upon them, sizzling. “Come join us,” someone cried, but I refused. I had outrun the fire all day and thought I could do so for at least a few hours more. But the monster gave me a rough time! As I was speaking to those in the lake, it caught up with me and I took off. “We’ve got to run for it,” I told my legs, and I thought I heard it say, “You do!” As I sped up a bridge, I could feel it leaping at my heels, crackling on the wood and then bounding like a great cat and roaring like one, too. Like this we ran, I in front, the fire a breath behind until I decided if I did more good work it would leave me alone as it had several times before.
To my right, I saw a man fighting a flank of the blaze, and I ran over. Although at first he was angry I’d brought more of the fire with me, he accepted my offer and handed me a small pump and hose, which I placed in a trough. Together we took turns pumping and spraying until the flames died down or changed direction.
“Thank you, young man,” cried my companion. “You saved my business!”
Although for some time I’d almost forgotten my original purpose, I now found myself in the normally quiet neighborhood of Nel’s employer, and soon I was knocking on his door. You must know that I had mixed feelings about Mr. Van Braagh, who demanded such long hours and mysterious tasks of Nel, causing such trouble at home even as it fed us. My first sight did not lessen my dislike. When he began to talk, however, I noticed he was genuinely polite, which was another lesson. The simple truth is that good may be found in anyone. I also observed that his mouth was shaped in an appealing heart-shaped smile that seemed to grow as he spoke.
He told me that Nel had left. “Don’t worry about her,” he said, adding, “You must know she’s a good woman. She only cooked and cleaned for me -- she’ll be all right.”
“Of course, I know,” I thought, with some relief. Then I said, the idea coming with the greatest force, “The Dream Child will protect her!”
He stared at me peculiarly and said, “My advice to you, young man is to get out of Chicago now, as fast as you can! Wander the country. Travel high and low if you must, but don’t stay here. Come back in twenty years but leave now!”
I asked him how he’d become who he was.
He shouted, “I’m a lawyer!”
“Then I shall be a lawyer, too!” I said.
“Go on and get out!” cried Van Braagh.
The moment was strangely compelling. Fire raged everywhere except in the immediate vicinity, and even here smoke was forming a kind of cauldron at the end of the street. I realized I must have seemed quite wild to him, streaked as I was with sweat and soot and panting from my exertions. With his instruction, however, I calmed down and saw there was little more I could do. I could not fight the flames everywhere, although I sensed the latent powers within me to direct them and other “natural” forces, as the people, buildings, everything, really, seemed almost willfully beyond help. I knew, too, that the instigator of our predicament, the Dream Child, could not be thwarted, though I entrusted Nel to him, believing my own previously expressed desires would with his good graces save her. Thus I took Van Braagh’s advice without omitting to tell myself that one day I would return to hammer home to the City of Chicago the lessons of the fire, among other things.
He led me through his wood-paneled home and out the back, where a startling peace and quiet quickly replaced the flames, smoke and cinders that had surrounded me for hours, because I soon found myself in the countryside.
I walked for miles and sipped a draught from a stream before I realized the extent of my good fortune. I was free! What did it matter if I had no money or food and the only clothes I owned were on my back and smoking a little? I could work now, for myself, keeping what I earned. I was my own man, having learned far more in the last few hours than I’d ever known. I heard the call of a wood dove, washed the soot from my face and soaked my shirt in a stream.
For three years I wandered the country, top to bottom and coast to coast. I led a charmed life. I rode the rivers and rails. I became a supercargo, strengthening my already superior frame to a remarkable extent. I was the only white man to partake in the voodoo rituals of the stevedores of New Orleans. I lectured on what I now believe to be a precursor of the Great Work. I traveled in medicine shows and sold nostrums. I stayed in the best hotels in the greatest cities in the land, including the Astor House in New York City! More than once I thought I might feel the stirrings of love, but be assured nothing untoward occurred. Once I fell on hard times and became ill, but even this had its salutary effect, sickness being a foretaste of the Summer Land, and throughout I maintained my good spirits. I also kept alive my dream of studying the law. And when I was nineteen, I found myself wandering in southern Illinois when whom should I meet but Uncle Ed Eliot!
“Well, if it isn’t that sickly skinny little mutt puppy, George!” cried Uncle Ed, “all growed up!” and he came and touched my arm, though he quickly brought his hand away and clicked his tongue.
He told me that Uncle Wallace and Mother Doris were living nearby! When he’d heard they’d fallen on hard times, Uncle Ed had sent for them and set them up in an adjunct to his kennel.
During my travels I’d never really forgotten them, and for their part they invited me back into their lives at once. They had three other adopted boys by now, each of whom worked almost around the clock as I had so many years ago, and soon I was at work, too, in a little one-man gristmill that I operated from sunrise to sunset. I didn’t mind. Now I held my own, although I loved giving to the family and in fact went away to college only after they all urged me to leave.
A picture of young Tk turning a huge grindstone.
Uncle Wallace had changed, at least outwardly. For example, he was wild about dogs. Often, he slept in a little shed beside the dog run, and he became friendly, fawning even, although if strangers provoked him, he would snap. Once I saw him bark! His beard was bushier, too, and his hair shaggy. When I was small, he’d unnerved me, but now I wondered if I’d been wrong? Was it merely his ability to adapt that made him stand out? Uncle Wallace still seemed to have a secret influence on old and young, however, including my foster brothers, that led them to say and do wild things they shouldn’t. Whenever my old fears started to return, though, I thought of him buried in the ice, and it gave me a secret strength. In any event, I mostly avoided him.
Mother Doris had grown even paler -- although not, I felt, in spirit -- and perhaps angrier, but she remained a puzzle, though I did sense a frighteningly untapped source of power within her.
She remained a hard worker, and still cold, watchful and at times provoking in her silence.
Then I met my neighbor-girl, and how time sped! But I’ve already described that episode in one of my books, so I shall relate something else.
In the winter, my new brothers and I learned about a German family who had settled nearby. Apparently, they were peculiar. Although they did not speak proper English they’d reportedly studied widely, perhaps even including certain dark arts, though Uncle Wallace scoffed. We heard the man of the house was a “medium.”
A picture of Tk with his hands on the shoulders of Count von Bismarck, whose hands are on the shoulders of Napoleon Bonaparte, who is standing on tiptoe with his hands on the shoulders of Julius Caesar.
One Sunday afternoon my foster brothers and I visited the German’s house, which was shaded by a large cottonwood tree. He welcomed us heartily, too warmly in my opinion. His three daughters, who were near our ages, waited inside until summoned. After we asked to participate in a “séance,” the German said that he’d been about to start one when we’d called, and ushered us in. We were soon seated at a table in a very dark room, our hands close. Almost immediately his back snapped rigid as if he’d received an electric shock, and he leaned forward. A moment before, this man had addressed us with the heavy Teutonic accent that we later confirmed was his normal mode of speech, but now he began to talk with the pitch and rhythm of a man from the Brandywine Valley of Pennsylvania who that day was the first spirit to enter his body.
He informed us that he’d lived a moderately happy life, having worked for an insurance company. Through our “medium” he spoke in almost a singsong about certain claims he’d settled, clients and colleagues he’d known and business downturns that had hurt some people but touched him only superficially because of an inheritance he’d managed to save for such times. He also confirmed that his wife and children survived him. Then he described his former house in detail, the chifferobe he’d bought just before he’d passed over and two Persian rugs he was very fond of. He said he wasn’t shocked that he’d been called forth, because people were calling them forth from the Summer Land right and left lately.
Then he told us his existence in that place resembled his life on earth as much as one could reasonably hope and even remarked that he’d found a woman who resembled his wife, although he was angry his “terrestrial” wife had re-married, albeit to a man who closely resembled him. Then he raised the subject of harness racing, which evidently interested him, as he asked us to name the winners of the main stakes in last year’s Baltimore, New York and Illinois campaigns. He assured us, though, that he’d never owned a matched team, let alone thoroughbreds. At last, sighing because we couldn’t answer all his questions, he left us.
The German sank down. He did not appear to be especially tired, but we were. We stirred ourselves, though, when he straightened and wrinkled his brows in deep furrows and with a roar announced that he was a “bloody killer!” The next half-hour was truly horrible, not only because of his increasingly grisly revelations but also as his girls could not stop laughing. Our “medium” also sweated profusely -- too much in my opinion. “I’ve killed seven,” he cried. “I’m bad! A monster!” he shouted.
Then with a great crashing and creaking he clambered onto the table and stamped his feet with such force that I feared it would break in pieces. But as he shouted and shook his fists the spectacle so transfixed us that we gave up any thought of self-protection. Even his girls stopped their freakish laughter. “You b*st*rds!” he cried -- my foster brothers and I inferred he was talking to some higher beings -- “I can only scare them now!”
Suddenly he fell to his knees- the table swaying dangerously, eyed one of the girls and leered, “Pretty, pretty, pretty,” while she started to laugh even more manically, though I assumed she had seen quite a few such spirits in her time.
To my great surprise, the German’s mouth then emitted a long white stream like a dishcloth or a thick surge of phlegm! The substance I later learned was “ectoplasm.” This startling event seemed to calm him, and, shaking his head, he climbed from the table and slumped in his chair, hands dangling and legs spread. As if released, we also stretched our limbs. Indeed, the murderous spirit was gone.
Nonetheless, when he revived and to our relief one of his daughters cleaned off the “ectoplasm,” we begged for another “contact.” Almost immediately he straightened up, threw his shoulders back, puffed out his chest and spoke with the gentle voice of a cultivated woman. The contrast with his former demeanor was most disconcerting, if intriguing.
Despite our encouragement, this new spirit did not appear to be able to make up her mind about anything, including the simplest things such as where she was. Sometimes she was crossing a great distance, sometimes she was in her parents’ parlor wondering whether she should marry, sometimes she recognized that she was at a “séance” and sometimes she seemed to believe she was still in the Summer Land. All the while, though, she offered information about where to find things of no consequence, several of which we located during the following days. Mostly she was quite perplexed, in contrast to our first, annoying spirit. “Am I really happy?” she asked, for example, and then she inquired of no one in particular, “I wonder if people like me?” Next, she wondered more to herself than to us, “Do I really want someone to love me, and if so should I make him love me spiritually, emotionally or carnally” -- she blushed – “or with a mixture?” Demurely, she finished with, “Or must I do nothing so that he can love me of his own accord?” and looked around with a charming shrug.
At last able to interrupt, one of us asked why she was so puzzled after she had been in the Summer Land, but at that moment her voice began to fade and we heard her say only, “What?”
Then our “medium” began to sing a few notes until in a deep bass voice he broke into a marching song and beat his hands increasingly loudly upon the table until to our amazement many, many voices joined in, and all around and above us we heard a resounding, ringing, trumpeting, buzzing and wheezing accompaniment that differed from any band or choir my foster brothers and I had ever heard! When it seemed that we could take it no more, our “medium” slumped in his chair, breathing heavily.
There it was, my first “séance,” a thrilling event, at times frightening, yet ultimately more mysterious than edifying.
Over the next few months my foster brothers, the German’s daughters, some friends and I developed a “spirit circle.” We successfully sensitized several good “mediums” -- including me, of course, because I discovered that I was especially adept at this form of communication -- with the excitement of anyone first exposed to Spiritualist practices.
As time passed, however, I came to see more clearly the dangerous subjection, passivity and self-abandonment of Spiritualism and specifically of “mediumship,” which inevitably leads to the medium’s moral and physical degeneration. I therefore warned my foster brothers to stop engaging in it, but the one I’d nicknamed ‘Peas’ insisted on continuing and later regrettably became overly sensuous and perhaps even a lost person, and when he died his name vanished from the earth.
During the next few years, I devoted much time and effort researching Spiritualism’s underpinnings and dangers, and although I have previously presented my evidence in such treatises as The Great Psychological Crime and Spiritual Mysteries Revealed: Spiritual Darkness Penetrated (revised edition) I shall repeat my findings here:
1. 90% of “mediums” develop an uncontrollable urge for power, which they often express in sexual ways that frequently result in tragedy, as they become slaves to their desires.
2. 95% become extremely egotistical and rudely manipulative.
3. 90% of “mediums” cannot tell the truth when they are not in “séances.”
4. 95% habitually make the wrong choice.
5. 99% improve neither physically nor morally. Indeed, just the opposite -- progressive retrogression and degradation -- inevitably ensues even for those “mediums” who at first escape the foregoing risks. Ultimately they become slaves to the evil imps who literally have found a home within them.
You may wonder whether we were able to contact the spirits of my true Mother and Father. I believe the answer is “Yes,” but only for the short time it took them to voice their pride in me and express their strong desire that I quit Spiritualist self-indulgence and attend an institution of higher learning. You may also wonder whether I was able to discern the truth of my adoptive parents’ feelings toward me, for example whether I could confirm that I was merely a source of labor to Uncle Wallace, if perhaps also an object of desire, envy and fear or, as I had sensed during our last conversation in the old store, our relations were even more complex. But Spiritualism proved to be a poor means to attain such insights. Only with the help of the One-hi and Thought Matter have I understood these four people, each of whom has some claim to be called my parent.
On my twenty-first birthday I revealed to Uncle Wallace and Mother Doris my urge to matriculate. “We didn’t raise you for that kind of nastiness!” he said, but when I clarified my intentions, revealing that my first parents had inspired me to attend college, Uncle Wallace stood back, looked me over and gave me his blessing, although it seemed that before he agreed he had to be placed again under the control of a more powerful being. “Just don’t ask us for anything,” he said eventually, his voice tightening and his ears turning that bold, bright red again.
The thought of asking Uncle Wallace and Mother Doris for help had not entered my mind, but his words removed any doubts about my leaving them. Having said goodbye a second time, including to my foster brothers, I moved out, harvested corn and taught elocution, ethics, mathematics, piano and baseball at a prominent high school until having acquired enough funds I enrolled as a “sub-freshman” at the University of Illinois.
Circumstances, namely, outside private research,[42] prevented me from formal promotion, but after years of an independent course of study at that institution, I had fully absorbed its curricula of Mathematics, Philosophy, Medicine, Geography and Rhetoric.
Now expertly equipped with the tools of modern learning, I moved to the State of California.
I take this time to note that while studying at the University of Illinois I was married to an older woman. She was a performer and voice teacher, and we remained wed for almost twelve years. Although at times she was highly responsive to me, unfortunately this person did not accept what came to be my Great Work until very late in her life and then incompletely, being unable to comprehend the difference between sensation and reason that is the first step toward Thought Matter. I have always admired a good and independent spirit, though, and refuse to speak ill of her. When I went to California in 1880, I had every intention of sending for her as soon as I could.
Not long afterward, though, she wrote that she needed to take care of her mother in St. Paul, Minnesota, which was puzzling because she’d told me once that her mother had died. Then in 1884 she wrote that she was free to see me again, but before we could be reunited she sent word that she had contracted tuberculosis. This was a cruel addition to the infirmities I understood prevented her from conceiving, bearing and delivering a child, no doubt to her dismay. I promptly saw her established in appropriate surroundings in Denver, Colorado, where she lived in comfort for several years. Then in 1891 I received a letter from her doctor revealing that she was cured and would be joining me in Chicago, Illinois. Soon after, though, a telegram announced that she had suffered a relapse and summoned me to her bedside.
Upon my arrival, I was told that only a little while earlier she had sat up, called out my name and died.
The doctor informed me that her case had been the most tragic he’d ever seen. When pressed, he said some germs thinner than an eyelash had collected upon an area of her body known as the aorta, which is the largest artery of the circular system. These germs, he confirmed, although I’d already anticipated his description of the dread result, proceeded to eat through the aorta until her blood pressure could not be maintained, her heart overworked itself, and she died.
I shook my head, and he shook his head. Indeed, it was not clear which was comforting the other more, her case having profoundly affected us both. Then he warned me not to bother to look at her body, and I did not. Interestingly, he died soon afterwards in unexplained circumstances.
But to return to my narrative, not long after my arrival in California I became almost outlandishly successful. Clearly the region was ready for a man of my talents. For a while I worked as a reporter and then sub-editor at The San Francisco Chronicle, but the job paled because I was simply recording, not doing, more akin to stenography than action.
One day during a research trip, I found myself in Mr. Robert Wendell’s law office, or “chambers” in Sacramento, California. I was looking up a bit of law to help a poor friend who wanted to break a will, when a distinguished-looking man asked my name, age, address and occupation. I told him, and he immediately offered me a partnership in the very law office in which we were standing! Of course, I shied away as if from a madman, but next morning an acquaintance told me this gentleman was Mr. Robert Wendell himself! My friend also informed me that although Mr. Robert Wendell was eccentric, he was not crazy. He owned a $50,000-a-year law practice and was prepared to leave it to me because he was getting on in years and I had come closer than anyone to meeting his expectations for a junior partner. That very afternoon, independent sources confirmed each item of this report. My law dream was fulfilled! I was infinitely happy!
As soon as Mr. Robert Wendell passed on, I took control of his practice, which so prospered under my care that I had to bring in Mr. Francis Nutter as my associate. For for years afterward, the power of our firm steadily increased. In fact, we came to dominate the legal affairs of the capital and even the destiny of that part of the state.
This success did not satisfy me, though. Restless, ambitious, desiring new experiences, I began a lecture tour, designed a better kind of bridge and a more efficient Cyrillic typewriter, and, at the request of some prominent acquaintances, joined a Psychic Research Society. Knowing all too well the dangers of Spiritualism, I agreed to that endeavor more to protect my friends than to encounter the dead.[43] But my past experience was repeated, sure enough, and I am sorry to say with even more devastating results.
Our circle developed as a “medium” one of the finest women on the West Coast. She was brilliant in every way: lively, enjoyable, even bewitching, exerting both intellectual and physical charm and possessing a beautiful embonpoint in addition to the liveliness of her expression. She made an excellent “medium,” as well, but we eventually witnessed with horror her complete physical and moral collapse. She became a sexual sponge. Taken over by the spirits she summoned, she emitted ectoplasm during séances at a most alarming rate, and as the months passed lost all control over her body. After a frightening series of episodes, her reason left her, and she became an utter mental and physical wreck.
Unfortunately, I was too busy with my law practice to bind together the shards of her life, but I did manage to write a little book warning of the dangers of uncontrolled Spiritualist experimentation -- that is, of the frightening consequences of calling DOWN the dead and unborn to earth.[44] I had not yet learned the most important secret of the Great Work, though, the simplest little bit of knowledge that could have sent this once beautiful woman UP to the place where all is made good in Thought Matter, but I would learn it soon enough!
At the time, I was working on an especially important case involving a contested legacy. A scoundrel -- a gambler by trade, a cheat and rumored murderer -- had left his fortune to his common-law wife. Relatives of the deceased were challenging this result, arguing that the woman was unfit to inherit because of the nature of her relationship with him. I represented her and prevailed. The trial lasted several weeks and was celebrated throughout California and even parts East. I would not have undertaken the burden of the case without assuring myself that she was perfectly innocent, because she had always been circumspect with me.
Without boasting, I can say I was magnificent in court. Of course, we won. We were right! A great crowd awaited us outside, and I knew many were speaking of nominating me for governor of the state! I felt obliged to acknowledge their applause even as I tried to persuade them to go home. Eventually, though, the throng began to break up, and I suddenly remembered that I had an appointment at the “Yosemite House” for five o’clock that afternoon. I left the courthouse stairs and walked in its direction.
As the people streaming home parted for me, I wondered about the person I was going to meet. I did not know his identity! I could not call on him! My error struck me as odd, because since my fourteenth year my mind had always been pliable to my every command.
Attributing my confusion to post-trial exhaustion, I started to return to the office when as clear as a bell I thought, “You must go to the ‘Yosemite House,’ you have an appointment there.”
As if in a trance, scarcely touching the outstretched hands of my remaining friends and well-wishers I turned once more toward the “Yosemite House,” and there I encountered the being who was to change my life.
We met in the lobby. He was small and handsome, of indeterminate age, well-traveled but not ill worn -- more burnished than reduced by experience. In fact, he was exceedingly healthy. At first glance, he seemed to be wearing the comfortable clothes of a successful businessman, but upon closer examination I observed that his attire was unique to him, bearing an indefinable suggestion of far-off lands. He was of vaguely Asian appearance.
Seeing me, he exhaled softly like a dove, “So-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo,” without the slightest hesitation. Puzzled, I told him that I did not recall we’d met.
“That’s right,” he replied with a charming smile, “we have not, but I have seen you many times,” and he stared at me for several seconds, his expression growing increasingly joyful. Then he nodded as if in confirmation and sighed in his way, “So-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo,” but now with such a confident air that I could not help wondering, “Is this that famous Western character, the ‘bunko artist.’”
But before I could think of an excuse to leave, he said, “You wish that you could see your sister, Nel again, don’t you?” And then he added, “The Dream Child has her in good stead, don’t fear.”
Well forever more, I’d never told my California friends about Nel! Nor about Tom! In this part of the world, I was known as the adopted son of an Eastern lawyer and banker, George Rogers Van Vraagh!
“Tell me more,” I said, although masking my surprise because I reasoned he might have been following my tracks all the way from Chicago.
Hunching his neck into his shoulders, he closed his eyes, opened them, lifted his head and said, “Very well, because you have been chosen, I will ignore your skepticism,” and emitting a benign brightness said, “I will tell you that once in New Orleans to weaken an enemy you stabbed a chicken. And in Capers, Arkansas you would stare into an eddy until you thought the clouds were in the water and you were in the sky. And at that time and for a long while afterward you did not know the meaning of ‘love-making.’ Indeed, to this day the idea alarms you, and with good reason.”
All of this was true!
“And,” he said, “in Chicago your glass of milk kept filling!” He laughed and then beamed with nearly overwhelming joy! And yet he was especially calm!
Thus I learned that he was not a confidence man. But who was he?
“That’s enough for today,” he said, nodding his large head as he hunched his neck into his shoulders and raised it again. His teeth shining brilliantly, he said, “If you want to become the most powerful being on earth – and join thirty-five others upon the Wheel of Knowledge -- you must meet me after breakfast tomorrow in number ‘13.’”
I regarded him closely.
He intuited my unspoken question because he said, “No, no, no. No mystical place is intended! Meet me in room number ’13’ at the ‘Yosemite House!’” His touch upon my sleeve seemed to send an electrical current through my body. “I am lodging here,” he continued, “and if it reassures you, allow me to say that ‘13’ is a lucky number. It is my lucky number, just as your lucky number is ‘12’” (which was true!).
I said not a word but saluted him and left.
Next day, I returned to the “Yosemite House” and walked up to number “13.” There in the doorway stood the little fellow, whose head I re-confirmed was as large as a good-sized watermelon, although he had sharp features. All night I’d wondered whether I’d remembered it correctly.
He said he’d been awaiting me.
Inside his room, sitting so closely his fingers at times came near to brushing my knees, my new friend proceeded to recite my life’s story, which was quite entertaining, although I must admit not without its disconcerting moments. Upon this tale’s close after recounting yesterday’s events, he revealed his true identity:
HE WAS THE ONE-HI!
AS IF YOU DID NOT KNOW!
He said that he had found me after learning of my ever-expanding investigation into the practice of Spiritualism, especially my examination of its dangerously passive and degrading elements. And it was at this moment as if in complete collaboration with the extraordinary eminence who sat before me, I coined the phrase “Great Psychological Crime” to epitomize the most nefarious aspects of Spiritualist “science.”
The One-hi announced that I had tremendous promise -- in fact, that I was quite amazing, even as I demurred. Then for the remaining hours of that day he told me about the Great Work I must pursue and the great School of Spiritual Light I must found.
In sum, he gave me an introduction to the Instruction, from the Great Work’s beginnings through my own foretold completion of the Personal Demonstration -- when I would confirm that I was “regularly admitted, taught, tried, tested and accepted,” and of course much more!
For example, he revealed that there was an empty space on the Wheel of Knowledge and that I had the opportunity to become its thirty-sixth Great Spoke if I completed the Instruction and performed the Personal Demonstration. Then with sudden solemnity he told me that the Instruction about which he’d been speaking and upon which I was going to embark would be more rigorous than anything I had ever endured, in fact that it would encompass the rest of my life!
We covered all of these subjects before supper and after a pleasant meal resumed our work.
At dawn, he closed by stating the conditions I must fulfill to accept his offer:
I must work the Great Work.
More specifically:
1. I must receive, and having learned I must impart, the Instruction and teach the secrets of the Personal Demonstration as miraculous gifts, requiring nothing more than love from those in whom I would inculcate this unparalleled knowledge.[45]
2. I must found a great School of Spiritual Light, thus institutionalizing the unceasing transmittal of the Great Work in the United States of America.
3. I must form a League of Visible Helpers to bestow prosperity, a spirit of loving community and the most profound well-being as widely and completely as possible.
4. I must develop the Technical Work by personally transmitting its scientific, healing and medicinal principles and products to at least 300 people, each of whom would in turn develop at least four to multiply the Knowledge in a matter of years.
5. I must teach many thousands and thousands of thousands more the Great Work’s exoteric and extrinsic precepts by the medium of the written word, so that they, too, might know its benefits. More specifically I must describe the Great Work in proper English and publish my writings in bound volumes that in time would circulate throughout the United States, the Western Hemisphere and the rest of the globe.
“Will you do it?” he asked.
“Do what?” I thought, for it came so easily.
“All of it.”
Wanting to regulate my excitement, I said nothing more, saluted him and left.
All the next day I slept the soundest sleep imaginable, and I have never been as refreshed as on the following morning I ascended the steps of the Yosemite House, strode down to number “13” and shouted, “I’ll do it!”
Then my Instruction began in earnest and continued uninterrupted for one year -- fourteen hours a day plus eight hours of sleep and two for eating, exercise and other functions -- until I completed the Personal Demonstration, that is, until I learned to leave my body and in complete self-control enter the spirit-realm of others! As you know, it is at this point that I, like all who have completed the Personal Demonstration, exercised my will assured that I was making the right choice in Thought Matter!
It was just the beginning, of course, although on this date, December 12, 1887, the One-hi told me that he was sufficiently assured of my progress to leave me temporarily. As you know, since then we have often reunited, and I have learned to endure his absences. After all, upon my performance of the Personal Demonstration the world, indeed the universe, was mine!
Because I had learned to use Thought Matter! With others of like mind I might communicate in perfectly harmonic frequencies! I could make the right choice!
But let me if only this once be a little more expansive: it was as if I had shot an arrow so far into the sky that it left the bounds of gravity to circle the earth in perpetuity. Or it was as if a beam of electricity had shot straight from my head so far into the future that its end could not be seen or scarcely conceived. All of it was true! I had discovered my inner power on the beautiful path of Thought Matter that runs through all the vicissitudes of life. It was also, I saw, why everything had been going so well recently! And I realized -- after I could make the right choice in Thought Matter, that is -- that my will was strong and clear and now I could follow it forever. And then almost simultaneously I saw that it was time for me to teach The knowledge to others.
But always I must be humble, even innocuous -- humble almost to a fault, I realized -- and therefore I would often need to work in secrecy.
* * * *
One day near the end of the last phase of my Instruction, the One-hi took me on a “spiritual journey.” We traveled to the State of Oregon, and there he asked me to peer through a window. Inside sat a beautiful woman in a white dress. Never had I seen anyone like her, because her beauty was not only physical but emotional and spiritual, revealing almost complete harmony of body, mind and spirit. She had situated herself to look at the ocean, even if at that moment she was resting her head on her fair and slender hand and dreaming into space. The waves were surging and roaring only fifty yards away, their spray coloring the atmosphere.
She was unhappy.
Oh, forever more, how I wanted to console her! Seeing my expression, the One-hi said, “She is wonderful. She will be your first student. Seven months after you complete the Personal Demonstration you will meet her in the flesh. Study her -- do not forget her.”
How could I forget that angelic creature! She was tall and as graceful as a swan in flight. She had fine white skin, chestnut hair, blue eyes, an elegant yet firm mouth and a slight flick of her delicate hand at a stray curl expressed volumes of dignity and poise. A month after my performance of the Personal Demonstration, I saw her again while on another spiritual journey, taken when, feeling isolated by the burden of my new responsibilities, I was beginning to wish I was back in my law office or starting a statewide lecture tour. Once more I traveled -- at first strangely not of my own volition -- to the Pacific Northwest. There she was in a white gown: a beautiful young woman standing in the middle of a party, admired by all, and yet, like the last time, she was unhappy! On perceiving her, my heart nearly burst, although I am not sure whether in gratitude to the One-hi for raising my spirits or because of my intense sympathy for her suffering!
Six months later I saw her again in Oregon -- this time, however, in person because I’d stationed myself there to begin to develop the 300 practitioners of the Technical Work. Friends of mine introduced me to a beautiful woman who was their guest. Her name was “Mrs. Florence Huntley,” and she told me that she had fled a devil of a man who had involved her in certain pernicious practices. She said that our kind friends had given her the protection of their roof.
During the next several days we often met to discuss the Great Work. We were growing to think Thought Matter together. She even began to justify her Instruction and verify my ability to teach her the Personal Demonstration. In turn she revealed certain aspects of the Technical Work to me -- under another name of course -- and I began to feel that the love I sensed between us was about to declare itself, when I saw her at the depot talking to a swarthy man who was wearing a brown suit. Next morning, I discovered she had left for Washington, D.C. From there she wrote that she had been offered a job as an assistant to the Managing Editor of The Washington Star. It took all my powers to overcome the sadness descending upon me, although of course I still had the Work.
After four years we met again, this time in a busy train station in Chicago, Illinois, AND SINCE THAT DAY OUR SPIRITS HAVE NEVER BEEN APART!
She has been my dear student and helpmeet all this time, having swiftly completed the Personal Demonstration with characteristic aplomb. In addition, she has made her own contribution to the written corpus of the Great Work in the form of The Dream Child, which our Indo-American Book Company has published in a record number of editions, including a special limited edition in blue Moroccan leather with silk bookmark. She has immeasurably advanced the Technical Work. And her “Paradise Flat” on Dodge Street became a well-known haven for all sorts of friends of the Great Work.
Unable to conceive a child of her own, although professing with all her wonted verve no dismay at that unfortunate limitation, she endeavors to extend her love throughout the earth!
In sum, she inspires everyone she meets -- a very angel!
I am the first to admit that, even with my superior knowledge of the Great Work, and remembering her initial departure from my life, I was somewhat wary of her magnetic appeal to our curious and inquiring students, members of the League and especially Technical Workers. And how could I not be apprehensive at even the slightest prospect she would again disappear? But I knew her contributions to the cause would be undeniably good, and I was right! Indeed, in a less skeptical age her gifts would be called miraculous, and she has ever been true.
Thanks in large part to her, for example, our group in Chicago has grown from the tiny bond of Mrs. Huntley and me to exceed the 300 souls the One-hi long ago told me to gather round my person, and she continues to extend her love and devotion to everyone who has the good fortune to join our ever-widening circle.
And let me repeat that her effect on the supply, organization and distributional aspects of the Technical Work has been extraordinary.
In time our numbers have grown so rapidly we’ve felt the need to call ourselves by secret names in front of those who are interested but not yet fully receptive to the entire programme of the Great Work, those curious, for example, about the Technical Work. Thus we’ve hit upon the rubric of “The Splendid and Ill-Illumined Order of Tacks,” coined during a jolly gathering when Florence’s fun-loving side was in full flower.
I am the “Chief Tack” or “Tack,” for short, or simply the “Tk.” Dear Florence, already known as “Ra,” or the “Recording Angel” for her stenographic ability, assumed the sobriquet “Lady Tactful.” And now one of the most important elements of the most unusual initiation into the most remarkable body in the world is this exoteric element of the Great Work -- the “Naming.”
I am pleased to say that we have a “Tackler,” a “Tickler,” a “Tagger,” a “Tax It,” a “Tack Set,” a “Tack Tick,” a “Tick Tack,” a “Tock Tick,” a “Tick Tock,” a “Tock Tot” a “Tisket,” a “Tasket,” a “Take It,” a “Took It,” a “Tactile,” a “Tackle ‘Em,” a “Tack Head,” a “Tactless,”[46] a “Taxman,” a “Thumb Tack,” a “Tisker,” a “Tasker,” a “Taker,” a “Taster,” a “Tusker,” a “Toaster,” a “Tooker,” a “Toker,” a “Tickler,” a “Tricker,” a “Trickster,” a “Triller,” a “Thriller,” a “Tote It,” a “Toot It,” a “Trailer,” a “Tailor,“ a “Trawler,” a “Tamper,” a “Tanker,” a “Teeter,” a “Treater,” a “Tweeter,” a “Tweezer,” a “Tzashker,” a “Tzmashker” (two of our hopeful immigrants), a “Look It,” a “Whozit” and a “Whatzit” (always originals, they!), a “Toter,” a “Tooter,” and a “Tater,” among many, many others in our midst, each of whom has completed his or her Personal Demonstration to our immense satisfaction!
And some of these people are counted among the most thoughtful, dynamic and puissant in all Chicago AND THUS THE WORLD!
Indeed, I am coming to believe that the integration of the inner, outer, social and transcendent aspects of the Great Work is becoming complete!
On the subject of names, I now state that in addition to “George,” “George Rogers,” “George E. Rogers,” “George Ackerman,” “George Rogers Van Vraagh,” the “Chief Tack,” “Tack” and “Tk,” I am also known as “Dr. St. George,” the nom de plume under which I treat my patients and sign articles published in medical journals.
In late 1893 after my first wife died, Mrs. Florence Huntley and I were “married” in our own Thought Matter and that of our friends, colleagues and student witnesses. Never has there been such a holy consummation of life and love!
WE CONTINUED TO LIVE IN PERFECTLY ETHICAL UNINTERRUPTED BLISS FOR TWO YEARS PURIFYING OURSELVES SO THAT WE MIGHT UNDERTAKE COMPLETE HOLY PHYSICAL/SPIRITUAL INTERCOURSE.
Then in late 1895, Florence was called to another place. “You have dreamed the great dream and fought the good fight, and now you shall move on,” was the One-hi’s word from on high.
And so she was gone.
It is possible that one day I shall be with her, always, in the Summer Land, where all is bright and pure, but for now I have our Great Work. We talk frequently. When I go UP, she jests now and then, but she stays on the straight and true while she reminds me that I must live more fully and completely.
When I am not UP, I miss her greatly.
Now I pray for the success of the School of Spiritual Light and the Great Work in the United States of America.
Now I sign this paper as another piece of evidence, this 12th day of December at 12:12 o’clock in the afternoon:
George
George Rogers
George E. Rogers
George Ackerman
George Rogers Van Vraagh
Chief Tack
Tack
the Tk
Dr. St. George
Ababa
Boaz Bag Bag
Ebbdz
Gordon Orten
Mumos
Zol.
Tk’s Claims Refuted; the Horrid Initiation
COMMENTARY
We find it difficult to know where to begin to refute Tk’s “Autobiographical Sketch,” and yet we owe it to the City of Chicago to confirm it recovered from the fire of 1871 like the healthy young animal it is. And Chicago was not alone in its optimism: the United States Government and nations, cities and towns throughout the world had far more confidence in the Gem of the Prairie than young Tk. Even rivals St. Louis and Cincinnati sent aid. Great Britain donated a library of scientific and practical treatises. And although recovering from invasion, revolution and massacre, France lent bakers. Indeed, any young man with a thimbleful of sense chose that moment to travel to Chicago. Why, only a year later the city held a fair to commemorate its rebirth from the ashes that in some places still blew. Chicago soared -- buildings rose, dollars floated, songs flew, animals came to be slaughtered, and spirits flowed more abundantly than ever! Slashed and burned, Chicago more than revived, it flourished, the expression of the age, the American city! The world’s city! Not all of this was for the best, of course. After all, King Mike MacDonald, Bathhouse John Coughlin and Hinky Dink Kenna were none too good, and of course the hero of the foregoing “Sketch” returned to do his damnedest, but now we shall change all that.
Dear Chicago, for Tk’s ill-considered abandonment we offer our most sincere apologies.
Might Tk’s lies upon lies already have left the reader at least puzzled, skeptical and perhaps bilious? For even if not recognized, lies make their presence felt. It occurs to us, then, that if we burst but one or two bubbles at the center of his “Autobiographical Sketch,” pure Thought Matter may prevail. The following therefore should save us all a lot of time and trouble. For those who trust only independent research, the following facts may be verified in the public record.
Thus we reveal that during the twelve months of 1887, Tk -- that is, George E. Rogers -- was but a Court Underclerk in Sacramento, California! We also have in our possession a letter signed by Francis M. Nutter, Esq. confirming that every minute George E. Rogers claimed to have been studying with the One-hi, he was in fact siting in a small room next to Mr. Nutter, unsuccessfully “cramming” for admission to the bar of the State of California! Indeed, according to this gentleman, whom we have no reason to doubt, Tk spent almost every waking hour within his sight, notwithstanding Tk’s contrary assertion that he was engaged in a year’s-long study with the One-hi!
For that matter, even without Mr. Nutter’s testimony could Tk honestly expect us to believe that he and the One-hi exclusively occupied themselves with the exception of sleeping, eating and “performing other necessary bodily functions”? Would the One-hi tolerate such coziness with the likes of Tk? Could the Tk endure such prolonged proximity to so nearly a perfect being? We think not!
Upon scarcely a moment’s analysis, moreover, Tk’s account of his Spiritualist experiments also proves untrustworthy. Of course, with good reason he warns of the dangers of Spiritualist practice, a theme well-articulated in the Three Great Books of the Harmonic Series, and yet he returns to Spiritualism at every opportunity, like a slug to beer, though faster. No one knew better this dreadful practice’s woeful effects on moral and physical health. Why then did he reveal his fascination with it, his susceptibility to its seductions beyond the dictates of research? Obviously, for Tk Spiritualism holds a nearly annihilating allure.
Then let us turn to his journeys with the One-hi and his acceptance of a place on the Wheel of Knowledge. We admit we hesitate to speak on a firsthand basis about Tk’s relations with his remarkable Master, but at least we can say something of his claims about the Wheel in the light of others’ first-hand observations.
A letter from two Technical Workers describes a trip with Tk to another city. It was hot and humid when they arrived. After consuming a large lunch, Tk returned to their hotel and muttered that he was about to begin what promised to be a long meeting on the Wheel.
Having escorted Tk to his room, his companions watched him open the window beside the bed, take off his shoes and lie down.
With a sage expression he instructed them to go to their own room and consider the difference between expression and communication.
Having followed his instructions to a “T,” they grew worried when one of the violent thunderstorms for which that region is known blew in. Fearing his body would be soaked through the open window, they were debating what to do when a thunderclap convinced them to protect the “master.”
But as they were about to knock on number “12,” they heard the sound of a sash being lowered from the inside!
And this is not all. We have gathered evidence from other reliable sources, too. For example, the Managing Editor of The San Francisco Chronicle has written, “We have no record of anyone named George E. Rogers who worked here and know nothing about your Tk.” Also, we’ve learned that during the period described there were no $50,000-a-year law practices in Sacramento, California, nor any trials in that state over the “legacy” of a gambler, cheat and reputed murderer. And we have yet to locate Tk’s typewriter patent.
In short, following extensive research we hold testimonials, affirmations, declarations and affidavits contradicting several averments in Tk’s “Sketch” -- and much, much more that may be disclosed later.
BUT IT IS MOST FITTING TO REVEAL THE CROWNING TESTIMONY, WHICH COMES TO US FROM THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. FLORENCE HUNTLEY, HERSELF, PROJECTED THROUGH THOUGHT MATTER.
One day, while lying on the bed, we saw this lovely woman float through the window. She was radiant, and because of her extraordinary purity we were not shocked to see that she was naked, whole, without blemish or mark. Since then, we have met regularly. Her sweet and vivacious disposition has not changed, notwithstanding her current state, and we are increasingly impressed by her strength of purpose. These are not Spiritualist encounters, be assured, as both of us remain in complete control and she has seemed to bring the Summer Land with her.
Now with the springtime we have become more intimate, speaking on a first-name basis, although originally she chose to send us the rather formal if at times emotional letter that we have already quoted at length
We miss her very much when she is gone.
More pertinent to our purpose, though, is that on one of her visits she disclosed the location of her stenographic “minutes” of the gatherings at the “Tack Factory,” held, until the move to the Edgemere Facility on the corner of Kinzie and Dearborn, in her Paradise Flat. What follows has never been revealed except to Tk’s closest intimates, each a graduate of the School of Spiritual Light and one of the “300” -- and to whom, among others, it shall serve to confirm this wonderful woman’s connection to us and her ongoing devotion to the Great Work.
Undoubtedly, it is a contemporaneous description of the ritual laid down by Tk for initiation into the Technical Work:
Tk -- “Dear Friends and Fellow Workers! Obedient to the One-hi, before whom all ‘good and lawful Tacks’ delight to humble themselves, I open this Factory for business!”
All -- “Open it up! Open it up!”
A buzzer sounds!
Tk -- “Lady Tactful, where is your work station?”
F.H. -- “To the left of our Chief Tack and to the right of the Tack Hammer.”
Tk -- “What are your duties?”
F.H. -- “To count the Tacks, make Tactics, record angels, and help the Tk!”
Tk -- “Oh Tack Hammer, what are your duties?”
T.H. -- “To see that every Tack leaving this factory has a large, shapely and well-rounded head!”
Tk -- “and you, little Tactic?”
T.T. -- “Only to be good!”
Tk -- “Lady Tactful, where is the One-hi?”
F.H. -- “Out of sight.”
Tk -- “And what is his Great Work?”
All -- “He has no duties.
Tk - “What does he do?”
FH – “He lets us make the right choice!”
Tk -- “Now, all Tacks and Tackettes, knowing what you do, do you believe our friend Take All is ready to meet the One-hi and his Uneeda?”
All -- “Ah, yes, yes, yes, yes! Let them meet!”
Tk -- “Then, friend Take All, behold the One-hi!”
Instructed to look up, the initiate witnesses a decrepit wooden doll which from certain angles observes him with a mere slit for one eye and another made of a cowrie shell. It has a very large head, thin articulated arms and legs and wears a suit made of burlap. For a stunning moment, the initiate hears this being’s heartbeat, and then the Tackettes cry out, “Bring in his old lady, bring in Uneeda!” and a similarly ancient doll of the opposite sex, made of cloth with the exception of her wooden legs, which are painted white, joins the One-hi. She is dressed in a flour sack and is barefoot. Her toes seem to move as she takes the One-hi’s arm. Then Tk draws the initiate’s attention to a small house and store such as one handy with tools might make for a child. It straggles on the floor behind the dolls, as do several small wooden dogs who seem to jump and gambol.
After this extraordinary introduction, the initiate is readied for and with Tk’s help conducts the first step of the Technical Work. That is, Tk whispers a unique phrase into his right ear and the candidate receives a sacrificial food referred to as the “candy date” from Mrs. Florence Huntley, or the “Lady Tactful,” who has assumed primary administrative responsibility, although sometimes she might share the honors with a Tack in reward for exemplary service.
Soon after, the initiate loses all sense of time and space and believes he is one out of many, many in the room and yet that he is above it. He also feels both extraordinarily free and well protected by those around and beneath him, whose words seem to take on a life of their own, as if his mind had enlarged beyond anything he’d ever imagined.
Then all present begin to wail and keen in an extraordinary manner, drawing out syllables and phrases in great undulating lengths followed by explosions of joy,
“We are, we ain’t”
“We have, we don’t,
“We will, we won’t,
“We found, we not,
“We got, we give,
“We gone, we live,
“We take, we lose,
“Two bits for you!”
After which, two or three men break into a buck dance followed by a most sprightly cakewalk in which all participate -- men and women -- accompanied by X.O. Russell, Mr. “Toot It,” himself, amidst cries, shouts and impromptu variations!
For the initiate, and in fact all present, the desire to repeat these events becomes overwhelming.
And from that day forward, the nascent adept is told to distribute the tonics, creams, pills and nostrums developed under the rubric of the Technical Work and which in some instances cause one to experience sensations, albeit to a lesser degree, approaching the astonishing conclusion of the foregoing ritual. And thus extrinsic stimuli appear not only in his consciousness but also spread through the land like so many floating seeds!
Even now the evil of these practices strikes us, so perverted are they from the original and time-honored observation of the Great Work as to be almost unrecognizable, an unnatural, second rate permutation, a failing traced to the weakness and perversity of one man alone, the Tk. Please note these practices contain not one speck of Hindu, Confucian, Buddhist, Jewish, Christian, Islamic, Sikh, Bahai’i, Mormon, Seventh Day Adventist or Christian Scientist belief, either. What did he offer, then? Utterly banal, superficial, tawdry, innocuous, improvident, feckless and trivial, as well as habit forming and, in some states, illegal, this ritual, for which Mrs. Huntley unfortunately bears a measure of responsibility, although of course under Tk’s tutelage, has endangered countless men and women! Could there be a greater crime? Why couldn’t he have taught the Great Work as it was intended?[47] How could he? How? How? How? How? Why? Why? Why?
May his work’s obverse yet be discovered, encompassing all that Tk lacked and then some! And may his influence fade until it disappears.
Mrs. Florence Huntley agrees with these observations and sincerely regrets any role that she may have played in such practices, as well as her contribution to the unholy commerce associated therewith. She’s ready to move on.
And so she and I manage to share our disapprobation of Tk in complete agreement through the purest Thought Matter, unimpeded by any forms of physical, chemical, biological, emotional or psychical mediation. In that sense and in that sense alone, Tk has united us.
A Second Autobiographical Account; the Four Great Truths
WHO IS THE TK?
Of course the accuracy of Tk’s “Sketch” except for certain peculiar and even embarrassing details which, as noted in our Introduction to that work, could not have been fabricated, is highly suspect.[48] Our partnership with the pellucid presence of Mrs. Florence Huntley has uncovered indisputable evidence, for example, that Tk was not an orphan but the son of a farmer, dairyman and minister of God and that he was the last of seven brothers, all but one of whom are living, and three sisters, one of whom, with her baby, has died. (He was at times, however, actually known as “George E. Rogers.”) We also have confirmed that his well-meaning if credulous parents paid his tuition to the University of Illinois and even now continue to satisfy his debts, although he has handled sums in excess of $20,000!
Why was he compelled to write his “life’s story,” the authorship of the “Autobiographical Sketch” being, we repeat, beyond doubt? After painstaking analysis, one explanation remains. Tk wrote it in code, or as a secret message that may best be revealed if read backwards, although not literally backwards, of course, although the One-hi, having assumed the human form of an Asian gentleman, might be comfortable with that approach. Nor should every word be taken as its opposite. Instead, the organizing principle of Tk’s “Sketch” does not disclose its full import unless turned around and seen from the other side, revealing as it were Tk’s secret method. That is, in addition to employing all the interpretive techniques previously described, we must make an additional exegetical leap to see what Tk would not show us, or more aptly what he decided to hide.
“Preposterous!” you say. “‘Read backwards’ indeed!” you say -- at least we did when the idea came to us, and we admit that we also asked, “Who in his right mind would do that?” But we know what we know, which upon reflection surely no one can deny. Moreover, not only in our experience but also in others’, no matter how well a liar recites his story he’ll be exposed if forced to tell it backwards. Thus, the following exercise cannot help but paint a truer picture of Tk.
We therefore reveal that the “Autobiographical Sketch” is not the only such account Tk wrote. We hold in our hands A SECOND MANUSCRIPT, never seen before, which also without question retells his life story in his handwriting and therefore is palpably autobiographical. And as predicted, whenever important it recounts his life contrary to the “Sketch”!
And if one does not accept our “read backwards” theory, we repeat that any re-telling of one’s life and certainly any account of Tk’s contains half-truths and lies as well as simple errors, although few raise their sorry heads as strangely. Is it not like the experience of finding a book to be entirely different upon a second reading? By sharing this Second Autobiography of Tk’s, we thus may at least reveal some things he previously wanted to hide or could not bring himself to admit, or that we didn’t see the first time. Actively and imaginatively used, his words lead to what must be known and reveal what we must do.
A perusal of the first sentence of the first paragraph of Tk’s “Autobiographical Sketch” illustrates our interpretive method. Although he writes, “You know me,” in fact we do not know him, yet. Although he writes, “Mysteries can be revealed,” he hides to an almost pathological degree. He also states that he shall be remembered as a “long-gone once-cranky-coot” despite evidence that he’s very much with us, at least in spirit, and that his spirit is as troubled and troubling as any.[49]
In the same introductory paragraph, Tk writes that he strove to ensure the happiness and well-being of future practitioners of the Great Work, when he actually placed his students and those who may later embrace his teachings in the greatest danger, from which they may emerge only after strenuous, perplexing and unnerving trials. In fact, to counteract Tk’s influence we have worked as hard as anyone should to formulate an antidote with the rigorous, unflinching analysis that is the truest expression of Thought Matter. In other words, the truest form of Thought Matter is a hard-won knowledge of our limitations, which leads not only to the attainment of previously unimagined power but also lasting serenity. His second Autobiographical Account therefore should unmask his self in action and reflection, balanced against his “Sketch,” as if you had gone to a place where two rivers meet to form another mightier still, like Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, or Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia. If you can swim in those waters, how strong will you be![50]
* * * *
One aspect of Tk’s story, though, appears in neither the “Sketch” nor the following account. It concerns Tk’s younger brother, a handsome youth who named himself “Peace” because of the conviction informing his every action that we must love all God’s creation in joy and praise as surely as the waves break on the shore. Separated from Tk, he gave away all his possessions and whatever things came into his hands through the generosity of others. Unfortunately, he inflamed the ugly passions of so many people even before being linked to unconventional political philosophers, labor organizers and bohemians that he lived in constant danger, although never in fear. His end apparently came during a trip to San Diego, California in support of a printers’ strike, when he was pulled from beside a woman who belonged to an anarchist cell, taken to the Anza Borrego desert, beaten, shot and burned beyond recognition, although it is also said that he was not murdered but instead erupted in the flames of his spirit, or that he was tarred and feathered and disappeared in disgust. Others who disagree with these reports assert that he simply renounced the dangerous people with whom he’d associated and took to a simpler, more holy life.
Tk would not discuss him with the exception of the few references that we have printed.
* * * *
What follows, then, is for the first time revealed as
An Autobiographical Account of Tk’s Life
With An
Authoritative Introduction
BY THE ONE-HI[51]
* * * *
“You may not know Tk as he knows himself” [writes the One-hi], “but this slim volume will help you to try. His refined face is and heart-shaped, his jaw firm, he has the most determined expressions, his eyes flash! He is strong. His aura commands space. He is well proportioned. Also, he wears well-tailored clothes, sporting a black coat, white shirt -- never a dickey -- crisp new collar and black tie, watered silk vest, diamond pin and silver watch with matching chain from a national collegiate honor society. His trousers are elegant, he wears supple shoes and sports a well-kept hat in the latest style.
“He has the complexion of a poet.
“From birth, his body has revealed any lie that he’s tempted to commit. He therefore refuses even to think of lying, although this resolution may have contributed to his fear of human contact. Yes, he is private, if he works in the open and loves all Mankind.
“For example, until I asked him to write it down, he avoided transcribing his life’s story. While the memory was fresh, students had to race to record his remarks, although their recollections often differed from each other’s as day from night. Of course, only Tk might fully understand his statements even if each student discerned as much meaning in them as possible, which is a lot!
“We repeat, though, that at our request he has written his life story on the special paper you hold in your hands, not the usual paper upon which his words lose their meaning when you’ve stopped using Thought Matter. If he leaves you or fades in and out, then, you shall at least have these insights to consider, measure, follow and use.
“And what is that knowledge, precisely? Just this: through the powers vested in him, Tk has discovered THREE GREAT TRUTHS, in his eighteenth, twenty-sixth and thirty-fourth years, and he was on his way to discovering a FOURTH GREAT TRUTH -- in fact, let us acknowledge that he did discover it if looked at from a certain angle -- a TRUTH greater than ALL THE REST, before he ceased, for a time, to accompany us. Errors in his past, certain mistakes during municipal election campaigns based on misguided friendships, and the prohibition of some products used in the Technical Work whose effects he may not have fully understood therefore do not merit the attention some have applied. ONLY THE FOUR GREAT TRUTHS NEED BE SHARED, because if anything about the Tk deserves transmission, IT IS THESE FOUR GREAT TRUTHS REVEALING THE GREAT WORK AS IT MAY BE SEEN TODAY AND ALWAYS!
“I ask you to look beyond his trespasses and peccadilloes knowing that THESE FOUR GREAT TRUTHS ILLUMINATE THE GREAT WORK IN AMERICA IN THE BRIGHTEST SHINING LIGHT! REALLY, NOTHING ELSE NEED BE SAID! IT IS NOT AN ISSUE, REALLY! I REPEAT: THESE FOUR GREAT TRUTHS OUTSHINE ALL!
“What are they?
“First: we may ignore the dead and the unborn only if prepared to live incompletely, in transience and uncertainty.
“Second: spiritual darkness attends any downward Spiritualist summons of the dead or the unborn, who arrive as spirit invaders. Instead, we must go UP to meet the dead and the unborn. And this happens through the use of Thought Matter.
“Third: We learn on such journeys that an equilibrium or equipoise governs life, usually first seen in the interactions of motion and stillness, for example when we realize even seemingly stationary objects move, if infinitesimally. So, too, may we find the most powerfully transformative energy in the smallest particles, and we shall learn that our ever-increasing knowledge of matter is matched by our deepening wonder at its principles until we attain true equilibrium in Thought Matter and in true equilibrium we understand the dynamism of Thought Matter. That is, things change and don’t.
“Fourth: Uniquely, separate from all physical properties shared with the rest of creation, we are the love life that we remember. We are our ‘love memories,’ no matter how elusive they or the events inspiring them may seem before their clarification.
“These are THE FOUR GREAT TRUTHS!
“However, it is THE FOURTH GREAT TRUTH upon which we should reflect most, though it may be the most difficult to discern. The limitations presented by our fleshly pink casing and the apertures that most consider to be their only means of sensation -- although they are so inadequate as to seem almost calculated to prevent the perception of Thought Matter, let alone its exercise -- ensure the FOURTH GREAT TRUTH is at once the easiest to feel and the hardest to understand. ‘So,’ you may ask, ‘may we never see our loved ones in full, never escape our ignorance?’ In other words, ‘Must we always be alone, encompassed by ourselves as when we first emerged? OR IS THERE AT LEAST ONE PERSON WITH WHOM WE MAY SHARE OUR LIFE, AND PERHAPS MANY? A mother, for example? A beloved son? A husband or wife?’ Yes, we answer, through memory, and not just distant memory but the ever-present exercise of that faculty.
“I also confirm that when you Truly know the FOUR GREAT TRUTHS, you shall act with the power, insight and grace of Thought Matter! Then shall you make the right choice, then shall you speak directly with the beloved, then the circle of love will spiral through the world leading UP. It is so important that I must highlight it in large letters or compare it to the ecstatic dances of the great School of Spiritual Light! Then shall you be as one, balanced not only with the beloved but also with all generations and generations and generations of Mankind, past, present and future.
“Study of Tk’s life and work confirms that he did not discover the FOUR GREAT TRUTHS without trials, tribulations and errors, twists, turns and setbacks. For most of his life he may have received only inklings of certain of their elements, at times catching at them as a drowning man reaches for twigs, or as a youth sometimes says words beyond his understanding -- for example, as in the first two books of the Harmonic Series: Nature’s Mysteries Revealed: Spiritual Darkness Penetrated and The Great Psychological Crime -- or as a child may wail, ‘I wanna stop cwyin’ an’ see the pony!’ Anyone who knows him, however, also knows that he has always sought to reveal something never shown before. Read them again, please read the FOUR GREAT TRUTHS and then continue. To commit the FOUR GREAT TRUTHS to memory is a great achievement!
“The FIRST GREAT TRUTH multiplies our experience and therefore confers wisdom.
“The SECOND GREAT TRUTH warns against false paths as we proceed toward Thought Matter and therefore keeps us safe.
“The THIRD GREAT TRUTH turns trust into fear; success into hard knocks and therefore turns panic into calm, violence into peace, hatred into compassion, doubt into confidence, ignorance into knowledge, failure into transcendence. In revealing all elements of choice, it lets us make the right choice.
“And the FOURTH GREAT TRUTH means that Tk and all others who have been properly admitted, taught, tried, tested and accepted into the Great Work are guided to that person who has been our greatest love, whether in the past, near-present or future, even in her absence.
“‘We find these truths to be self-evident!
“I hope you may find the peace that I trust he has found, free to use Thought Matter in the vast kinetic expanse of loving memory -- for Tk, in his memories of an extraordinary woman, and for you, in all of the love that you may discover in Thought Matter!
“So may it be.
“He has seen in the following incidents as you shall see -- for there are no mysteries when one thinks in Thought Matter -- that the FOUR GREAT TRUTHS may guide one’s days from the most mundane to the most ‘red letter.’
“So may you go UP.
“I therefore am delighted to introduce the following ‘Autobiography of the Tk.’
Sincerely,
His Master,
The One-hi.”
A picture of a large sphere: four lights emanate from it without ceasing.
* * * *
The Autobiography of the Tk
For that place and time, we were fairly well fixed, but my father was a type rarely seen today, a pioneer who knowing how quickly everything could be taken, worked from rising to sleeping with the exception of rare episodes of drunkenness. He demanded no less of us, and even when grown my brothers and sisters would not cross him.
Generally silent, he seemed to think little of us except when we needed to be corrected. To me he was more a force of nature, like the frost at dawn or the summer sun from which we could not hide.
My dear mother doted on me, the youngest, at least when she had the time. My three sisters also extended their affection, as if I were a little living doll, and the oldest, dear Nel loved me. When I look back, I see that her love was perhaps my fourth greatest gift, with my arrival, the appearance of the One-hi and Mrs. Florence Huntley.
I’ll limit myself to a recollection of her. One of us was more than a little “slow,” nearly an idiot, really. He meant well but couldn’t get anything right, bless his head. It was the 4th of July, and the girls were decorating with streamers and paper lanterns. What a party was coming! But running wildly he knocked over a lantern, and our father came in, slapped his head and sent him off saying, “No 4th of July for you, fool!” The lad howled and cried, but no one argued as he was led to the attic.
As it got dark and youths were trying hard not to set off firecrackers and Roman candles too early and children and elders settled themselves in, they heard laughter -- “Tee, hee, hee” -- over their heads. Looking up, they saw the child on the roof. How he’d gotten there was a mystery, but it couldn’t be denied, balanced as he was like a skater. He wasn’t afraid. In fact, now he was croaking with laughter, and then, chortling, pulled down his pants and let fly a strong stream that the lamps illuminated as it curved in the night. “Well I’ll be!” said a farmhand, “he’s making his own fireworks!” and everyone laughed but Father. The child, whose gaze seldom left Nel, heard her groan and say, “Oh, Georgie” before she ran upstairs.
He was shaking, ashamed and afraid. Tears wet his face, but she held him and wiped his nose. “There, there,” she whispered, “there, there. Bless him, bless his little head,” she said, until he calmed, and she cleaned him. When their father banged on the door, she said bravely, “Leave us alone, we’re all right!” and he went away. She sighed and trembled.
After that night, the boy not only felt better, he grew more intelligent. In fact, he grew brighter than anyone in the county, brighter than anyone he came across, because he no longer felt that he was a changeling and was blessed instead.
In some ways, my early days were an idyll, touched only by simple worries. My experience of death was confined to the slaughter of barnyard animals.
As I grew older, though, our life began to weigh down on the promise within me. What stirred me to revolt was my perception of my mother and sisters’ suffering. One day, simply in the play of their voices with my father’s and the way Nel said to me, “Now you’ve done it, now you’ve stepped in it” -- the same as he would before he thrashed us, the very words, the same tone -- I realized that they accepted their life with that terrible man.
Having decided to join a medicine show that had passed the day before, I left home. So strong were my habits, an hour before dawn I fed and watered the stock for the last time, and, feeling a strange numbness in my legs, trotted away in secret.
That evening I caught sight of the painted and poster-plastered wagons in which the pitchmen, prop men and actors in medicine shows traveled in those days.
They accepted me, and for months I went with them as I advanced to the role of principal performer.[52] One image illustrates the life I so easily assumed: the eruption of great orange flambeaux, lit to herald a speaker before the wide eyes of the audience, whose gasps returned in the darkness like gusts of wind.
I was introduced to a kind of magic. Every day I practiced the transformation of simple emotions by stirring and compounding the audience’s hopes as if they were the ingredients of a spell. I filled crowds of ordinary people with the promise of the miraculous pills that I’d shaken the day before in my dresser drawer, coating them with talc, powdered mint, cinnamon or cumin, or the beautiful elixirs I’d mixed in troughs and basins and poured into curious bottles. How did I convince them to put their faith in me? I described the physical signs that offered them fear and hope, I told them the story of the future, a life purged of pain, or troubles eased, by medicines, I excused their weakness and greed and promised them health and strength. It was a dangerous game, I know, but deeply pleasing to all concerned.
My determination to learn impressed everyone so much that the show people treated me as a kind of prodigy, with one exception: a small large-headed Chinaman who helped me prepare my medicines. In addition to complaining that I smelled like cow’s milk, an aroma that he made clear was obnoxious -- although he allowed others might disagree, as it was sweet and nutty -- I often heard him muttering about me. Indeed, more than once he intimated that I was a mental defective. Although this was against the evidence, his opinion mattered more to me than the others’ admiration, and as he listed my shortcomings, I vowed to prove him wrong.
After several adventures that could not have differed more from my life on the farm, I began to dream of my return, free to take or leave our father’s orders. Proud of how I’d changed, I fell into the habit of imagining my homecoming and how I would display myself to my marveling family -- my wealth, my clothes and more importantly if harder to describe, my sophisticated ways -- because while traveling from town to town, entrancing minds and stealing the hearts of those who heard me, even those lost in the largest crowds, I’d grown strong and supple as a tiger until I could dominate anyone who crossed my path. By the mere caress of my voice, I subjected them to my will. Only the memory of my mother and Nel and the deep-seated morality of that time that all but the crudest men felt toward women, kept me from the depravity too often attending the development of physical, mental and rhetorical superiority. Yes, I admit that I was at risk and had a terrible temper, too. Evil people surrounded me, their relations with the public being marked by constant trickery, but somehow I did not turn to the bad.
I had some help in this. After only a few days with the show, I was fortunate enough to discover a “familiar” or good luck charm in the form of a beetle, like a scarab, and I know he helped to preserve all that is good within me and kept me from doing anything very wrong. Although I eventually grew not to need the little fellow, I recall him with gratitude.
After I’d been away for almost two years, I left the show for home, confident of a prodigal’s welcome.
My journey was uneventful, but my arrival was not what I’d expected. No one seemed to notice, causing me to fear that I had turned into my old self again! But I learned that they were recovering from something terrible that had happened the day before. Through his tears, one of the hands said that after a long and fruitless labor my dear Nel had died! For hours she’d been calling my name, but of course I wasn’t there, although her last request had been so close to coming true!
With this dreadful news, I ran to the icehouse where they’d laid her upon a cloth. I cried and cried -- I could only weep and rub my face -- my tears would not stop. Oh, my dear, oh forever more, why had I waited so long! I knelt for I know not how long beside her little body.
I’d never felt like this -- it was worse than a horse’s kick! It was as if I’d become a piece of wood, or just the opposite, as if I was all feeling, while thoughts of her kindness, her gentleness, tore me apart.
At last, I walked outside, although I did not wander far from the farm or with any plan. Still no one seemed to register my presence. There were no greetings, nor accusations. I believe they simply didn’t see me because they weren’t ready to accept my return.
I don’t know how far I walked, although it was no nearer or farther from any other destination I might have chosen, until at last I sat down and took a handful of dirt. I wrung my hands and rubbed my face, moaning and sobbing. In the distance, I could hear hammering but none of the other noises that so often carried from the farm with the exception of the sounds of some horses.
Later, I saw my family making their way down the path to our little cemetery -- they were going to bury her! -- and I walked over and joined them.
My brothers and sisters gasped upon seeing me, and Mother greeted me with a fearful look and a terrible sigh. Suddenly I felt very dirty. Father came up, and I shrank away and braced myself. Then I saw that he, too, had been weeping.
He reached out his heavy arms, pulled me close, and I felt his tears on my face as he whispered, “Please, please, please.” Then he drew me more tightly, so that his body almost crushed me. As his beard scraped my cheek, I felt the strongest urge to break away, yet I did not move until he let go. Observing a smudge on his collar, I saw his face was pale and wet, his eyes red, and there was some dirt on his cheek. I touched it and he pulled back, but then he reached toward me again and looked down. We parted, and everyone walked to the grave. Together, my brothers let Nel’s coffin into the ground while my mother and sisters and her husband bent toward her. I could hardly stand as we sobbed.
* * * *
I do not remember what was said after we buried her. Father I know said nothing. Afterward, he stood to one side and raised his head to the sky. As the sun beat down, I thought nothing in the world could have surprised me more than this, except of course the death of poor Nel and her child. Someone must have pronounced a few words over her, but I do not remember them.
We returned to the house, and I stuck my head under the pump for a long time and then stole away. Again no one stopped me -- I think they understood nothing could help -- and I wandered far onto the prairie and lay on my back until the stars came out. The air grew cooler, the moon rose orange and full, and it seemed to look down and echo her last request. Who would think that from this state I learned the FIRST GREAT TRUTH? And yet its arrival was upon me.
As I said, I had a temper, and after my day in the open I could feel the blood beating almost as if it was pouring from my forehead. I fought hard not to grow stupid. I thought nothing we know could explain her death, and then I thought that everything must be different from what I’d been was taught. How could it have happened? How? And then I calmed, as she had once calmed me, and I realized I’d discovered something important, that there must be something more, hidden until now!
And then I chose to disregard every scrap of “received” wisdom from my brief life, which I saw I’d already half-forgotten when I was with the show, and decided with an adamantine will to work on my own until I found the great truths. On my own. And I decided to sever myself from my family. I could do this, I admit, only after Nel’s death, but I did it, nonetheless.
I didn’t choose to become an outcast or heretic. Let others in their ignorance try to tar me with those words! Instead, I drew all the old stories and myths deep inside me like wild beasts, and with a persistence precluding all disputes, directed them to stay there, coiled and silent, so that they, too, could make me stronger. If I had the power to rid myself of them completely -- those old tales of a cruel and distant Ruler -- I might have, but I did the next best thing.
Then from the minute I awoke I concentrated on one thing -- the dead -- as if they were the most important thing in the world. And surely they were. Then a little later, a little after dawn, I felt a dark presence, like a black ball, and I saw a bright light coming from it and realized that I was about to see her. This was after it had become so quiet that I heard a high-pitched rushing, like a stream, which I thought must always be present. And then she appeared, lit from above, pale and shimmering, and she whispered, “You can do it.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“You can do it,” she said, gently.
“Do what?” I almost shouted, because the old feelings, the way they’d always seen me, were coming back, and Nel was swaying so that I feared she might disappear.
And then her child appeared, clear and bright, and he spoke in a high voice, “You can do anything!” and suddenly I felt brilliant. I was as brilliant as that light! And Nel’s image grew clear against the sky as circles of golden light surrounded her head!
And then the others, that is, the other spirits, began to appear in ones and twos and then in groups before me until they were everywhere. I saw them across the prairie in the morning light, gathering in a great congregation, floating down and assembling in tiers like a choir, and more were resting in a grove of willow trees by a stream on their haunches or with their arms folded. And then I saw more coming from the sky! That is, the dead were coming into the present, and as the blood rushed in my temples I saw that even little children were coming out, all bright and downy!
They appeared as themselves but also as if they had been perfected, or at least as if they were approaching their best, yes, as if before my eyes they were becoming their very best! And then I knew that my life had begun!
I could hardly breathe. All was silent except for a soft wind, which may have been my breath going out among the emerging spirits.
I continued to see Nel and her baby among the most recent dead, and I also saw the victims of the great Chicago fire and the more numerous victims of the fires that had descended in a great cross-country swath over the North Country like vengeance the day Nel died. Soon enough, the newspapers reported these events, confirming my vision was not simply a dream brought on by her passing. And these poor spirits were also in the process of regaining their luster -- I saw it! -- returning to their purest and most sublime state.
I tell you it happened, and now because the One-hi has asked me to write it down, I have done so.
As the sun rose, I saw hundreds, thousands and eventually hundreds of thousands more, not only victims of the fires that had burned so terribly, but also spirits crisscrossing from every century through time and space, carrying with them the signs of their deaths -- accidents, sickness, old age, and violence -- even as they showed me how they’d been made whole and unmarked and reveled in the beauty of their life in the Summer Land. And then in a kind of wild trembling brought on by the onrush of so much knowledge I SAW EACH MEMBER OF MY OWN FAMILY AND I, MYSELF, and I saw the UNBORN manifest in the brightest light. At this time, I saw multitudes of the dead and tiny unborn and the spirits within them or living through them, each with their hopes and fears requiring love and remembrance of everything that has occurred and will occur on earth. And I saw that it is only in this way that creation can be accorded its due respect.
Did I really see the golden spirits of the dead and unborn -- even the spirits of our beloved dogs, cats, goats, ducks and pretty mares, who will speak if one is willing to listen, and especially the spirits of dear children -- because I Nel and her child should not have died, that death had imposed itself so cruelly upon them? Or did I see them because they became as much a part of me as the blood in my veins? Or did I see them because my knowledge of their death flattened me into the thinnest, translucent filter that is best suited for spirit communication? I cannot say except that I encountered the nearly numberless dead and unborn as they were, are and shall be throughout the past, near-present and future, and I recognized that our life on earth is a fraction of life, an incomplete and even minor one, indeed, if it does not include the dead and unborn who abide in the Summer Land and who if we summon them may visit us on earth in certain constrained and imperfect circumstances (and now I realize, in fact, that the process I’d witnessed of oncoming perfection may actually have been working in reverse -- that they were becoming less perfect as they left the Summer Land), while if we visit them UP we shall open the doors of knowledge as wide as its farthest reaches! Or perhaps I had actually gone UP without realizing it? Of course, I did not ask these questions then – instead, I felt only my joy in witnessing the lives proceeding around me growing beyond measure and giving death itself the lie! My only sadness was not to have witnessed it sooner, not to have seen these beings earlier, not to have let them make themselves known before.
Feeling like the first time I’d asked my mother how I came to be, I saw that all of us, the dead, the living and the unborn, inhabit an unexplored energy accounting for at least seventy percent of the universe. If I call this energy “dark” it is not to denote evil but to describe my first impression of that force coming from across the aether. It was a black ball followed by the light from which Nel emerged, swaying and golden, before me. And just as suddenly I saw that I would never be alone! Later this energy would be revealed to me as the essence, the physical essence, of Thought Matter.
Reeling with my new knowledge, I collapsed, a vision of Nel before me. She was pouring dust onto my outstretched hands, which were very small, because I was a child. I brushed my cheek against her dress. Each tiny grain was a star, some with four points, some with six, some with eight, some with twenty and some with points beyond counting until they became nearly perfect spheres.
* * * *
The next day, we tried to make our way back to normal. Mother was kind, Father was himself again, and I was wary of everyone but outwardly dutiful because, although I’d experienced the greatest change the day before, I was not prepared to reveal what I’d seen.
Nevertheless, over the next several weeks I found myself living an increasingly separate mental and spiritual existence, informed by my vision of the “emergence” as well as lesser insights from my recent travels through many Midwestern and Western states. In short, I was trying to find my way. In particular, over the next several weeks with my brothers and other young people I pursued the development of a Spiritualist circle, and after only a brief time, I made myself into an effective “medium” able to call down the spirits of the dead and unborn from the Summer Land with remarkable success, although I could not summon Nel or her child no matter how hard I tried.
When I began this practice, I did not understand the dangers to which I was subjecting myself, or the risk that the FIRST GREAT TRUTH would be lost in the very act of summoning them down.
Instead, in the dim rooms where our Spiritualist “circle” furtively assembled, boys and girls together, I thrilled at the thought of calling the spirits from on high to our warm and pungent group, truly electric with expectation. Still living with my vision of the “emergence,”, time after time I returned to our circle to summon the dead. And later, having exhausted ourselves bringing forth a parade of pale, disembodied beings that only faintly resembled the magnificent congregation I’d encountered, how strangely did my brothers and friends regard each other, the living! Vaguely sensing the perils surrounding us, we tingled nonetheless with the prospect of unearthly possibilities, because if we could witness the traces of the dead and even converse with them, albeit imperfectly, what else might we do?
I must have had some sense of how misguided we were, though, because feeling an almost physical sickness upon the brief touch of my neighbors’ hands in the dark I reflexively resisted the depravity to which some were succumbing. Later I became disillusioned, or more accurately revolted, by our Spiritualist practices, notwithstanding the seeming miracle of calling down the dead. For there is a barrier between the spirit world and us, filmy and flimsy as it may be, which those who develop the power to perceive it come to hate as much as they make its fleeting penetration their life’s goal. How fortunate it is that most do not persist in calling the dead down, although of course they may come to us easily enough (hence the universal if suppressed belief that they may walk into a room someday). But the truth is that “mediums” are in even greater danger than those who pierce the treacherous aether barrier in simple ignorance or momentary longing, more at risk than widows and orphans, who of course are especially vulnerable to such urges, because mediums live to call spirits through the barrier when in fact our only real hope is to travel beyond it or over it by going UP in Thought Matter.
Yes, while still a youth I came to see my Spiritualist practices were as unfocused and blundering as the crude tricks that past generations performed with electricity or magnetism in the name of “scientific study.” But I admit that the sense of power conferred by random and unguarded access to the dead beguiled me far too long.
Twice only has a visitor I’ve summoned transcended the admittedly exciting but ultimately frustrating and simpleminded contacts that normally characterize meetings with those torn from the Summer Land.
The first occurred in our “circle’s” hot curtained room only a few weeks after the “emergence.” I’d succeeded in summoning the spirit of a little girl, but her response to being called down was unusual to say the least, which even I with my limited experience recognized.
As if she were deaf, she would not answer our questions. Instead, she began to sing a string of notes almost as if learning them as she went along, and yet as calmly as if she’d always known them. Having marveled at her surprisingly resonant voice, I realized that I had not examined her closely. Now I saw that she was “slow” at best. For example, although she had a certain physical charm, she’d developed the small paunch such people often have, and her eyes were oddly unfocused. However, her voice’s sweet tones captured me as if I’d been exposed to a siren. They were clear and perfectly pitched with a range far beyond the normal emanations of such a small creature.
As I thrilled to her I sensed, though, that others in our circle were becoming impatient, because as she sang in apparently ignorant rapture our odd visitor continued to ignore us.
Then I understood the cause of this phenomenon. She did not know she’d been called down! She did not know where she was! “SHE BELIEVES SHE’S UP THERE!” I thought. “AS FAR AS SHE KNOWS,” I thought, “SHE IS UP THERE!” And then I thought, “WHAT IF THEY’RE ALL SINGING UP THERE? WHAT IF,” I thought, “THIS IS WHAT THEY DO WHEN WE’RE NOT SUMMONING THEM?” and I felt the strongest urge to go to the Summer Land, though of course it was not my time! And then looking around I saw that I alone was thinking these things. In fact, it seemed the others no longer even saw her.
At that moment -- perhaps because I was having this insight -- she noticed me, and casting at me what I can describe only as an expression of naive cunning, a knowing look that made me jump, she left us.
I was right about the others. When I tried to discuss our “séance,” they swore that they’d neither seen nor heard a thing with the exception of a strange girl with her mouth open. Indeed, it seemed that their frustration would soon push the whole incident from their minds, and perhaps for that reason I nearly forgot it after one or two days, too, but for a vague sense of the mystery in her happiness. She was so different from the querulous and demanding spirits we’d been calling down that her riddle promised to exceed our circle’s power to understand, although perhaps one day I might unravel it. At least something like this idea stayed with me.
As I’ve previously written, I employed every element of Spiritualist practice for several years, premeditatedly and in a manipulative way, to earn my living, a failing that I wholeheartedly regret, although I sensed that one day I would find a more perfect calling.
* * * *
During this period, I also read as much as I could of history, philosophy and the natural sciences -- book after book -- from the little library at the county seat and neighbors’ varied collections for miles around. Thus day after day I accumulated a body of knowledge that extended the distance between my biological family and me as it brought me nearer to fellowship with Mankind.
Eventually I left my family again to join a medicine show, having donned the elegant clothes and three diamond rings I’d hidden away. For a long time, I pursued the life of a wandering lecturer, hypnotist and Spiritualist “medium.” I enjoyed remarkable success, but after a few years I could not escape the certainty that I’d chosen a peculiarly pernicious existence.
By now you must understand the risks of unprotected Spiritualist activity, which I have so extensively documented that I needn’t repeat them at length. See, e.g., Nature’s Mysteries Revealed: Spiritual Darkness Penetrated (revised edition) and The Great Psychological Crime. Note, though, that even after publication of this latter volume the science of psychology has continued to concentrate on what it erroneously calls the “mind” in contrast to the totality of Thought Matter that I have described in my books. While I have worked to complete Thought Matter’s map, therefore, the most recent psychological literature, confining its inquiries to the artificially restricted borders of the “mind,” retrogresses to elaborate variations of quackery, a disappointing, unruly mess.
It is true, though, that for a long time the dangers of Spiritualism remained fundamentally hidden to me, even as they caused me the greatest unease. In fact, over the last few years of my youth I participated in so many unprotected Spiritualist encounters that I found myself on the verge of the degradation inevitably following the prolonged soul invasion of a “medium” by spirits called from the Summer Land. And why should it surprise us, really, that the earthly devotees of Spiritualist practice are so foully compromised by promiscuous, random invasion by strange spirits whose bona fides are not verified and whose energy, all too often manic after being freed from the encumbrance of their earthly body, cannot be controlled by the summoned spirits themselves, let alone by their poor penetrated flesh-bound “mediums”?
Did I sense the danger? Yes, but I was no wiser for it than any number of other confused practitioners of so-called Spiritualist “science.” Perhaps the act of manipulating the borders between the living and the dead deceived me into such a false sense of security that I thought my experiments would still lead to a safer, better place. How wrong I was! I was taken nowhere. Instead, the summoned spirits took me over night after night on earth, the most dangerous place and time for us to meet.
Yet I persisted in the wretched practice. You should recognize as the greatest frauds those “mediums” who claim to summon Alexander the Great, Newton or Napoleon Bonaparte from the Summer Land, because it is beyond doubt that no such power exists -- it is the ordinary, everyday spirits, or worse, scoundrels and scapegraces, who are almost without exception summoned in all their mediocrity to subsume their “mediums.” Moreover, when someone with a measure of fame does appear, they rarely meet expectations. I myself had summoned two famous individuals. The first, Tom Cribbe the boxer was utterly disappointing, no more than a brute. The second, General Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson appeared as if awaking from the deepest sleep. Then his eyes seemed to catch fire, he raised his left arm, palm out, and said, “I reject your orders. You have stolen my name to commit the foulest crimes!” He looked at us with disgust and disappeared with a sizzling sound. Yet unaware of Thought Matter, I was unable to discern his meaning.
Because of the ill effects of so many Spiritualist encounters, I became increasingly enervated during the intervals between “séances” while I was more eager for the next one to occur, awaiting the time when a succession of spirits would take me over again, regardless of the idiocies their lips imparted through mine. My infatuation became so strong that I did not even care if my services were remunerated. Intoxicated by even the most dubious and perverse of the dead, I lived in constant anticipation, hoping that next I might summon a truly great and noble spirit, or at least one like the little angel girl from so long ago!
The effects of this period of spirit invasion therefore resembled what I understand to be the pernicious influence of an addictive drug taken originally with the hope of heightened awareness and then consumed ever more mindlessly in want and despair.
It should also be noted that notwithstanding my extensive writing on the subject, I have yet to adequately address the adverse effects of such encounters upon the unearthly participants in Spiritualist practice -- the poor summoned dead, themselves -- although in many ways wrenching these specters from the Summer Land is worse for them than the harm they wreak on their “mediums.” Like those who have not yet been properly admitted, taught, tried, tested and accepted into the Great Work, the summoned spirits have only a limited understanding of the journey upon which they’ve been transported, because manipulation of the Spiritualist membrane is dangerously error-prone, and the prospect of a return to earth, although only temporary, all too often leads them to engage in egregious displays of regrettable behavior as they lose that wonderful completeness gained upon arrival in the Summer Land to become fractious, churlish and downright nasty -- “evil imps” indeed.
Except for a most singular event, then, I know that I would have become a self-made disaster, overwhelmed like countless other misguided “mediums” by the intrusive and corrupting spirits of the summoned dead. This episode, which led to my discovery of the SECOND GREAT TRUTH, of going UP, I now recount.
* * * *
Late one day as clouds edged with sunlight crossed the sky and cast great shadows on the mountains, I began a “séance” that changed my life. I was in a cabin in a western town. My “circle” comprised a storekeeper, his wife and three miners bathed and scented for a night out, each persuaded of the possibility of Spiritualist contact.
Having begun our séance with the requisite relinquishment of all but a master medium’s sliver of self-control, I summoned a succession of spirits, each of which was at first irritated about having been called from the Summer Land and then, upon realizing it had the chance to change life on earth, talkative, presumptuous and importunate, issuing instructions and demands at an embarrassing clip, and then fretful that it wouldn’t be able to return.
After I’d moved from summoned spirit to summoned spirit for over an hour, a dark blue light descended upon the shack as if to merge it with the world outside, where the sky and the earth were awash in the color of day turning to night.
I felt a clean new force like that of a violin played by a musical genius, and with the greatest joy I thought, “It has come, it’s happening, everything I’ve been waiting for!” And as I looked around our circle to see if I alone was feeling this new sensation, I saw the others also were in an ecstasy of well-being.
The last of the sun passing through the shack stopped, a dull red, and disappeared, absorbed by a darkness expressing our longing for a purer state. It was almost a physical presence that absorbed every particle of light until we awaited in the absence of light. My mind was highly alert even as I gave way to a strange anticipatory euphoria.
Just as suddenly, warm yellow sparks varying in size from pennies to sparrows floated above us.
As everyone knows, Spiritualist etiquette requires the members of a “circle” to keep their hands on the table. Nonetheless at the sight of these lights -- and I can say without hesitation feeling the sensation of the physical as well as spiritual warmth that their glow imparted -- we lifted our hands in the greatest excitement as, lit by those golden lights, our faces shone.
I found myself saying in a French accent, “I am Carpentier.”
As the words came from my lips, I felt like a man atop of a mountain, or as if I had been handed a cup of cool water on a hot day.
Nearly overwhelmed by this spirit, I was also aware -- a gift I knew he’d bestowed on me -- that I was still myself, separate from my identity as his vessel or “medium.” And this was a new experience I later confirmed was also unknown by other mediums and unrecorded in the Spiritualist literature. I therefore correctly assumed that I was feeling something never felt before.
For the uninitiated, I should explain that “mediums” ordinarily are so wholly taken over or absorbed by their summoned spirits that they remember almost nothing of the encounter, relying upon the recollections of others to understand what happened. This time, though, I felt a sensation like a spring breeze blow through my head.[53] I even believed I knew who this spirit was from some time in my past, if I quickly decided that I was probably only reflecting the echo of his fame from his previous life.
Now that the lights’ soft glow filled the room, I saw he was a handsome gentleman, somewhat past middle age, elegantly attired and possessing a natural grace enhanced in no small part by his being one of those people who because of the attractive shape of their mouth seem to go through life with a perpetual smile.
“I am Carpentier,” I heard again, although the words now passed through his lips, not mine. Like the others, I watched his presence float above our table.
“I know you,” I said.
“You may,” said Carpentier, coming down a little, “and yet I spent half my life in hiding.”
I did know him, remembering the outline of his story and the deed distinguishing him from the crowds of Paris. It should be understood that his fame derived in large part from the fact that no one knew whether he’d lived or died after his exploit -- the mystery of whether he’d escaped was an essential element of his story. I also realized that he was the most famous spirit I’d ever called down with the exception, perhaps, of Tom Cribbe the boxer and General Jackson, whom I’ve mentioned. The thought that I knew him from somewhere else, too, returned for a moment but left again.
Death favored him. As he hovered, Carpentier’s spirit was handsome, virile and compelling. The lights also contributed to his allure, as if he traveled with a tangible aura, which perhaps he did.
I determined to let him recount his story without interruption, because he undoubtedly had much to tell.
“I was one out of many,” he said, “one of the tens of thousands of ambitious, confused and sometimes inspired young men feeding their lives to the city of Paris. The noise of the place, the squalor and those rare moments when alone in my room everything reminded me of my insignificance impressed themselves from my arrival as a very young man at the end of November 1855. Soon after finding lodgings on the Rue des Palomides, I made some bad acquaintances who were ready in one way or another, all of them pleasant and generally very entertaining, to relieve me of my inheritance.
“The great carousel of Paris sped beside me,” he continued, “while I hoped to get on. It seemed, though, that I was not destined for this reward. Instead, I wandered the streets, city gate to city gate. I listened to musicians and hawkers, roamed the markets and accepted the insults and jokes of women who looked strong enough to break my back, and, going hungry, I let the city’s smells overwhelm me. In a daze, I sat in churches, exhausted, my breath floating above the transepts. When I returned to my room, I understood with a clarity sometimes verging on panic as the weeks passed and I continued to prove incapable of work, that I made nothing and was nobody. Then my friends would drop in or my legs would carry me to them, and more of my legacy disappeared in ridiculous schemes, boasting and drinking. At least the coins made cheerful sounds as they scattered.
“One night, I took a woman to my room. She had an Italian name, Beatrice. Everything seemed to change in her arms or perhaps more accurately because of the days I sensed that I would have with her. I returned next morning from the baker’s through the Luxembourg Gardens, and how beautiful the city seemed as I stared at the statue of a naked young goddess and let the sounds – children’s voices, bird calls, vendors cries and horses’ hooves -- serenade me. When I came in, though, I found she’d torn the place apart, found my hiding place and disappeared with the last of my money.
“She’d left me a great gift, too, because now there was nothing to do but find work. I was an orphan -- I had no place to turn.
“I’ve always had a facility with numbers. They really must be a part of me, in fact, so quickly do they obey my commands. One series imposing its pattern on the whorls of sunflowers and pinecones almost has been a sister to me. It is the sequence 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, proceeding ad infinitum, the sum of any of whose two predecessors equals the next in order and whose ratio always draws closer to .618. This harmonious series comforts me when I’m sad and has anchored me during the few times I’ve needed strength beyond my will.
“I thought that with my love of numbers I should work in a bank. Until that morning my friends and I would have laughed my plan, but I implemented it so effectively that having entered the offices of de Rothschild Frères at nine in the morning, by the end of the afternoon I’d obtained an advance against my first week’s pay and taken new rooms on the Rue de la Pompe.
“I fixed my mind on advancing at the bank and changed my habits accordingly, not to assume a pinched way of living but rather to develop the fascinating mixture of creativity and efficiency perfected by le Baron James de Rothschild himself.
“You may not perceive all that he signified, but he was nothing less than the promise of France, having steadied the nation through three changes of regime until it seemed that he, too, was almost a king. In 1830 he’d almost created Louis Philippe, though in 1848 he turned with the tide to support the Second Republic and grew even stronger financing the Third Emperor’s triumphs over revolution and reaction, all the while gathering prizes from every corner. Almost as if making light of the misfortunes of the sovereigns, ministries and governments that he was forever propping up, le Baron James rode like a buoy through every storm, a more reliable guide than the stars and the planets.
“In fact, he meant more to us, although few saw this as well as I, because the unique power of his wealth was like a living presence conferring his ability to create, as if by snapping his fingers, more and more wealth. His millions on millions on millions on millions of francs and the many millions more that he could summon from his family in his hands lifted France from the Middle Ages. It was le Baron James who brought the nation’s railroads to life, he it was who animated our great manufactories as if casting a series of spells, and I saw that it was his millions, too, loaned and spent and manipulated like legerdemain, that had created the tumultuous streets of Paris which so overwhelmed me upon my arrival.
“It might surprise you that I also came to love him -- but it is true, for a time le Baron James spoke to my soul, and I swore to please him. He stood highlighted from the throngs around me whose lives he was forever connecting in new branches of commerce, industry and communication as if his large head radiated benevolent streams of power, and so I tried to attune my personality to his, or more aptly to act as I thought he would want a son to act. And soon he noticed me, although he had dutiful sons. How could he not fail to select me, so well did I love him? I was capable, cunning, amusing, efficient, tireless, amiable, tactful, and after only a few years under his patronage I became indispensable.
“No doubt le Baron James came to love me, in a way, so responsive were my actions to his so nearly did my mind resemble his logical and imperturbable brain. Although I was still young, he put me in positions of great private and public trust, including as chief accountant of le Compagnie du le Grand Chemin de Fer du Nord.
“It is also true that the great divide between us resulted only from his best intentions.
“I had insinuated myself with his little cousin, Mlle. Lucie, nicknamed ‘Tanty,’ and I suppose I saw myself one day marrying her and assuming an even greater share of his life.
“It was she who came to mind, then, when I found him staring at me one day as we rode in his carriage through the Bois de Boulogne. Believing I knew the meaning of this ‘look’ which I’d seen turn the hardest businessmen into water, I straightened and, fearing he’d notice even the slightest tremor, turned away, but then with an effort I forced myself to look back.
“Bringing his noble head closer to mine, he said, ‘Have you ever thought, Carpentier that your life’s purpose is to be an example?’
“I managed to answer, ‘Certainly not a bad example, I hope,’ then added, ‘if even angels are fallible.’
“‘You don’t know how serious I am, dear fellow,’ he said.
“I’m sure my heart must have betrayed me for at least a moment, because I’d already breached le Baron James’ trust by re-routing to myself ten or twelve thousand francs from a few of the de Rothschild companies whose books I oversaw. It was a small sum and remarkably easy to obtain, as if fate had made me adjust the figures so that in a few seconds on three or four occasions the money, which according to the companies’ records had never existed, appeared to float into my hands. I’d completed the transactions under false names, which made me feel almost as if I’d created some new forms of life with the money’s spark. I’d little use for my takings, actually, except to buy clothes and other accouterments to enhance my standing at the bank, but it pleased me to see the records under their new names, as if their imaginary traces confirmed how far I’d risen.
“I assure you pride in my creativity predominated over any other feeling that might have accompanied my surreptitious transactions. Indeed, I’d experienced only the slightest tremor of guilt, excusing myself with the thought that almost certainly other officers of the bank had taken advantage of their positions, if not to my knowledge by outright theft then by those lucrative arrangements accompanying most modern business dealings that overlap the affairs of public officials, contractors and suppliers eager to seize a chance to bring something to life as if from nothing. This you must admit is as much encompassed by the word ‘illicit’ as simple robbery.
“I’d told myself that in the foreseeable future, upon rising a little higher, I would leave these small embezzlements behind. Just a few days before, I’d told myself that although I might not close my accounts -- not wanting to kill their imaginary owners – I’d no reason to continue playing tricks with the books. I’d simply leave the records alone as aides de memoire, evidence to me alone of where I’d been and to distinguish where I was going.
“Le Baron James’ question thus shocked me. Even as I feared I’d been exposed and would lose everything, though, I realized that I’d managed to hide my feelings. Observing the great man’s expression, I saw I’d so controlled my features that he was worrying that his words had not alarmed me enough!
“Then something strange happened. I saw that he was affected less by my reaction, or lack of one, than something which had clouded his mind. Stranger still, almost at the same instant his physical presence seemed to change, or rather my perception of him changed, as if my eyes had cast a grid over his face and he was becoming a topographical map! Below the trees, le Baron James became less a human being than a thing, a mannequin or an enlarged version of those articulated wooden dolls for teaching students to draw!
“He embarked on a speech. First, he reassured me that my attentions to Mlle. Tanty did not anger him. He wouldn’t hold my flirtations against me, he said, although of course I could not expect to marry her, she being of the mishpocha. These sentiments he managed to convey with his superlative tact, but they were overshadowed by his odd physical transformation while he went on to inform me that he could talk about such important matters only because of his complete confidence in me.
“It took but a moment to realize these remarks were but a prelude. I held myself ready for his accusation and even wondered how he was going to do it.
“Le Baron James’ eyes, which I saw as if for the first time were surrounded by very dark, almost black circles, assumed a profoundly disturbed expression -- really the image of distress -- and he looked over his shoulder and returned his gaze to me. I stared at him with the greatest curiosity, no longer fearing for myself but simply intrigued.
“What he wanted to tell me, he said softly, was most serious, something endangering my soul, in fact, if I believed in such a thing, and, he muttered, touching my knee, he suggested that I hold onto such a belief or acquire it promptly -- indeed he recommended it in the strongest terms. He paused again and as if making an irrevocable choice lowered his voice to a whisper and said that his warning had come from the grave! Again he touched my knee, his finger hard and cold like ivory, and waited to let his revelation sink in.
“As if compelled -- the words coming in a stream, clear and peculiarly distinct as if each syllable had its life -- he told me that for several months he’d been a member of a Spiritualist ‘circle.’ He was seeing a ‘medium.’ At first, he said, he felt that he’d been acting against his better judgment, and even now scarcely believed what he was doing. ‘But there is something to it,’ he said, although his tone revealed the internal debate that had not completely resolved in favor of his ‘medium.’ ‘There is something to it,’ he repeated, and I swear that at this moment I felt the chill of the dead.
“What he did not see was the degradation to which his Spiritualist practices had subjected him, because I realized that his surrender was why he no longer looked alive and had become a kind of a shell. It was as if he, too, was dead!
“Gripping my arm with surprising strength, he said with almost equal force that he’d been visiting this woman, his ‘medium,’ for several months, and for the past three months he’d been meeting her alone, because despite the transmittal of much irrelevant and sometimes frankly embarrassing information and his suspicion that the whole thing might be a crime against nature, the very fact that she could communicate with the dead had overcome every scruple, and now he knew that she had access to worlds others only dreamed of.
“He paused. ‘She knows the future, too,’ he said, and looking at his knees and then at the sky it seemed he was fighting back tears.
“Excitedly he turned to me, driven again to speak.
“‘And now,’ he said, ‘something important concerning you, Carpentier -- something affecting your whole life, your very soul – has been revealed me, and I must repeat it!’
“Having lost my fear of him, I stared at le Baron James as if he were mad.
“‘You’re a dog, Carpentier!’ he cried and concentrated such a ferocious look that I admit the memory of my thefts returned and for a second I saw him becoming his normal self.
“But le Baron must have mistaken my expression, because he reassured me in his new rapid, clear and formal diction, as if someone was speaking through him, that he understood exactly who he was and his visits to his ‘medium’ had not changed him at all.
“‘Of course he’s lying,’ I thought. ‘He’s someone different!’
“‘No, there’s no need to worry,’ said le Baron James, ‘because I’m always myself. And of course,’ he said, ‘by saying this I’m referring not just to me but to my family’ -- and by this he meant his brothers, his dear mother and sons and uncles and cousins, all his relations, in fact, and all their possessions and property gathered throughout Europe that increased like a force of nature.
“But I saw he’d changed forever, because he was enchanted, or worse, a charlatan had made a fool of him! This was the moment, I believe, when it could be said that I sinned, because I did not tell him. I did not grab ahold of him and shake him to his senses. I did not do it because he’d shocked me and frankly because I’d suddenly come to hate him, this puppet, because it was this emotion that I experienced almost to the exclusion of any other. And who can save one he despises?
“His hand released me and reached for his forehead, but soon he was speaking again as if forced to continue. ‘I’m sorry -- you’re not a dog, Carpentier,’ he said, ‘not really. But,’ he said, ‘you’re only a part of yourself! You who are so able! And yet Carpentier you do not know who you are. Today you are no one, a nobody, not even worthy of being forgotten. But soon -- listen! -- this is my message!’ I looked away for a moment to hide my disgust. ‘You, Carpentier,’ he said, ‘shall one day be an extraordinary man! You will be known everywhere! Everyone will know you!’ he cried. ‘And you will outshine us all! There is no question -- you will surpass us all! All the world! And this is what I’ve been told to tell you. This is what my ‘medium’ has had me tell you from the spirits.’
“Then as if remembering something important, he added, ‘Yes -- and along with renown you will obtain the rarest thing. You will be completely free. And it is how you become free that will make men gasp.’
“‘But what am I supposed to do?’ I said with some excitement, because notwithstanding my repulsion he’d captured my imagination.
“‘I don’t know.’
“It was ridiculous! He was ridiculous -- sitting there breathing heavily, his body seemingly having a hard time carrying its new identity, as if the grip of his ‘medium’ had too roughly taken ahold of him. Then the spell animating him seemed to snap, which, however, I sensed as I saw le Baron transform into the fleshly gentleman I thought I knew so well, was only a respite, his new master having taken over his very soul.
“He sat beside me, well-groomed, well-fed and elegant as always, and smiled shyly. Yet to me he was a fool, a cretin!
“His revelation, and as much, if not more, the transformation that so humbled him, exerted an ugly influence on me. He angered me, in fact, until a kind of bile rose and blackened my mind, and as he continued to smile I struggled to hide my contempt, that deadly emotion. His little speech, his ignorance, his monumental presumption disgusted me. His shy little smile enraged me. The mindless look when he described his ‘medium’ repelled me. And then I thought with the kind of anger that leads one to disregard everything else, ‘By God, I’ll destroy him!’ Nothing else would do.
“In five minutes, he’d become a fallen idol. He who had been my hero was an embarrassment, our association to be recalled with shame. And so, with little conscious reflection but the strongest conviction that I was making the right choice, I decided to inflict the greatest harm on him. And if that would be my ‘fate,’ it would be of my own making, an act of my will. I would hit him where it hurt the most!
“Apparently my face did not reflect my resolution. At least le Baron James did not see it. I assume that he must have seen me looking at him with humility, that being the emotion I tied to convey. I thanked him and, repulsed by his incapacity to read my thoughts, said I’d seriously consider most everything he’d said. I recognized the honor he’d conferred on me, I said, coming in the form of a message relayed from so very far away. I said I believed he’d shown the greatest courage to reveal not only his message but also its unworldly source, although I thought, to the contrary, what an imbecile he was to have surrendered himself, his soul perhaps, to his ‘medium’. In fact, he seemed to me a most shameful creature, like an actor who doesn’t understand his lines, and the readiness with which he accepted my lies, which were almost as inane as those he’d told me, only increased my disdain.
“Perhaps he saw that some change had occurred in me, after all, even if he mistook it as the first fruit of his revelation, because he smiled widely and, as if our business was over, remarked that despite the importance of what he’d told me he hoped I would not discuss it again. But this request to pretend nothing had happened only heightened my disgust, because I saw he believed what he’d said to me and chose to hide it from the world like a treasure
“Setting his large jaw, he readjusted his topcoat as if to signal our relationship had returned to that of master and servant.
“Upon returning to the office, I began the enterprise that for the next two years filled my life. I never stopped. I moved carefully, methodically and yet with a passion that I observed more than once would have made any woman surrender to me to the point of destruction.
“I developed my plan as if performing a calculus, changing my course only as unanticipated circumstances required but never forgetting my goal to inflict the greatest pain on le Baron James de Rothschild, which I’d concluded before we left the Bois meant relieving him of as much money, and therefore as much respect, as possible. After all, it was his wealth that distinguished him.
“Early in my enterprise I enlisted four worthy of my trust. Of course, this was not easy, but I succeeded because I recruited these confederates as if by a series of seductions (during that time, we named our group the League of Invisible Helpers) until they also discovered that their hatred of le Baron James animated everything they did. As importantly, they were prepared to ensure the success of our scheme by practicing the utmost discretion.
“My plan was simple, depending on only six things, each either assured or reasonably within our control: first, le Baron James’ trust in the men who comprised the League, second, the vast size of the de Rothschild Frères stock holdings, third, the vigor of the stock market, fourth, our execution of thousands of stock transactions to our mutual benefit, while, fifth, we prepared to vanish after the completion of our task, and, finally, sixth, the additional theft before we disappeared of the maximum amount of cash from the bank’s headquarters. Consistent with our guiding principle, I made it clear that our victim’s riches were not to be prematurely purloined. In fact at times it seemed his fortune might grow faster from our conscientious management than we could plunder it.
“This was the key to our success -- my helpers and I were never more industrious and therefore never of greater assistance to le Baron’s endeavors than during the two years we robbed him. Every day that we appropriated one-third of the stock certificates from the middle of each stack belonging to the de Rothschild bank, we devoted ourselves to increasing the stock’s value. Every day that the League sold our pilfered shares through the web of identities I’d created, we manipulated the market for our employer’s gain as well as our own.
“I knew that while our trap enmeshed him it would eventually be discovered. But before that happened, we’d sell as many remaining shares as possible, causing a crash on a market that we would have shorted, and disappear. This was the day we awaited, our only regret being that we must vanish before witnessing him bound by our webs, destroyed less by our theft than the crisis of confidence attending our frauds’ disclosure, a crisis binging him the humiliation he deserved.
“I found planning our escape brought me as much pleasure as committing our crime, because I literally made new lives for us. Imagining the futures of each member of the League, my own included, I brought to life every detail -- names, jobs, houses, families, pasts, even pets -- in Montreal, New York, Chicago, Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Aires (I determined that each of us must separate by at least three days’ journey and never communicate with the others). That is, after our last theft we must become as invisible to each other as our plan was now hidden from le Baron James.
“We had already set aside over twenty million francs, the proceeds of stolen de Rothschild securities -- and yet our frauds and sales were so discrete that the transactions did not rise to the level of the street’s noise thrumming through the bank’s windows -- when I met Mlle. Victoire. It was in Liverpool where I had purchased a steam yacht for our escape to the New World. I saw her on the dock observing my ship.
“I knew my pleasure in the vessel’s trim lines had made me return to the quay more than I should. The ship’s beauty seemed to confirm my plan’s perfection. It was probably for this reason that I felt the strangest sensation when I observed a charming woman who also seemed fascinated by the vessel. It was as if she was destined to become a part of our scheme, as if she personified it. I studied her from I thought a secret vantage, wondering whether she might be a de Rothschild agent or perhaps a rival who’d learned of our great work and wanted to lift the eggs from our nest. But as I watched I confess her indefinable aura overwhelmed me, because she occupied a space and time beyond the busy scene surrounding us. Almost involuntarily though not entirely against my will, I introduced myself.
“With the first words from her lips I learned that she was French, from the south like me. Brushing back her hair, she explained that she had been stranded in Liverpool and wanted nothing more than to return home. Then she admitted that she had found herself falling in love with my ship -- although I’d been careful not to tell her it was mine -- and despite the alarm her remark aroused, this revelation made me want to know her better. All afternoon we talked, and fully convinced of her sincerity, I found myself explaining our endeavor. At once she said that she, too, must join the League, and I agreed. From that time, she became our most ardent conspirator, our plans taking on the urgency reflected in her eyes.
“Within a year after I met Mlle. Victoire, le Baron de Rothschild succeeded in bringing the affairs of le Compagnie du le Grand Chemin de Fer du Nord to the point where he was prepared to invest a staggering amount in its securities. At every step I’d assisted him, practically living with the man through months of research and strategy sessions, speeches and palm greasing, and lately I’d been working around the clock to counteract the last-minute maneuvers of his rival, the banker Pereire to thwart our transaction. One night in May, le Baron returned after meeting someone who spoke for the Emperor, and I saw by his expression that our way was clear. Confirming my surmise, le Baron grasped my shoulders and cried, ‘This will make me one hundred million francs!’
“I found myself thinking, ‘If only you’d give me one-third, what things I might do for you!’ because over the last two years thirty-three million francs was almost the amount we’d stolen, and in an instant, I determined to put him to the test. If he chose to give me this sum, I’d return the money we’d taken.
“But I didn’t say it, because a shadow passed over his face. Perhaps he’d been sensing the great things I might do with his money, how in his ‘medium’s’ words I would become free, how I’d no longer be a dog, how he might be the instrument of the great act for which I was destined, but he hesitated. Then almost as quickly he removed from his neck a chain that held a gold medallion.
“‘Of course I could not have done it without you, Carpentier,’ he said. ‘Please accept this with my gratitude. I’ve worn it since graduating from the lycee.’ As he placed it over my head, he said, ‘My ‘medium’ holds it when she summons the spirits -- and so I believe you know that I could not make a greater gift.’
“I let him, but I hated him with all my heart for involving me in his ridiculous faith. I also realized that upon the announcement of our railway transaction additional scrutiny would be thrown on the sales that the League had effected. It was time to act. I therefore said that I needed to make a flying visit to the south to attend to a family matter. Most kindly, he said that he could make do without me now that we’d triumphed over Pereire. Any last minute details could be handled by my assistant, who naturally was also a member of the League. The bank’s payroll as well as the funds necessary to acquire the new stock would be delivered to the office the next day, and that night I summoned the League and told them our greatest work was at hand.
“The payroll and much larger sum for the shares having been placed in the vault, I stayed late making final preparations, albeit different ones than my patron assumed. When just before dawn I left the building, I was ecstatic -- I barely felt the weight of the sacks I pulled behind me -- a sensation evidently shared by my accomplices, who although similarly laden were grinning like monkeys.
“I had of course changed the combination and also not failed to place a series of short sales that would almost double our takings when the market collapsed on the discovery of our theft.
“I later heard that by Wednesday the bank’s employees were gossiping as much about the locked vault as of a rumored drop on the bourse -- a tale I’d started. Some even feared that le Baron James had concocted the story he couldn’t open it because he’d experienced a terrible loss in the very transaction which had promised him so much profit. When he did open it, having called in its maker to assist him, the vault was in a very different state than he expected, having been liberated of more than thirty-five million francs. One item remained, however: a gold medallion and chain.
“Long before that happy event, Mlle. Victoire and the rest of the League greeted me in Liverpool, and soon our ship crossed to America. We imagined the scenes unfolding in Paris, even acting them out: le Baron James’ expression when he could not open the vault, the catch in his heart when its great door finally swung free and he blinked his eyes, hoping the emptiness was an illusion, the sickening realization that I had deceived him, the fear that this was not my only theft as he pondered how to defuse the scandal, and the sad set of his jaw when he decided not to visit his ‘medium’ again.
“It is well known that in addition to the police of France and several other countries, de Rothschild Frères sent over a hundred private detectives after us. But as you know they did not succeed. I had hidden our trail too well, starting with our landing place.
“What you do not know is that Mlle. Victoire and I took our share, over forty million francs, and settled in Chicago under a new name. It was as if the money assumed the form of a ladder upon which we could stand and pull down more money, like magic from the air. Everywhere we looked, everywhere we raised our hands, we plucked riches. In particular, we built a business selling creams, ointments and other beauty enhancements, as well as the pills, medicines and tonics for which every American seems to have the greatest desire, because no nation longs more to forestall age, sickness and death.
“From this business alone, with which we eventually supplied stores and salesmen across the land, we tripled the fortune taken from le Baron.
“I also became a lawyer, and she and I cultivated powerful friends and friends not yet powerful but who promised to be. For example, I provided Mr. Carter Harrison, Sr. with most of the money for his first campaign for mayor of Chicago, I loaned Mr. Michael Kenna enough to buy his first saloon, and my Victoire -- nee Mrs. Doris Van Braagh -- befriended sweet little Mrs. John Coughlin, assisting her in acquiring a new wardrobe and advising her to let her husband dress as absurdly as his heart desired.
“At the same time, though, I learned that I’d not destroyed le Baron James. He’d survived the disclosure of my betrayal by, of all things, distracting the world with speculation about the hunt for me. His bulletins describing the networks of police, detectives and agents who performed his bidding amazed everyone. As importantly, his command of more than enough credit, extended in a matter of days by corresponding branches of his family’s banks, enabled him to exploit the market plunge I’d caused, as well as to complete the great railway transaction upon which we’d worked for so long. In fact, he surpassed his unparalleled record of financial acuity. Almost without pause he was again a beacon in dangerous times.
“I did not accept defeat. Through intermediaries I financed his enemies, and when that did not work, I turned le Baron James’ friends against him. I poisoned their friends against him, and their families’ friends and people who might one day be his friends -- and naturally those who owed him money -- as well as courtiers and the press. And when that didn’t suffice, I undermined the regime to which I believed he was tied. I financed courtesans to compromise nobles and heads of ministries. I bribed and blackmailed taxing authorities, I caused men to be promoted in the commissariat and on the general staff whose failings weakened the army, I speculated to cause inflation and profited from tainted food, I paid editors to lionize buffoons in public office, I lobbied the buffoons to appoint petty thieves and incompetents to positions of public trust. I even helped to destroy le Baron James’ rival, Pereire in the hope of triggering a second financial panic that I felt even le Baron could not escape. In short, I left nothing undone that might destroy him.
“Invisible on every front yet working everywhere to crack the walls surrounding him, I finally engineered the confrontations that led to the Emperor’s ill-considered ultimatum to Bismarck, and then -- war being inevitable -- the Prussians invaded, overwhelmed and encircled our great army, and it surrendered. The Emperor fled to England, Paris starved and in the chaos of the Commune and its suppression the greatest city in the world filled with corpses.
“But de Rothschild Frères still thrived! These last episodes of course occurred after le Baron James’ death, but his son, Alphonse organized the redemption of Bismarck’s exactions with a speed almost as incomprehensible as our army’s demise. Everyone realized that Alphonse could not have achieved this wonder unless his father had passed on to him the power to make money like a force of nature, as if by magic.
“And so I saw that I had actually saved le Baron James and therefore France itself, because it was my theft that caused him, the chosen one, to quit his ‘medium,’ the one thing impairing his judgment.
“During the course of most of these frustrations my beautiful and spirited soulmate consoled me, because Victoire continued to return my love with all her heart.
“One day, however, during an especially sweet moment she told me a secret.
“She confided that she had been le Baron James’ ‘medium’!
“Many years ago, she said, she’d learned my fate from a spirit and described enough of it to le Baron James. And then as she knew would happen, he unburdened himself to me on our ride in the Bois, which set our course. Then she said that she’d sought me out in Liverpool because she’d discovered her fate was to love me and receive my love.
“Oh, how could she have brought this upon us! How could she have presumed to rob me of my freedom! After a terrible fight, I barred her from our home -- I threw her out!
“I did not repent for months. After a time, though, I realized I missed her too much to keep her from me, even if this conclusion might be yet another mockery of my freedom, and so I looked for her where I thought she’d be.
“But then it seemed that in one moment all of Chicago exploded in flames! Through the fire, I searched for her, but when I came to where I thought she was living it was empty and I could not find her anywhere amidst the screams, flames and smoke. I fought my way back to our home, hoping that she, too, might return. But after I’d washed and changed my clothes, it was you who knocked on my door, monsieur.”
Each of the others in our “circle” looked at me, but because Carpentier continued to speak they turned back to him.
“Yes, in Chicago I’d taken the name ‘Van Braagh,’” he said. “In a matter of days, I learned that Victoire had died in the blaze.
“You cannot know the sadness that filled my heart,” he sighed.
“And, in addition,” said Carpentier, “I accepted that I had never really been free -- this part of Victoire’s story I knew to be a lie. I acknowledged my life was predetermined, predestined, and my fate had been confirmed in the worst way by the deaths of the two whose lives meant most to me -- le Baron James, who died at peace in his bed, and my Victoire, who died after I so unjustly failed her.
“I found some consolation, though, because I saw her again on a visit
to the Summer Land where she assured me that she’d remained convinced of my love. And when on another occasion I went back there, le Baron James confided that although he’d died richer and more contented than ever, he’d scarcely survived my defalcation. It had been the greatest blow he’d ever received with the exception of his disenchantment with his ‘medium.’
“You may imagine these encounters provided me some solace,” said Carpentier, “but I found I was perplexed by whether such developments also were only turns of fate.
“Often considering this question,” he said, “constantly seeing before me Victoire’s deception, her love, and her death, I nonetheless managed to continue to expand our business, and intending to extend our operations to Europe, I went to Paris confident that no one would recognize me after so long an absence. But having spent only a day in that city, I had a bizarre accident. Literally out of the blue someone dropped a bottle from a fifth-floor window onto my head!
“During my hospitalization and treatment, which proved to be unsuccessful, this seemingly random event led me to reflect again on the occurrences in my life, some that seemed arbitrary, some I was certain I had willed, but all of which I feared had almost mischievously pointed me in a different, although predestined direction than I believed I was charting. Each seemed to lead to new relationships with people who at the appointed time became significant to me but later passed out of my life usually just as rapidly into that great amalgam of souls, perhaps 99.999 percent of the human race, whom we notice, if ever, with disinterest. And, of course I realized that to each of them I meant nothing.
“In the hospital on the day of my death these reflections led me to an insight,” said Carpentier. “First of all, I thought, why is it that . . .”
But I could not stand it any longer and cried, “Wait! Wait! Wait!” and slammed my hands on the table.
All in our “circle” jumped, a chair scraped as someone stood up, and one of the miners cried, “By gar!” and actually knocked the table over. All of them were standing now, open-mouthed, staring. The woman had raised her hands to her face and was visibly shaking. In fact, my outburst seemed even to have alarmed Carpentier, because he stopped speaking and rose higher above us, but I was determined!
“What do you mean, ‘you went up?’” I cried. “Do you mean,” I shouted, “are you saying that you visited them in the Summer Land -- THAT YOU WENT UP?”
“Why, yes . . . yes,” said Carpentier. “I did,” he said, and then he looked at the table, which had stopped rocking, and stared at the others, who continued to gape.
He came down a little.
“And did you go there on your own, by yourself?” I cried.
“Yes, I did -- by myself,” he said. And I think he caught my point. “Of course I did,” he said. “Yes, I would go there only by myself,” said Carpentier. “I despise ‘mediums’! I would never associate with one, except of course unwittingly with Victoire, and I suppose with you, too, monsieur -- because after you came to me on that awful day of the fire I knew I must keep my eye on you, and I’ve not been disappointed!”
“Yes, yes!” I said. “But then,” I said, hitting my fist against my palm, “don’t you see you’ve made the greatest discovery in the history of Mankind!”
“The what?” said Carpentier.
But the others’ presence had become intolerable -- they had to go -- and I shouted, “Get out! Get out! Get out!” and, still crying, “Get out!” literally ran them off the place, lifting the last miner from his feet and tossing him from the porch as the others fled. He picked himself up and scrambled away, too.
Assuring myself that Carpentier remained -- I saw his face peering out the window -- I walked back in, returned to the center of the shack, walked around a chair, stopped and said, “Don’t you see? Don’t you see? YOU WENT UP. YOU WENT UP TO THE DEAD! YOU WENT UP!”
Carpentier said thoughtfully, “I suppose I did,” and looked at me and paused again. “But the question is,” he resumed, “I’m not sure how to interpret what my dear Victoire and le Baron James meant. Am I a free man, or not? I mean, was it fate or something I could perhaps control leading me on?”
“Oh, forever more, leave it!” I cried. “YOU WENT UP! YOU WENT UP! ON YOUR OWN! WHILE YOU WERE ALIVE! IT’S NEVER BEEN DONE! TEACH ME! TEACH ME!” Unable to stand still, I believe I was actually jumping up and down.
Carpentier paused until he said, “No, I don’t think that I can do that.” Then he said, “But at least you have the comfort of knowing it can be done, monsieur. You know that you, too, can visit the most important people in your life one day after they’ve gone. I trust you will learn how to do it when it’s time -- in fact, of this I have no doubt. Now I must go. Goodbye.”
He began to disappear.
“WAIT!” I cried. “WAIT!”
“Yes?” said Carpentier.
“Can we meet again?”
His voice came back, but from far away. “Oh yes,” he said, and then he was gone.
And so, I discovered the possibility of that wonderful gift -- so infinitely better than calling the spirits down -- of the power to go UP, to the Summer Land and meet chosen souls in the exercise of one’s will. It was my knowledge of this possibility, moreover, that saved me, because it kept me from the degradation every other “medium” and every “medium’s” disciples and converts have suffered throughout time!
By awakening in me the possibility of going UP, Carpentier prepared the way for the One-hi to enter my life. In other words, now I was as ready as I’d ever be for the One-hi, for the Instruction and the completion of the Personal Demonstration – indeed, for all of the Great Work!
Moreover, the Frenchman’s other prediction came true, too. I did see him again. After I met the One-hi, was properly admitted, taught, tried, tested and accepted -- having received the Instruction and gathered my own League of Visible Helpers, all as the One-hi had said -- I took Mr. Michael Kenna to the Summer Land as a special treat to visit our mutual benefactor.
And there to our surprise we learned from Carpentier that he and le Baron James de Rothschild had reconciled!
Carpentier said something else on that visit, as well, which happily allayed a worry that had not left me since our parting in the miner’s shack so many years before. He confirmed that he and Mme. Victoire were again inseparable.
And thus the SECOND GREAT TRUTH -- that we can go UP to engage the spirits -- was revealed, clearing the pathway for the One-hi’s bestowal of the secrets of the Instruction, the Personal Demonstration and the discovery of Thought Matter!
* * * *
You might think that my encounter with Carpentier also led to my discovery of the THIRD GREAT TRUTH.
It would be several years, though, before I found the supreme equilibrium, or equipoise of life -- the dynamic balance all matter acquires through troubles, trials and tribulations -- although my “séance” with Carpentier revealed clues to its presence. And only later still did I discern the signal importance of the memory of one’s beloved -- that is, the FOURTH GREAT TRUTH -- another insight that my encounter with him might have revealed under different circumstances.
I discovered the THIRD GREAT TRUTH, the Great Equipoise during an arraignment in Sacramento, California.
Having begun our relationship on an unsatisfactory basis, the sheriff of that city and I became such mutual admirers that I often dropped in on him, and a few days earlier we’d celebrated my thirtieth birthday lighting each other’s cigars and clinking tin cups.
On this day, his deputies greeted me cheerfully as usual, but I saw they were preoccupied. Gesturing toward the holding cells, one said, “Prisoner.”
“Hellcat,” said the other.
“Spitfire,” said the first.
“Hell’s belle,” said the other.
“She-wolf?” I asked, and found myself making a “face,” something I normally abjure. The boys shook their heads.
“She’s pretty,” said the first.
“Very,” said the other and sighed, “a dark rose,” surprising himself, but the sheriff entered before he could explain and exclaimed, “son-of-a-b***h!” adding after seeing me, “I’ve no time for you today.”
“She’s talking about a warrant,” said a deputy.
“What I want to know is have you got me one?”
“No. He isn’t back yet.”
“Well now!” said the sheriff, “Why don’t you tell me what I have to do to keep one hophead in jail? Is everything up to me?”
They looked down.
“Hophead?” I asked.
“Hophead. Hoppie. Dipperhead. We can’t abide ‘em. Let ‘em stay in San Francisco with the Chinamen.”
“Is that what she is?” I asked.
“A Chinaman?”
“A drug fiend?”
“Yes, that’s what she is -- what do you think? Because she’s a woman? A lot of ‘em are women.” And then he told me how the night before he’d pulled her out of a hotel. “Traveling with a man. They’re nature fakers,” he said. “They have a little medicine show, selling ‘tonics.’ Half gin, no doubt. She claims she’s a ‘healer,’ too, whatever that means -- scaring people half to death. We caught them before they set up. Last time they were here, I had them followed, so I knew what they were up to. Her partner told me as much last night, but she won’t talk. I put him on a train this morning,” he said, adding, “he won’t be coming back” and rubbed his nose to show he’d roughed him up or at least put the fear of God in him.
“I couldn’t find any of their stuff,” he said, “or their works. They must have tossed it. She’s a pretty thing.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” said a deputy.
The sheriff looked at him and as if making a favorable comparison, said, “Smart, too. But she’s as hard as this thing,” and he patted some fool’s gold on his desk that served as a paperweight.
“Can I see her?” I asked.
“You cannot.”
“But she might be in trouble.”
“Of course she’s in trouble. I arrested her, didn’t I?”
“I mean when she needs the opium. I know about that.”
“Why aren’t I surprised?” asked the sheriff.
I assured him my knowledge was strictly academic.
“Of course. Strict-ly ac-a-dem-ic.”
“A lot use it,” I said, ignoring his entirely inappropriate insinuation. “They sell liver pills and tiger balm, worthless, as you said -- starch dipped in talc or mint powder, or wax with pepper oil -- but they take something stronger themselves for confidence or because they’re bored. Opium mostly. After a while they can’t help it.”
“If you get her to do what I want,” said the sheriff, “I’ll let you talk to her. But I don’t care if she’s seeing stars, I’m not going to let her go her until she says she’s never coming back. Tell you what -- tell her this -- if she promises to leave town for good, I’ll let her, but if she doesn’t, I’ll hold for vagrancy, or worse, and it’ll be months before she’s out. Like as not six months. I’m not taking any more from her. That’s all.”
“No goodbye party?”
He frowned but said he’d leave her alone on the way out.
“Well, go on now,” he said.
I stood still. “It’ll be bad when she comes off the opium. She might not last three weeks,” I said.
“I don’t care,” he said. “I can hold her a hell of a lot longer if I want to. What’s the harm in a little pain? Imagine a woman letting herself go like that.”
“It might not be her fault,” I said, but he shrugged, and I walked down to the cells.
The first was empty. In the second was the most beautiful woman on earth.
Although she showed some outward signs of her predicament, her spirit burned in the gloom as she said, “Who are you?”
Although it seemed as if I’d discovered a fairy under a bridge, I also saw that she was a modern young woman, and because she was looking at me from inside an iron cage, she evoked my most chivalrous instincts.
I told her my name, and she sighed, I believe holding back a tear -- the picture of distress. Then she asked, “Is that ‘Georgie’ or ‘George E.’?” and smiled, although obviously trying to master her emotions.
“I am ‘George E. Van Vraagh,’ madam,” I said and added that I would be most grateful to help her in her time of need.
A prisoner in the next cell, a woman of no distinction, laughed, but I ignored it.
Sensing some uncertainty also in the vision before me, I commiserated as she joined her hands and cried, “Oh, forever more, how can they hold me? I’ve done nothing wrong. You wouldn’t believe what they’ve put me through!”
Nearly overcome, she turned away.
Taking hold of the bars I cried, “Oh no, no, no!” and would have pulled them apart if it would have helped. She turned, took a few steps forward and looked into my eyes. To my surprise I found that I could not meet her gaze. Instead, I saw that the floor had been recently flooded. In fact, it had a musty odor and was littered with torn strips of a sheet.
I looked at her again. Thinking nothing could be clearer, I said, “I shall save you, madam, for I am a lawyer!”
Her reaction literally made me quiver. For the first time she seemed to be taking in my whole person, staring so deeply that I felt I was able to look into her, too -- and it was a remarkable sight.
Having made up her mind with the spontaneity we have come to admire so well, she cried, “Are you? Could you?”
I nodded, and feeling hot under her gaze almost at the same moment found that I was starting to leave. Steadying myself, I managed to ask, “What is your name?”
“I am Mrs. Florence Huntley.”
“Then,” I said, “you shall be free!”
“Do it, please!” she cried.
At that time, I was not really a lawyer. I’d read several accounts of trials, however, as well as a few works touching on the law, broadly speaking, and intended to learn more, a destiny later more than amply fulfilled. During my travels, some acquaintances whose claims to expertise I’d no reason to doubt had imparted several rules of criminal procedure to me. And of course I trusted the oratory power that had served me so well in other settings, especially now that I was emboldened by the primary motivating force of the universe.
“Well?” asked the sheriff.
“I’m representing that dear lady,” I said. “I’m speaking for her. And the first thing you’ve got to do is set her free!”
“You d*m*ed fool!”
“Now forever more, don’t you understand?” I said, “You must let her go! You’ve no reason to hold her! She couldn’t be in the wrong! Name one law she’s broken![54] You’ve nothing to lose and everything to gain!”
“Get the hell out of my office!” he said. “I’m letting her go!”
“You can’t hold her without a fight!”
“D*m* it, don’t tell me what I can’t do!” he said, but I refused to acknowledge his entirely unsuitable profanity. Not moving an inch, I observed him.
After some thought, he said more calmly, “You don’t mean you’re going to represent her? She agreed to it?”
“Yes, sir!” I said. “And I swear we’ll fight if you don’t let her go!”
He shrugged and said, “But you’re not a lawyer.”
I admitted it, detecting more than a little mockery in his expression. In fact, he might have winked at his deputies, though I vowed he’d regret it.
“I know enough,” I said, “to see justice done.”
“Of course you do,” he said and smiled. After a moment, he said, “I agree completely!”
Now we were talking! “So, you’ll let her go?”
“Of course not,” he said. “It’s not going to be that easy.”
Having had just about enough, I said, “Then we’ll let the judge decide.”
“Don’t get on your high horse,” he said. “I’m only having fun,” adding, “You don’t have to do it.”
“But I want to!”
“Oh my,” he said. “I see,” and he looked me up and down. “Our boy’s in love with her!” he said. “You’ve got the goo goos!” His men laughed.
I said nothing, although I must have shot beams through the room.
Still smiling, he said, “You’d better be back before two. The courthouse is down the street, but you already know that.”
As I turned to leave, he added, “Good luck, boy!”
One of the others said, “He’s gone and got the goo goos!”
“Yeah, our boy’s sailing on a sea of love.”
I turned to the sheriff and said, “We shall meet again!”
“No doubt.”
* * * *
Having consumed a large lunch, including one or two unusual items that I thought might enhance my strength, I found myself pacing the streets in histrionic transports, rehearsing various speeches on a single theme, the rescue of a wronged woman. In anticipation, I saw her running toward me with open arms.
Exactly at 1:50 p.m. I strode into the courtroom, which was empty except for a clerk, who I noticed was glaring at me.
“Where’s the judge?” I asked, making it clear I’d brook no “sass.”
“What?”
“Where’s the judge,” I said, “where is he?”
“What? Who are you? Speak louder.”
“Where’s the judge?” I asked, coming closer.
Following his gaze to a door, I walked over, opened it onto a little room and confronted the sheriff. Standing close to him was an old man who looked as if he wanted me to forget what I’d seen. The sheriff wasn’t pleased, either.
“Get out of here. This doesn’t concern you,” he said. “We’ll start in a minute.”
I backed out and closed the door, my stomach shifting some of its contents. But my desire to reunite with the radiant presence of Mrs. Florence Huntley roused me, and I took a closer look at the courtroom, which was still empty except for the clerk. He was speaking.
“Appearances,” he said.
“What?”
“Appearances.”
I shook my head and offered, “She’s not here.”
He frowned and said again, “Appearances.”
A tall young man came up the aisle, and I appealed to him, but he ignored me and said loudly, “For the City,” and then said, “Tell him your name. He’s the court reporter.” Instead, I extracted my favorite card, the white one with “George E. Rogers Van Vraagh” embossed in gold, and handed it to the clerk, who studied it as if examining a medical specimen. Then he repeated in a particularly mournful voice, “Appearances.”
“Oh, why does he keep saying it?” I cried, and the tall young man offered, “Tell him who you’re here for.”
“Ah!” I said, and, throwing back my shoulders, announced, “I’m here for Mrs. Florence Huntley!"
The clerk began to ask something else when, apparently overtaken by a great fatigue, he shook his head and wrote, “George E. Rogers Van Vraagh, for Missy Florie Lully.” I saw him do it. Then he looked up as if daring me to speak.
But I did not have the chance, because the judge emerged, his black robe billowing, and walked up some steps to his bench. Upon his entrance, the clerk stood up, intoned sadly, “All rise,” bent his chin as far down his chest as possible and clapped his hands over his “groin.” Having confirmed that the judge was the same old fellow who’d wanted me to disappear, I stood up, too, as did the tall young man. Indeed, as if bracing for a blow we assumed the same posture as the clerk. Nonetheless, I looked over my shoulder for her, for Mrs. Huntley, but saw only the sheriff, who grinned. Then I turned and the tall young man gave me a wink, and I thought, “What is the matter with these people?!”
“Be seated,” said the judge, and chairs scraped the floor as we sat.
Immediately I broke into my speech, although I confess the unusual tone of my voice surprised me.
The judge grimaced, raised his hand, shook his head and said, “Are you impaired?”
At first, I wasn’t sure he was addressing me, because he seemed to look to my right, toward the back of the courtroom, although I saw no one there but the sheriff.
More loudly he repeated, “Are you impaired?” although he still seemed to be talking to someone in the back. When I looked again, though, no one was there, not even hiding.
The tall young man and the clerk were staring at me, so I asked, “What?”
“Are you physically impaired?” asked the judge.
“No, of course not,” I said, and realized that his eyes had an odd life of their own, wandering to the left mostly, but also to the right and sometimes back and forth in a kind of a zig zag. Most courteously, I repeated, “No I am not.”
“Then stand up when you address the court!”
“Yes sir!” I said and rose with such speed that I felt dizzy -- it happens sometimes. Almost simultaneously there was a shift in my “bowels” that caused me to look down, and I saw that I had knocked the table one or two feet forward. “I’m sorry, sir,” I said, “I . . . I didn’t know, I . . . I . . . I,” and then I pointed at the table.
“Yes,” he said, “you didn’t know.” We looked at each other, his eyes bouncing, until he asked more calmly, “Who are you? Why are you here?”
Truly, I felt the strongest urge to look over my shoulder, but I noticed the tall young man and the clerk averting their eyes as if in the presence of a sick animal, which gave me the strength to draw another of my cards and say, “May it please the court, I am, Your Honor, George E. Rogers Van Vraagh.”
The judge frowned as the clerk asked, “What?”
“I am George E. Rogers Van Vraagh,” I said, not without some irritation, and walking forward, lifted my arm and placed my card on the judge’s bench. I’d decided that if I came closer his eyes might fix on mine.
He stared at my hand and then with both of his hands rubbed his face, opened his eyes wide, squeezed them shut and brushed my card to the floor!
Having watched it drift down, I saw that his nose was nearly stopped up with hairs, leading me to think, “He’s a ‘mouth breather.’”
Picking up my card, I handed it to the clerk, and, still determined, though, I confess, wavering, faced the old man, pulled out another and started to say, “I am, sir, . . .” but stopped, because I saw him look at me with the most profound disgust.
Believing only the most expansive gesture might change the course upon which we’d embarked, I clicked my heels, opened wide my arms and exclaimed, “Sir! I am George E. Rogers Van Vraagh!”
“Oh, God,” said the clerk.
“What!” said the judge, perhaps not to me, as I noticed the others shrinking into their seats.
As my eyes trained on his wet lips, which were the next of this creature’s features apparently destined to fascinate me, I forgot what I was going to say.
He cried, “No more, no more! Get back there. Sit down!”
My stomach again turned over, and I slipped into the nearest chair.
I’d seated myself as closely as possible to the tall young man.
“No, no, no! Not there! Not there!” said the judge. “Over there!” and I sat down behind the other table, pulling it close.
The judge was speaking again. “You’re not admitted here, are you?” he asked. “You’re not admitted to this court?”
Pondering as I rose, I replied, “I’m here.”
Slowly, patiently, although his large lips were still quivering, he said, “Just tell me what it is you’re trying to do.”
“At last!” I thought, and indeed there was no command I more wanted to honor. Nonetheless, I had to look over my shoulder again. Seeing no one, I turned to him as my stomach so forcefully “churned” that I feared he heard it.
“Well?” he said.
“Sir, Your Honor, may it please the court, I am a gentleman, and as a gentleman I undertake a gentleman’s duty to defend a lady!”
“What?” asked the clerk.
“What?” said the judge.
I repeated myself, somewhat less forcefully.
The clerk shook his head and wrote, “See to your honor, please, I am a gentleman and undertake a lady.”
Observing it on his little tablet, I said, “I don’t think he’s writing it down right.”
“I am so,” said the clerk.
“Ignore him,” said the judge, although I’m not sure to whom, frowned and asked, “Can you tell me why you’re here?”
“Your Honor,” I said, “I have told you.”
“Again,” he said and then said more to himself than to me, “But that just proves it. You have no idea.” He paused. “You see,” he said, “you’ve no standing here.”
“What?” But despite my puzzlement, he continued, “You’re not a lawyer, are you?” and I saw the young man and the clerk smile and shake their heads. Almost sadly, as if talking to a child, he continued, “Let me explain. You may not understand. It’s against the rules for you to appear like this,” and I found myself looking down and then up and nodding slowly, along with him, although I thought with my last trace of pride, “I am perfectly presentable.”
I told him, though, that I didn’t want to break any rules, which seemed to register, because he paused as I listened to his breathing. I could sense that he’d grown sad, so sad, in fact, that I added, “I’m sorry, Judge, I’m truly sorry – it’s all new to me.”
“I know it is,” he said, rubbed his face and cocked his head in such a thoughtful way that I felt he was seeing me for the first time, although he also could have been trying to decide how big a fool I was, at which point I realized the two thoughts might be related.
Then my belly emitted a sound like the call of a dove. For seconds, the room was quiet.
At last, having slowly shaken his head, he said, “That’s my point. You’ve no standing.”
To me, the observation remained incomprehensible, although I was grateful he didn’t mention the dove. “But, Your Honor,” I said, “Judge, may I speak to a higher rule?”
His eyes darted around so rapidly that I saw even the young man turn to the back of the room, at which the judge cried, “What!” and the young man jumped. I knew better than to respond. Instead, I turned to the clerk, who had written, “You’re on to her Judge, may I speak to hire you?” but I let it pass.
“There is no such ‘rule!’” said the judge. “Not here, not in this court!”
I started to sit down -- what more could I do? -- as he turned to the tall young man, who was smiling broadly, and said, “What are you grinning at!” and the young fellow stood up and ducked at the same time, lifted his hands as if to ward off a blow and said, “Nothing, Your Honor, nothing.”
“What do you think you’re smiling at?” said the judge. “What? I don’t like that look!” and the young man bent and said, “Sorry.”
The judge sighed.
I had little time to consider this exchange, though, because something rippled inside of me just as the judge turned and opened his mouth, whether to ask a question or remark on the noise, I don’t know. Before he could speak, I said, rising, “I must see her, Judge. I must. I must . . . please. Please, I . . . I . . . must . . . see her, . . .” and, remembering an earlier tutorial, added, “I must see the ‘deponent.’”
The clerk shook his head and clicked his tongue.
“You’ve no right to see her, sir,” said the judge, “because I don’t accept you represent her! You’ve no idea what you’re doing. It’s as if you blew in with the wind.”
Then his eyes became kind, which worried me more than anything so far, and he frowned. As a little drop of moisture landed on his desk, he said, “You should get out of here, just get out of here now,” and he raised his index finger, and a slight gurgle came from his throat. “It’s for your own good,” he added. There was a spot of foam on the center of his lip. “It’s obvious you don’t know what you’re doing, and you won’t be of any use to the poor woman you call your client, if we ever get to see her, so I’m ordering you out. Yes, I’m ordering you to leave right now. Get out. Just leave before you make a bigger fool of yourself than you already have.” His eyes narrowed. “Go on now. Go on, get out, get out, get out. Go on. I’m ordering you,” and he made little sweeping motions on the top of his bench.
My stomach squeaked so loudly that most assuredly everyone heard it, and I said simply, “Yes, I must go,” to my shame adding, “Thank you.”
“Wait a moment,” said the clerk, “while I change my nib.”
But I was already heading down the aisle. In fact, I’d accelerated to a turkey trot while whatever was inside of me continued to assert itself assiduously.
As I reached the door, the sheriff entered with Mrs. Huntley, and my face, which had been stamped with anguish, shone with what she later told me was the most endearing joy! I managed to straighten up, and as she and the sheriff stopped, Mrs. Huntley for the first time in years felt her heart catch with the most powerful emotion -- so she’s said! With some desperation, I cried, “Oh no!”
Wanting nothing more than to protect me, though unsure from what, Mrs. Huntley extended her lovely hand, but the sheriff pulled it down. Her cheeks aflame, she tore herself free, turned and, head held high, strode toward the judge, whom she apparently knew, because upon seeing him she smiled as if at an old friend.
I did not see more, though, as sensing the forces within me approaching their climax, I resumed my trot, quit the courtroom, trundled down the hall, and, having found the place of succor, was released.
For some time, I remained, spent, my head in my hands, until, as if the whole world were determined to vex me, someone knocked on the door and asked if I’d be long. I told him to go away and sat on, wondering whether my prostration might be the outward sign of an imminent nervous collapse. Indeed, I’d never imagined such weakness! Or perhaps it was only the novelties with which I’d hoped to fortify myself at lunch? If that were true, though, what a fool I’d been! In any event, I could not leave my place of refuge. “Oh God!” I moaned. “Oh, forever more. Oh God, forever more,” I sighed, and a bird landed on the windowsill. “Oh, forever more,” I moaned, long and low, and it flew off.
Then I looked up and saw that someone had carved on the door, “Here at last justice prevails.”
I read it carefully, and then read it again. I repeated it aloud and with growing excitement cried, “Yes!” Now fully revived, I shouted again, “Yes!” and felt my spirit brim with righteousness. Justice would be done!
“I will NOT give up!” I cried. “I will NOT give up!” And I shouted, “I WILL NOT GIVE UP!” and soon found myself striding with unshakeable, indefatigable, implacable resolve down the hall. Proceeding to the courtroom and up the aisle, I felt as if my shoulders were five feet wide and I was ten feet tall!
Apparently Mrs. Huntley was still waiting her turn to speak, but at the sound of my footsteps pivoted with all her characteristic grace. Everyone else turned, too.
“There’s time!” I thought, and looked squarely at the judge, whose eyes miraculously stilled, perhaps because of my newfound power.
“You’re back,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” I replied, righteousness surging within. My words rang through the room, quickened by the power of love. “You have asked me why I’m here, Judge? I’ll tell you. I’m here as a friend, an unwavering friend of this brave woman, but more importantly I’m here as a lover of justice. I’m here as a friend of the court and a lover of justice!” And then I added, “Aren’t we all?” and opened my arms.
Eyes growing wide, he looked as if he was about to shut me up -- even as the others stared transfixed -- but Mrs. Huntley walked to my side, took hold of my hand and faced him. “Yes, Judge!” she cried, “he’s for me!”
After running his tongue over his lips, he said, as if nothing could be clearer, “All right, you’ll have your chance.”
She walked to the table, sat down and looked at me, and I thought, “She took my hand!”
I knew we’d win! Nothing could stop us!
First, though, the judge told the tall young man to continue.
“Of course,” said this fellow, whose function, I confess, was not yet clear to me. He began with “In conclusion,” but perhaps distracted by my return as well as the judge -- who wouldn’t be? – he stopped, scratched his ear and looked at Mrs. Huntley. “In conclusion,” he said and paused again. She looked at him until something entered his mind -- you could see it – and he said, “In conclusion, the prisoner has forfeited any consideration that one might extend her sex. In fact, a single look tells you she is less the lady she professes to be than a woman of the town!”
The scoundrel!
“My God!” cried the clerk, and he was not alone -- we all gasped at this betrayal of the extraordinary being who honored our presence. All of us, the judge, too, even the sheriff, who’d been caught nodding his support before the infamous remark was let loose, could not believe it. Seeing his error, the young man touched his forehead, rubbed his nose, said, “I rest” and sat down, although his long legs continued to twitch beneath the table.
With true benevolence, the judge turned to Mrs. Huntley, who it seemed had already forgiven her accuser, although his unjust words must have stung her deeply. “I am sorry, madam,” he said, “for this young man’s inexcusable impertinence. Although inexperienced, he should have known better,” and he smiled and told me to proceed.
I rose, and from that moment nothing could stop me. From the beginning, entranced by my words, the moist-eyed clerk, the young man, the sheriff, the judge and, most importantly, Mrs. Florence Huntley exhibited every sign of having reached a new plane of existence. Outwardly they scarcely moved, but I knew they were transformed. What else could they do? As I spoke, their breath grew shallow. Their eyes did not leave me as their skin turned a pleasing pink. The young man removed his hand from his face and stared, mouth open. The court reporter stopped writing. All felt the best aspects of their natures summoned to the forefront of their beings -- so each later told me after we’d become friends -- impelled, I now know, by Thought Matter, which, although I did not yet comprehend its power, my desire to save Mrs. Huntley invoked to its fullest extent. Time in that courtroom ceased, and yet it ran as it had never run before!
Shortly after I began, some people who’d walked in for the next hearing started to listen, but one had the self-possession to send word to others to come quick, though the messenger only reluctantly left. Thus more people arrived, and then more as if compelled, word traveling as if on the air, until every seat was taken and onlookers were standing at the back, each attending to my defense of the serene woman who sat by my side =, her eyes aglow.
For almost an hour I spoke, until, reaching my conclusion, spent, I emitted a sob and silence fell. Some gasped, and the judge cried, “Done! Charges dismissed! Release her!” and cheers filled the room. He fairly ran down his platform and out the door.
The courtroom surged with shouting, clapping, laughing people. Complete strangers and old enemies shook each other’s hands, slapped backs and pressed against Mrs. Huntley and me until the crush parted us, although I could still see her, tall and graceful, her hands fluttering toward me, eyes alight with vindication and tears. Thus we gazed at each other past the heads of all the happy people and knew our lives were forever entwined!
The sheriff offered her his arm, and she bent her neck and said, “Don’t think it’s finished.”
“Please!” he said.
“First thing, you’re going to fill me a prescription. Today. If you don’t, I’m going to have you up for false arrest.”
“Please,” he said. “Don’t!”
“You know what you have to do,” she said and produced a little piece of paper, which he took.
“Now that’s decided,” she said, and the crowd parted. When they passed me, Mrs. Huntley was patting his arm. I let them go, for I knew we two would be reunited.
Having received the most heartfelt congratulations from well-wishers in the courtroom and then on the street, I found myself outside the sheriff’s office. A thin man with a small brown package rushed in, and soon Mrs. Huntley emerged.
Our young hearts went off like firecrackers, we twittered like lovebirds!
And later that night the THIRD GREAT TRUTH of the equilibrium of life was vouchsafed. Already we’d made plans for a healing and lecture tour throughout several western and midwestern states. Perhaps it was our concentration on such details following so closely upon the delirium of discovering our soulmates that prompted my great insight. Or perhaps it was the clarity bestowed by Mrs. Huntley’s very self. In any event I saw that each occurrence inexorably succeeds its opposite, every emotion its counter-emotion, every action its reaction in divine harmonic balance, that is, in the Great Equilibrium!
Why, that morning the pleasures of male camaraderie had sufficed for me, and then I’d seen her, I’d stood up for her, my hopes and dreams had been mocked for her, I’d been tormented beyond reason into a state of complete mental and physical vacuity, and then inspired by a righteous passion, I’d ascended such a peak of power and joy that having experienced nearly divine emotional and spiritual communion, she and I were nearly becoming one.
To my surprise, this insight evoked a burst of patriotism. Perhaps our plans to visit several large cities among other pleasant locales in our great land inspired me, or it may have been the memory of my courtroom heroics. Only in this country, I thought, could I have lived this day! Only in this magnificent land could the instruments of justice so completely confuse, spurn and humiliate me, only here could I be so warmly received and so well rewarded. And thus I saw how this great nation epitomizes the rule of change as well as the rule of law, and so, too, did I realize that the tallest people live here and the smallest, the wisest as well as the greatest dolts, the richest and the poorest. Here was utter failure, here the most astonishing success. Here the failures could become successes and the successes failures in the most astounding ways. Even the flag exhibited the greatest contrasts. Why, I saw that our nation inspires the most spectacular hopes even as it portends the hardest falls, only to be followed by the prospect of almost limitless, unceasing ascent, beyond the sky, in the cause of freedom.
And no doubt at that moment we were already moving on to courses only imperfectly charted.
It was this recognition of the great balance in all things that finally freed my ambition, which I’d generally hidden. Erupting almost literally with the fire of enlightenment, I entered into the special state of active, dynamic and emotive idealism that the One-hi would later reveal to be the best conductor of Thought Matter. And so, for weeks I reflected on how I might exploit in life and action my insight into the THIRD GREAT TRUTH while we two prepared to take on the world together!
But as my most successful swath through public life began, I did not yet fully understand the dangers inherent in the employment of Thought Matter in public discourse and action, which stem from the fact that most people -- I at the time included – find it hard to control and with the best intentions are not saved from its misuse. For several years, I was to experience such distractions and diversions like those I’d earlier so painfully learned attend one’s calling the spirits to earth.
Only later, when I better understood how to go UP, did I develop the dynamic principle of equilibrium, or equipoise to its fullest extent -- within my person -- employing the ever-expanding power of my mind after the One-hi helped me to bring it to a remarkable pitch of knowledge and self-control. Only then did I see that by choosing rest and peace, alone and sitting as still as possible, which is very still, I might be completely free.
Yes, my final insight, which followed the THIRD GREAT TRUTH, or the Great Equipoise, did not occur until after I’d learned to go UP to the Summer Land in the purest Thought Matter, which perfects all communication or communion among dynamic, kinetic identities.
I will note, however, that this insight came when my resources were most terribly attenuated, depleted to the point that I did not think I could continue for another moment upon this planet. This should not have surprised me -- the most profound insights appear in moments of extremis -- witness, for example, my discovery of the FIRST GREAT TRUTH.
Yes, the truest experience of THE EQUIPOISE emerging from the THIRD GREAT TRUTH came not only after I’d been properly admitted, taught, tried, tested and accepted into the Great Work, but also after I’d come to the sad realization that I could not completely instruct even Mrs. Huntley, let alone others, or bring her along with me to all of the places I wanted to visit.
In fact, t was after she was lost to me.
Seeing how much work I had to do and understanding how much my relation to Mankind might still change, I gave myself over to the FOURTH GREAT TRUTH, THE TRUTH OF LOVE’S MEMORY, because any other course would have left me inquiring and deliberating backwards and forwards until the end of time, whereas now I can rest in the thought of her. My memory of her will mean the end of striving and of strife, at peace, still and waiting.
In this there is a lot to consider.
So may it be.
THE END
A picture of the sun on the horizon.
Tk and the Dream Child
This book contains two descriptions of Tk’s contacts with the spirit of an unusual girl. The first, a séance conducted early in his career, has already appeared. Mrs. Huntley attended the second encounter, which was not a séance but a journey UP. It was after this episode, which will be described later, that Tk said to himself, “What does it matter without her” -- meaning Mrs. Huntley -- which one would think a commonplace thought by one in love, although for Tk it was a most disconcerting revelation. Worried, he later found himself in a discussion about Mrs. Huntley with the pink and lovely Dream Child. Or rather, he was seeking advice and instruction from the little lad, although they’d not reached the point when the Child might actually reply or even simply nod in agreement with his propositions. Tk’s monologue had become both focused and confusing: he was wondering whether he should give Mrs. Huntley her own child. “Should I not do what I do?” asked the Tk. “Should I do something else, instead?” As noted, the Dream Child had not yet responded. “Well,” said Tk, as much to himself as to him, “You’re no help.” And then he said, “Maybe I should avoid her for a few days,” to which the Dream Child rather sternly said, “No.” Tk flinched, looked at him and sighed. So, he thought, she must produce her own child -- that was the answer. After all, had not Students and Technical Workers started to call them “He” and “She,” and didn’t that mean a baby was in the offing? But how could it happen?
Tk’s Letter of Resignation; a Curse; a Murder Averted?
Of course, there must be a better or at least a more complete explanation of Tk’s withdrawal from the School of Spiritual Light and the Great Work than his partial, inconsistent and at times patently fanciful accounts. For example, was he not also humiliated seemingly in front of the whole city of Chicago, a far worse experience than he seems to have suffered in a municipal courtroom in Sacramento, California? Was he not enjoined as a public nuisance from continuing the Technical Work and accused of stealing the endowment of the School of Spiritual Light, the donations entrusted by many Great Workers, Spiritual Helpers and Technical Workers (although, to his good fortune, he did not suffer the fate of the thief who at almost the same time made off with the rent money for the Hobo College on State Street and was later found half immersed in the Chicago River, beaten to death)? Some may demur that no proof was provided and contend that the money had been given to spend as he chose. We urge all Great Workers not to let him off so easily. Instead, we offer one last missive of Tk’s, which at least has the merit of being a more considered effort as well as being nearly contemporaneous with his departure from Chicago, although we fear that it, too, will prove inadequate.
By revealing the progress of his thought, may this letter at least give context to the stillness and calm at the end of Tk’s “Second Autobiography”? So may we hope. Or must we wait for yet another account to achieve the full revelation of the FOURTH GREAT TRUTH? Certainly, patience is warranted, because it may indeed be true that living in the memory of one’s beloved is the best way to approach perfection. Love thus never ends, and we may see fully as we are seen. The following, then, may be labeled Tk’s “Last Testament,” although he apparently never fulfilled his great insight and instead simply stole off the stage.
It is left to us, therefore, to propound the FOURTH GREAT TRUTH, keeping before us his chastening reminder. In this spirit we publish Tk’s letter of resignation from the School of Spiritual Light, a kind of postscript to his “Second Autobiography” and a preface to the new and greater account of the Great Work that we foresee proceeding in an ever-expanding harmonic series. But first we reprint Tk’s “Last Testament”:
December 12, 189_[55]
School of Spiritual Light
1212 Kinzie Street
Chicago, Illinois
Attn: Board of Trustees
Ladies and Gentlemen:
To you my closest colleagues and companions I direct these thoughts with mixed emotions.
You have experienced the soul-balm of the School of Spiritual Light for at least several months, and some have worked the Great Work for a far longer time. Each has performed his or her Personal Demonstration to my satisfaction, having been admitted, taught, tried, tested and accepted to my infinite delight and, I trust, yours!
We have, moreover, lived to see the School of Spiritual Light and the Great Work in America grow and flourish into the harmonious and loving constructs upon which we gaze with justifiable pride. Your remarkable generosity has equaled your commitment to the Great Work, as most recently confirmed by your gift of this marvelous house (the Edgemere Facility) on the corner of Kinzie and Dearborn from which I write and for which I not infrequently shed tears of gratitude.
How have we come to this peak of power and success? Many of you have known great personal, financial, professional and political achievements even before your completion of the Personal Demonstration, and some are counted among the most prominent figures of the age. In this if more for your devotion to the Great Work we feel profound pride. You’ve come to understand that I’ve taken a more random path, that I’ve not always actively sought the insights and observations, skills and revelations of “mastership.” Yet if unable to keep a goal at all times before me, unable to build my factory brick by brick, I’ve learned to conjoin the spirits of the universe to each of you in Thought Matter. I’ve transmitted insights of such startling novelty that sometimes I seem little more than a wandering messenger, scarcely knowing, burdened as I am by such revelations’ strangeness, what to make of my condition. Yes, although I’ve not built in the traditional way and sometimes can scarcely convey a fraction of the information I’ve received, having learned to go UP in Thought Matter I’ve discovered the greatest gift of all: the communion between truly kinetic identities achieved by dearly loving spirits. It makes the right choice possible! And with that gift may all things be realized for you and yours and us and ours, powered by the greatest dynamo that the world has ever known!
With awe as if approaching a well-ordered oasis after having wandered among sandstorms and raging djins, I marvel at the intrinsic and exoteric branches of the Great Work. Never have they operated in such marvelous balance, never has the Great Work hummed with such compelling power, like a minutely milled, exquisitely tuned machine! Never has the great city of Chicago, the entire nation, the hemisphere, the world and the universe so vibrated with the harmonics of evolution!
Today, we resemble tightrope walkers capering at an enormous height over-arched by a rainbow, delighting and inspiring an ever-growing crowd who desire nothing more than to join us, to learn how to abide with each other, the living, the dead and the unborn while releasing the virtually unlimited energies they possess! As we bend and stretch and pivot, poised, we see their upturned faces filled with hope, we beckon, and they respond with joy!
One might say that I’m the captain of a ship sailing on a sea of love.
Regretfully, I must now disclose to you, though, that an inexorable retribution attends our greatest achievements, as if our success has been engaged in an intricate dance with misfortune resembling our own dances at “headquarters” that may even lead to our demise. In fact, this reckoning may be the purest expression of the secret balance of life, the inspiration of the ritual waltzes I’ve instituted at all levels of the School, if a dance like no other! That is, I’ve identified an imminent change portending perhaps the incipient discovery of a FOURTH GREAT TRUTH in the most complete expression of the great EQUIPOISE that lies beyond.
I’m sure that you know I exalt the related qualities of sincerity and truth, practicing candor almost as a purifying act. It therefore is hard to accept that the only path leading to the truth begins with the acknowledgement of our propensity to lie to ourselves and to others -- men, women and children -- a discovery worth all the effort expended, however, in comprehending the first THREE GREAT TRUTHS combined, because once this fact is accepted, all of the lies upon lies upon lies may end!
I therefore apologize in advance if the following disclosures dismay some, but I must tell “the whole truth and nothing but,” and tell it I shall!
“Without mental hesitation, reservation or spirit of evasion,” I now reveal that our great School of Spiritual Light, the Great Work and your Tk himself have been the subject of a hostile investigation -- in fact, an inquiry of unrivaled ferocity!
To be precise, men with interests opposed to ours have ginned up an inquiry. Indeed, they’ve turned it into virtually their sole pastime, our persecution having become their cosseted cause, until they’ve arrayed against us most of the investigative and prosecutorial resources of the City of Chicago, even, I note, although this may shock you, receiving assistance from our two aldermen friends, Taker and Tusker. Proceeding relentlessly from all quarters, this attack has brought about
1. A formal audit of our financial affairs,
3. A purportedly scientific “analysis” of life-enhancing medical and hygienic products sold by us, although such “analysis” is no more than a “hatchet job,”
4. A demand that our great School of Spiritual Light be licensed and regulated, although our government wholeheartedly encourages the pursuit of medical research, education and spiritual expression, especially when conducted at the highest levels,
5. A demand that the distributive arm of the Technical Work be licensed and regulated, although our government wholeheartedly approves the practice of healing, whose most effective forms should be favored, not discouraged,
6. A. The seizure of raw materials in our possession, in inventory and on order, although they are required to pursue some of the most important Technical Work, and
B. Retributive and confiscatory regulation of other essential ingredients used in the Technical Work, with the result that the funding and functioning of the Great Work in America acutely suffer,
such that the financial well-being of the Great Work and thus the physical and emotional well-being of some of its foremost practitioners are most seriously threatened, and
7. Soon, the invocation of the City of Chicago’s full civil, administrative, regulatory and judicial power against the Technical Work, the School of Spiritual Light and the Great Work in America unless we bow to unacceptable demands and make fundamental, meritless and dangerous changes.
8. In other words, they will not get off our backs!
Highly suggestible members of the press, in all likelihood recipients of our enemies’ largess and only too willing to credit their allegations, have published libels about the Technical Work, the School of Spiritual Light and the Great Work with the callous jocularity of banditti. Well-seasoned participants in political intrigue may give slight weight to such stories, and in fact they are of little moment. But it was still a sad day to learn that the School of Spiritual Light and the Great Work itself, having thrived through the ages, are now, when I’ve assumed stewardship, subjected to such scurrilities!
It must be acknowledged, moreover, that the demands of public life have not hardened us all. To the contrary, many tender spirits under our care require protection from such slanders, as a fine neighborhood needs shielding from noxious odors, while the foolish, untried, untaught and untested among us are diverted by such rubbish.
I address you today, though, burdened by a graver insight. I must reveal that the center of our world, the white-hot core of the Great Work itself, is disturbed less by the foregoing investigations, inquiries and reportage, which after all we may control any time that we choose, than by something living, breathing and thriving among us, IN OUR VERY MIDST.
I admit that I’m not entirely certain about the scope of this presence. My vision is still so cloudy that even exercising my diagnostic powers I may see just its symptoms. I’ve not been able to map much beyond the offending thing’s perimeter and have made only certain limited probes of its mass. But I know its import, nonetheless.
For example, during the past few months I’ve observed the unwonted interruption of the Instruction and even the disruption of the Personal Demonstration! Most disturbingly Workers have exhibited certain failures in the exercise of Thought Matter. At times even I have felt a lack of psychic and spiritual clarity while observing the confusion and distraction among you, including those most deeply engaged in the Great Work’s most significant and sensitive missions.
The ensure the correct performance of the Personal Demonstration and the proper functioning of Thought Matter are of critical importance not only to the Great Work but to the harmony of the universe, not to mention, closer to home, our lives on earth, as well as for those not yet born and those who’ve passed over. I therefore have perceived the aforementioned flaws with concern verging on terror. Might a day come when a Great Worker’s Personal Demonstration is not merely interrupted or delayed as we have already witnessed but literally transports him or her to an unintended place? Or could Thought Matter degenerate simply to the use of our imaginative faculties, as if in a daydream? And if such fears are prophetic, what can we say about our ability to pass on the Instruction to those who so eagerly need it?
When I pose these questions, I irrefutably see the operation of corruption and decay upon the Great Work. And because the Great Work is without doubt the antithesis of physical corruption and decay, I must conclude that the present psychic and spiritual flaws in the Instruction, in the performance of the Personal Demonstration and ultimately in the use of Thought Matter stem from an underlying lack of moral clarity in us, humanity’s moral makeup being the one great hurdle against which all Great Workers may stumble, just as morality’s triumph over mortality is the Great Work’s greatest achievement!
Why is this so?
The Great Work breaks down the barriers between those who’ve been admitted, taught, tried, tested and accepted to join the true, complete and loving community of kinetic identities, a community not only of the living but also of the dead and the unborn, through the use of Thought Matter.
Thus, they journey UP.
And by experiencing the continuum of life with a pure, informed spirit -- which of course calls on the best in the dead and the unborn as well as ourselves -- we break the bonds of isolation. No longer are we chained to our ignorant “selves,” our lives a string of random incidents filled with the most mundane episodes such as fantods or the “blues.” No longer are we bound up in the loneliness of our bodies.
After we have gone UP, freed from our bodily prison to the Summer Land, everything changes as we see that we have made the right choice, loving and as one with all the good people of the past, present and future, our true “guardian angels,” and so, as we open the doors of heaven, our loneliness is no more.
Yes, that is the greatness of the Great Work, but oh, forever more I’ve come to see it is a mixed blessing because of our as-yet unvanquished immorality.
The sadness of this conclusion is rendered more acute because our opponents have made similar observations and in pursuing their investigations purported to presage the disclosures I’m about to make -- although of course they have approached the truth from the wrong direction and nefariously, in envy and superficially, knowing nothing of the eternal truths. But we must not flinch from truth because others whom we despise make similar arguments. We must follow its thread through the great design of life wherever it may lead! Why, I believe that we must follow that golden thread!
I therefore reveal that there is A FLAW IN THE MORAL CORE OF THE GREAT WORK because OUR EARTHLY IDENTITIES COMMUNICATE IMMORALITY! And against every inclination to the contrary, we must accept that immorality and therefore actual “death” now lodge in the very communion of spirits achieved by the Great Work. Only with this knowledge may we hope to discover eternal life in some other way, perhaps in our dearest memories.
Could anything prove my point more than the characters and conduct of the men and women comprising the League of Visible Helpers, the highest of our highest, upon whom I’ve performed a rigorous “case study” with the most modern scientific methods? For I’m convinced there is no finer body of talent and good will in the world, comprising the best, most dynamic, idealistic and masterly people ever gathered together among all of the multitudes of Mankind, past, present and future! These men and women have been admitted, taught, tried, tested and accepted into an unsurpassed system of knowledge through a process objectively proven to awaken their highest aspirations, taking them indeed to levels of insight and intimacy never before known!
Even this rare and loving congregation, however -- all graduates of the School of Spiritual Light and fully engaged in the Great Work -- even our most special group, even this great group, is infected and probably contagious.
The proof would fill many volumes, but I shall provide just four examples.
Three of these life-illustrations, or archetypes are those “nearest and dearest” to us, and thus I believe that if anyone is capable of forgiveness, they and their fellow students of the Great Work will pardon my revelations and recognize the spiritual imperative of my accusations. If not, so be it, harsh as that may seem.
I’ve inwardly debated whether to describe the fourth example at all, however, because in describing him I risk permanently damaging the innocent particles in every reader’s spirit, and yet I must also reveal his evil.
Do not assume, though, that these four practitioners of the Great Work are more tainted than anyone else except in some cases by degree. In fact, I hereby reveal that my research has reached the opposite conclusion: this evil is pandemic, the Great Work having exposed like a wicked genie the foulest aspects of each member of Mankind. Or, more aptly, by freeing, enlightening and merging every one of our spirits, the Great Work has projected its beam upon all our failures.
There is no doubt that our two aldermen friends, one tall and stout, the other knobby and short -- Messrs. B. J. Coughlin and M. H. D. Kenna, to call them by their worldly names -- are guilty of the grossest moral lapses. Masters of chicanery, breakers of public trust, sordidly, calculatingly encouraging the worst tendencies in those they’ve falsely pledged to serve, pandering with those who traffic in deviance, sheltering pimps and cathouse owners, corrupting police officers, judges, juries and clerks of court as well as countless municipal employees, clipping the wings of the few judges, municipal employees and aldermen who may not be suborned, flouting the electoral process by stuffing ballot boxes or at times outright stealing them, trafficking in votes, alternately bullying or selling out to their political opponents, forcing tribute from simple people who seek no more than to make their way in a frightening world, conniving with other politicians, criminals and financiers to milk the City of Chicago like vagrants seizing the teats of a poor tired cow, featherbedding, place-holding, land-jobbing, skimming, grafting, demeaning their offices and the rectitude properly aspired to by every holder of public office -- in the case of Alderman John Coughlin by reciting poetic drivel at the drop of a hat, dressing like a clown and generally showering us with inanities, and in the case of Alderman Michael Kenna by adopting the character and habits of a malevolent shrew -- THEY HAVE NEVER EVEN ATTEMPTED TO BETTER THE LIVES OF THE PEOPLE OF THE CITY OF CHICAGO, their helpless, needful charges, unless in the relentless pursuit of boodle they’ve inadvertently dropped some ancillary crumbs on their long-suffering constituents, the few so-called achievements of their administration being hopelessly tainted by their conflicts of interest, corruption and devilry.
Yes, the mere sight of these two should sicken us but for a certain racy charm, although I now see that their undeniable magnetism is but another example of the secret balance of life, their grace notes being a counterpoint to these miscreants’ tawdry, seamy and frankly shocking career-long mockery of civic virtue!
I therefore can make no better gift to Messrs. Coughlin and Kenna -- once my friends and colleagues but now, I avow, the most disloyal snakes to leave their trails on the face of the earth -- than to point my finger as I do in this paper and inspire the people of Chicago to restore honesty and fair-dealing to public life. Disown them, I say, throw them out, toss them on their ears -- they aren’t faithful, they aren’t true, they will not stand by you. For my part, I’ll continue to decry them every chance I get while I try to repair the great holes that they have rent in the city of their birth!
THEY ARE PISSANTS!
And so, this day I place a curse upon them. For seven years all of their sick, selfish, perverse business, their political schemes and personal endeavors, shall be stillborn, their plans will come to naught and their dreams will turn to muck. From power’s peak they’ll grow as weak as newborn pups until they suffer the same callous treatment that they’ve inflicted on others, and they will not be able to engage in the physical act of love.
A picture of Hinky Dink’s gravesite. Although he left over five hundred thousand dollars to his wife and children, they chose to mark his resting place with a stone no larger than a brick that states merely, “Kenna.”
For six generations, moreover, this city which has so indulged and rewarded them will suffer a succession of leaders whose chronic venality and persistent criminality will so mar its destiny that IT SHALL NEVER BE FIRST and only briefly second. In fact, this city epitomized for too long by dimwitted cronyism and political mischief will become an afterthought with the exception of some interesting architecture and the musical achievements of a few of its poorest citizens.
* * * *
I write about the next member of the League with the greatest reluctance. How else could one admit the Devil into one’s thoughts and the thoughts of one’s friends?
Ending with his rapid march to completion of the Personal Demonstration, Dr. Henry Holmes showed great promise during the Instruction. Only later did I understand his presence was sickening Workers like a foul gas that even now turns my fingers cold and my breath shallow. Even now his emanations terrify me, because evil so consumes him that I believe he’s literally a fiend of hell, although of course he’s only human. And I weep for his victims, who if now unknown will soon be revealed.
I must do more than expose him, though, I must decide how to live after Dr. Henry Holmes has cast Thought Matter into doubt, endangering those nearest and dearest us.
During a weekly “gathering” a good friend, Dr. Victor Cocovenus introduced Holmes as someone who, like so many who’ve completed advanced academic and medical training, sought to expand his knowledge by attending the School of Spiritual Light. I invited him to our next assembly, he enrolled, and not only was his progress swift but I thought we’d begun to understand each other.
For example, sharing a professional interest in the mysteries of the human body, Holmes and I discussed certain topics that disgust most but are properly explored by those who’ve taken the medical oath, provided they remain scientifically detached. He also told me that he’d spent a lot of time and money building a remarkable house on the South Side of Chicago, which he referred to as being in the “modern Romanesque” style. It was his residence but also a pharmacy (apparently providing most of his income), a boarding house (which he said he operated almost as a charity) and a site for his experiments, including autopsies and other research.
Holmes expressed the hope that one day he might share his scientific work in modest recompense for my transmittal of the Great Work. In fact, he proposed we pool our resources, offering me the opportunity to merge my meager savings with his considerable fortune. Although intrigued, I declined, suggesting instead that he consider the unsurpassed value of a tangible contribution to the Great Work.
After he completed the Personal Demonstration, which I now recall as perhaps the first of those chaotic Demonstrations plaguing the harmony of Thought Matter, I agreed to accompany him to his unusual home as a kind of celebratory treat, including a visit to the laboratory where, he told me, he’d conducted at least one systematically photographed dissection. His eagerness to share his work, as well as the rigor with which he claimed to have documented each stage of the process impressed me.
Excited by the opportunity to renew the medical studies that for several years I’d neglected in favor of psychical and pharmacological research, Dr. Holmes’ demeanor nonetheless disturbed me as we walked toward his house. Indeed, having already lost much of the spirit of our adventure, I felt a chill as we approached its threshold.
“But I must continue,” I thought, “in respect for his work.”
He’d told me he’d lodged boarders during the Columbian Exposition, but the imposing strangely embellished building, which occupied most of the block, appeared to be empty now, and as we entered, I sensed that it regretted our presence. Passing the pharmacy, which was closed, its shades drawn, we quickly crossed the front parlor and a barren sitting room from which I saw hallways leading to other rooms whose doorways revealed shadows. Advancing deeper past more passageways that seemed to break off in different directions, I remarked on the glow of the electric lights shining at odd intervals. He smiled proudly, observing that they were most convenient, wired to be switched on and off at once or one at a time, but he said not a word thereafter until we proceeded so deeply inside that I realized that I had no idea where we were.
For minutes I did not see a window, and our footsteps were the only sounds, as even the muffled noise of the city ceased. The further we walked, the scarcer were the electric lights, moreover, until I could scarcely discern more than indeterminate shapes, and for a moment I feared I might not see true light again.
As we walked, I also noticed a sweet but increasingly putrid odor like the air in the rooms of those who may be close to death, but I followed him even as it asserted itself. At least twice we descended a flight of stairs and twice we climbed one until he picked up an idea that he’d started to explain outside. He had a theory, apparently original, about pain’s effect on mental clarity. He said that acute pain released a physical property resembling Thought Matter. This, he said, required testing.
But before I could respond, he asked whether I wondered whether death thought about death after life.
“There’s no such thing as ‘death,’” I replied.
“We’ll see,” he said.
At the end of the next corridor, Holmes stopped at a door, and again I felt that I’d wandered to a place from which I might not return. I’d actually been imagining the passages down which we’d been walking coiling and uncoiling as if about to strike. Consider my surprise, then, when he revealed a room that gleamed under an array of electric lights, its white tiled walls so bright that I found myself blinking, unable to identify its contents with the exception of a few shining forms.
I saw my companion’s satisfaction, but simultaneously a terrible and disgusting stench erupted through the doorway like the concentration to the tenth power of the disturbing odor I’d been smelling. Polite discourse scarcely permits a description of the appalling reek, and thus I apologize for the following account.
Stepping back, I burst into what must have seemed one continuous exclamation: “Oh! Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God in heaven! Oh, forever more!” and turned to Holmes in disbelief. Unfazed, he hustled me in and shut the door. The stench continued to spread over me, curling and crawling until it so thoroughly worked into my nostrils, past my lips and through my lungs that I loudly and violently retched.
My distress, however, left him unperturbed. While I wiped my nose and eyes and tried to clear my throat, Holmes took a mop from a corner and gracefully swabbed the mess down a drain -- in fact, he and the mop seemed to be dancing -- while I saw the floor was made of cement. Then he went to another wall, unlooped a red hose, washed off my traces and wound it up again. Within seconds scarcely a reminder remained, and the room seemed to shine more brightly. He was looking at me, smiling perhaps a little contemptuously, until with a professional air he took my wrist and led me to a gurney covered by an oilcloth.
While he’d been mopping, I’d felt the old equilibrium return notwithstanding the smell that continued to envelop me, but I’d not fully recovered when he placed his right hand on my shoulder and with his left pulled back the cover to reveal a wizened creature whose skin was tightly drawn above its teeth and had a few thin black hairs on its scalp.
As Holmes proudly gestured, the creature’s mouth seemed to grimace. How small it was, almost like a monkey. And then as if experiencing an electric charge, I realized that it lacked its arms and legs, and I knew, although the idea had already entered my brain, that this miserable lump was a young man. I gagged, stepped back and retched again. Holmes put his hand on my shoulder as, palms on knees, I moaned. Ruffling my hair, he said, “There, there, master, steady.” I shook my head, his hand slipped away, and he gripped my arm and straightened me up.
When our eyes met, he must have seen something he didn’t like, because his face reflected an extraordinary combination of disdain and rage. Before either of us spoke, though, a buzzer rang, and he released me.
Cheerfully he said, “It must be Mrs. Huntley. I need to fill her prescription,” and walked to the door.
My heart still racing, I bent over again, almost completely undone. My blood flowed in an odd rhythm, as if every inch rebelled. I coughed, tried to spit and ran my hand down my face. It seemed, though, that I couldn’t move my legs, if I did shake my head several times, which brought me another glimpse of the young man on the gurney and led more retching. Then I asked, “Why is she coming here? Why is Mrs. Huntley meeting this fiend?”
And still, I couldn’t leave this spot! Instead, a dark mist, or rather hundreds of grey spots, appeared before my eyes. At the same time, I felt a great need to be comforted. Then I realized that no more than a few seconds had passed, because I saw Holmes, eyes alight with expectation and contempt, still standing on the threshold. He was speaking to me.
“Just wait here,” he said.
I may have groaned.
“Don’t touch anything,” he smirked and then added, “although you might clean it up,” and pointed to my feet.
I ran to the door, but he’d locked me in. It was solid, and the handle hardly moved. I ran around the room, turning here and there looking for anything that might help me escape or at least let me understand what was happening, but I saw only metal cabinets -- each of which I opened with as much fear as hope, although they proved to be empty -- the sink, the red hose, a large metal basin or bath and the gurney with its burden. Having gone full circle, I returned to the door, and the room seemed to grow so bright from the lights, which I felt made my skin glow, that it seemed I’d entered a new world.
Nonetheless, I managed to ask, “How shall I make it right?” And I should and must make it right, I resolved, and this gave me strength.
First, I walked toward the gurney and pulled the cloth over the body.
Then, my head still throbbing although the grey spots had disappeared, my senses strained toward the presence of Mrs. Florence Huntley, the finest woman I’ve ever known, who probably was in the greatest danger. I moaned and believe that a tear also may have slid down my cheek. Running headlong, I threw myself against the door, but it barely moved. As hard as I could, I slammed it again, and although it moved no more than before I found that I breathed more freely.
Fully engaged, I concentrated on the task at hand, if still feeling terribly weak. I remembered his parting smile and, looking at the soiled floor, walked to the wall, took hold of the hose and, body trembling, washed the evidence into a drain. Then I swabbed the damp places.
Leaning on the mop, I was still summoning my strength when he walked back in.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“Where is she?” I cried, but my voice betrayed my enfeebled state.
He didn’t answer, though as he crossed the room his person showed an unmistakable sign of excitement. I dropped the mop, which clicked on the cement as, without breaking stride, he continued to the farthest wall and said, “Watch” and slid back a panel to reveal a small window.
Over his shoulder through the glass, I saw the lovely form of Mrs. Florence Huntley!
I don’t believe she saw me, because she retreated to the back wall, and when she returned, his head blocked my view. From my brief look, though, I saw her room was tiled, too, and brightly lit, windowless like ours, except for the small opening through which Holmes was peering. It wasn’t nearly as big as ours, though, more like a large icebox. Upon her approach, he closed the panel, and then he opened it again, slid it shut just as quickly, and grinned. From the other side, I could hear muffled sounds.
Prompted by all that I had endured but chiefly Holmes’ appalling treatment of her, I fell on him, but I was too weak, and he shook me off and cried, “What are you doing? It’s nothing. I’m testing!” and, opening the panel again, looked in as if I’d never touched him. In fact, perhaps my effort had not seemed hostile, because he was not the least afraid.
Although I could not see past his head, I knew she was up against the glass, because I heard the dull sounds of her hands hitting it and her voice demanding to be let out, although it came as if from a great distance, like a tiny disembodied spirit.
His features had become more distorted, almost like a wild dog’s, and again I observed the large and worrisome sign on his person as he sighed with pleasure. In a husky voice he asked, “What shall we do! What shall we do with her?”
But the new and alarming evidence I’d observed brought the return of my strength, and I cried, “Stop it!” and threw myself on him, hit his head against the wall, and then, as if slipping on ice, we fell.
I recovered, grabbed his head with both hands, hit it against the wall again and then cracked it once more.
As I got to my feet, he remained under me, half against the wall rubbing his head as if trying to wake up. His lips were moving although his words came slowly until I heard him say, “What?” Then he looked at me, groaned, frowned and examined his fingers as if checking for blood. Still rubbing his head, he started to rise, but I kicked him as hard as I could, and he hit back against the wall. I kicked him again, on the chin, which snapped back, and he lay still.
I opened the panel.
After he’d fallen, Mrs. Huntley must have stayed by the little window. She’d not been able to see anything, of course, because Holmes had shut it. It was perfectly understandable, then, that when I opened it her eyes grew large and she stepped back and shouted, although I could scarcely hear her through the glass.
I pulled him to his knees, slapped him until he stirred, and with the gravest physical threats made him release her. Completely cowed, he complied, whimpering that I didn’t understand anything, that he’d meant no harm -- the scoundrel! As he opened her chamber, he even said, as much, I thought, for Mrs. Huntley’s benefit as mine, that he doubted I was a real doctor. “I don’t think you’ve seen a corpse before,” he said, and let fly an unrepeatable denigration of the Great Work!
“Damn you!” I said and shook him while she implored me to stop. In truth I may have shoved him against the wall, too, and then, having taken his keys, pushed him inside the first chamber and closed the door. We could hear him roaring as we ran off.
She she followed me through the house -- only once stopping to remark that she’d forgotten her package -- but I pulled her on, and eventually, not having missed a turn, we crossed the threshold where we stood blinking with the most profound gratitude and breathing in great gulps of air.
But I will always carry the revolting stench of that monster’s room with me.
I offer my deepest apologies for this uncensored account, although it is of the greatest importance to the future of the Great Work that I describe his infamy. As you know, he has not returned to the School of Spiritual Light. He has disappeared. In absentia I have barred him permanently from the Great Work and all of its constituent parts. He is expelled from the School of Spiritual Light, and his degree is withdrawn.
I’ve also shared my suspicions with the legal authorities. One thing in particular I’ve described to them: a row of shoes -- women and children’s shoes -- inside the larger room. It returned to me in a terrible dream, although Florence said that she didn’t remember them. When they find him, as no doubt they will, I’m certain he will suffer the most complete retribution, be hanged and buried in a hidden, unmarked grave, and after his house of death is exhibited to the people of Chicago, it will burn to the ground and be smashed into the smallest crumbs of brick.
[Tk’s letter of resignation continues, in another colored ink, as follows:]
After this scene of horror, how can I make any charge against the angelic person of Mrs. Florence Huntley, my colleague and inspiration, the ONE for whom I would surrender my life? She more than Holmes, however, reveals the central flaw in the Great Work. Although universally perceived as the BEST and BRIGHTEST, she’s not what we’d expected.
Granted, together we’ve sought and attained the highest levels of human achievement, having gone UP in mutual ecstasy to commune in the Summer Land with the passed over and unborn. Together, we have made the right choice in almost complete and unfettered communion in Thought Matter.
And yet she -- even Mrs. Huntley -- does not know herself.
I note, for example, that she questions -- indeed, disputes -- my explanation of the events in the “murder house” of Dr. Henry Holmes. She accuses me of squeamishness over his autopsy, insists he is innocent until proven guilty and asserts that I have not presented enough evidence of his wrongdoing. She’s actually claimed that she was never afraid in his presence, even in his chamber, and reproaches me for depreciating his pharmacological attentions to her and ending their business.
She’s even denied that the events of that day took place as I’ve described them, alleging I concocted the account in pride or envy.
My God, what has he done to her!
Her spirit may have traveled with mine, but she, even she, cannot join me in perfect spiritual communion. She’s confused, and I realize extraneous factors increase her confusion. That is, outside agents have befogged her mind, causing her to blunder imperfectly through Thought Matter. I’ve come to see that narcotics and stimulants unduly inhibit the operation of her spirit and prevent her from becoming the wise, dear sweet helpmeet she might be.
It is with great sadness, therefore, that I’ve concluded Mrs. Florence Huntley is prone to offering up almost completely unsupported and erroneous theories, often literally pipe dreams, concerning the harmonious relation of men and women, a propensity multiplied by the drugs to which she is addicted. It does not matter that she has spoken and recorded her views in the most elegant and tender expressions worthy of the greatest representatives of her sex. Too often they are no more than nonsense, reveries seen and believed by this dear lady during hours and even days of surrender to foreign substances in derogation of Thought Matter.
Must I accept her delusions? Has the abomination of these nefarious agents, by which I mean powerful drugs, primarily opiates, befuddled and contaminated HER, the greatest hope for Womankind? I fear that the answer is “yes.”
And so it is now clear that I -- I -- who am responsible for every Great Worker in the United States of America, past, present and future, I who have forged an identity with each past, present and future Great Worker, Visible Helper and Technical Worker, I am a failure, the failure, no better than the faker, bamboozler, grafter, thief, degrader, murderer, poor addled toper, hoppie, junker, fraud and saps that they and you are, or shall become!
What good have I done if our communion has led to this, if despite my powers this corruption cannot be undone and in fact grows more rank the closer are my ties to all that is dear -- first and foremost to HER? And so, have I not observed Mankind more accurately and acutely in its bewilderment and degeneration than my earlier formulation of the secret law of equilibrium purported to explain?
It is a puzzle.
The best course must be for me to go to a quiet place and sit still, as calmly and silently as possible.
I therefore pray that I may control the exercise of Thought Matter in coming times, relieved of the more disturbing influences of others, that I may be free of them, in fact, except perhaps in memory, because to love in any other way means subjugation not only to the most powerful but also the most destructive of emotions.
In any event, I shall not accuse like the scolding, tawdry, lusting and fearful crowds trooping through the murder house of Dr. Henry Holmes while he awaits trial. I shall be still and calm in the knowledge of what I have given up. I will know with the strength of Thought Matter what I have left behind. Merely from my thoughts, I shall cause his house of death to burn to the ground and obliterate its traces it from the earth. She shall live again. That is, as I recall the love I’ve found and given, I shall unleash al ofl the love in the universe for good if at times to destroy.
I therefore freely and unequivocally, completely and irrevocably resign, retire and withdraw from the School of Spiritual Light and the Great Work in America, including all of its intrinsic, exoteric and technical branches and each of its leagues and chapters. I renounce every position, post and honor to which I have been called. Intentionally, purposefully and with forethought, I nominate no successor, replacement or representative. I leave instructionsfor each Great Worker to find the right way, though, in recognition of the corruption of all things, the FOUR GREAT TRUTHS, the beauty of the Instruction, and the power to make the right choice in Thought Matter.
So may it be.
Sincerely,
Tk
* * * *
The coward! The liar!
Because there is something false about the foregoing account. The clues are in his diction as well as the aforesaid inconsistencies and improbabilities. But what was false? Was the body a woman’s? What happened to her?
THE END
* * * *
A picture of Tk, who holds the reins of his favorite possession, a black phaeton, drawn by two matched mares as he faces forward.
III
What May Have Happened
They first contacted him when someone pressed a folded piece of paper on him with the words “Pay or die” above the black shape of a dagger. He had no idea who gave it to him, but he feared that it meant Mrs. Huntley. Her business with the Tonic and the Cream was prospering. Three more came, the second with a stamp of a black hand. They had a faint smell of rosewater. Then he’d gone to meet Hinky Dink and Bathhouse. He didn’t care about himself, having led a life free from violence to his own person and confident that this providential state would continue, but he worried about her.
Then the threats stopped, as far as he knew, and the Great Work progressed. He tried not to believe that Hinky Dink and Bathhouse must have spoken to someone.
Then it happened again. A letter said, “Give it to us,” as did another. Then he found a dead cat on his doorstep. It was only by chance that he and not Florence discovered it. Try as he might, he did not understand what they wanted. What did they mean, “Give it to us”?
A middle-aged unshaven man with a sad face and a grip as heavy as lead took his arm one evening and led him down an alley until he indicated a tall man standing in a doorway. The tall one smelled like rosewater.
“We’ve been watching you.”
“Good,” said Tk.
“No, not good. We’re tired. We want your stocks, we want your business.”
“It’s not a business.”
“Enough.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“We want it now, or we’ll kill her.”
“Who?”
“You know who. You know everything, right? But we’ll take our time. My friend here will cut her fingers, one by one. He’s a tailor. He’ll cut her cheeks. Then he’ll cut an eye out. Just one, so she can what happens next. You don’t want to know what happens next. But I know, because I’ll be doing it. That’s what I know.”
Tk’s legs were weak.
“We want your business now. Turn it over by next Friday. Your friends won’t save you. There’s no way out. Now we’re their friends.”
“The business.”
“Now you know.”
The other one pushed him back into the alley, and he walked off as if in a dream. Friday. He must save her. But he could think of only one way, unless a curse would work, but it didn’t by Friday, so he left, having revealed nothing. There was no encounter, no standoff, no bloodshed, no bodies. Because he couldn’t. There was only one way to save her, to leave, because he was a shameful weakling, and he’d lost her. In fact, he couldn’t even save her from herself.
He told himself that he never really knew what the “business” was (although he did), only that he needed to leave, which he did, taking most of their money.
Much later he thought this was perhaps the best choice he’d ever made, for her sake, although it was hardly the right choice, having been made in such fear that calling it a “choice” was a stretch.
Or perhaps she left him.
Or she had died, in some sense because of him.
Justice for Dr. Holmes
Frank P. Geyer thought Chicago was hot as hell. Over the last four months he’d several points of comparison, having tracked his man to Denver, Vermont, New Hampshire, Toronto and Indiana. Thinking from its name that it might be cooler, he’d gone into the Alaska Hotel and was sweating over a beer. It was crowded. A policeman came in, but he wasn’t one of his new friends. This one went to the manager and took an envelope as openly as if he’d a stake in the place. Geyer spit into a spittoon. He didn’t like policemen -- they weren’t professional except at shaking people down.
Today, though, he was in a good mood. He’d confirmed his man’s name, Herman Webster Mudgett. His colleagues had telegraphed, reporting that they’d arrested the devil on a train and were bringing him to Philadelphia. “Leave it to the Pinkerton’s,” thought Frank P. Geyer. “It’s a business, and our clients are respectable.” That was why they were taking him to Philadelphia, after all – it was their client’s headquarters, the First Hanover Insurance Company.
Tonight, he was going to Mudgett’s house with his friends on the Chicago force. Here, the devil went by “Dr. H. H. Holmes,” but Geyer that expected he was just as prone to mayhem in Chicago as his other haunts, perhaps more so. He saw the two children in the basket, the little girl with her missing clubfoot. That was in Toronto. He spat and cursed the man.
Frank P. Geyer had been observing the strange building on the South Side for a few days, but there’d been no sign of “Dr. Holmes.” It was more like an apartment building than a house, but it wasn’t like an apartment building, either -- it was sinister even if you didn’t know the devil’s tricks. Then he’d had received the telegram and at last breathed freely. Why, he’d done a little dance before returning to the building, but it was locked. As he was leaving, an odd man came up the steps, saw him, turned around and went away as if he was a wraith.
Geyer wondered whether he’d see him again. He wondered whether Mudgett had help. It was almost as if he’d been in several places at once, killing for almost any reason or none. But now at least he wouldn’t collect any more from the First Hanover Insurance Company.
After breaking in that evening, they spent several days cataloguing the building’s horrors, after which Geyer especially enjoyed seeing Mudgett hanged. Then he retired from the Pinkertons and wrote a book about the case. But he realized that he really wanted to forget it and became a shipping agent. Then he decided he wanted to travel, and he became a touring representative for the new American Baseball League, although he continued to drink too much. Of course, he never came across Tk’s “Last Testament” or asked himself about its gaps and oddities. He did not care how the building exploded and burned, although he assumed that it had something to do with the gas Mudgett used.
Mrs. F. H. Remembers and Forgets Tk
On a Saturday morning late in 1895, Tk left Chicago with nearly $10,000 -- the earnings of the School of Spiritual Light, Life in Action Magazine, the Indo-American Book Company and the pharmacological business that Mrs. Huntley and he conducted under the rubric of the “Technical Work,” all related patents, copyrights and royalties, usufruct, jura in re aliena and jura in re propria, the whole kit-and-caboodle, with the exception of Mrs. Huntley’s personal stock of opium. He drove a trim black phaeton and had five pieces of matched luggage behind him. The soiled pans and counter tops in the kitchen confirmed that he’d brought along the remains of a fried chicken dinner. He also took the deed to his house, the “Edgemere Facility,” which he discounted the next day for $500, a distressingly small sum attributable to his inability to assure good title. Just once, he let himself think, “Why do they pick on me?”
Mrs. Huntley was the first to note that in his last letter Tk did not ask for forgiveness.
It does not take much imagination to conclude that his change of scene unnerved and may even have dizzied him, notwithstanding that such withdrawals were not unusual. In fact, we may assume that during his ride Tk heard a constant if faint echo in his ears, although the grey spots that he said he saw in Dr. Holmes’ white tiled room did not reappear. It is also possible that he strained his neck looking behind him and perhaps felt guilty about the curses he’d placed on the aldermen and the city of Chicago, although not enough to cause him to revoke them, and for other things he’d done. No one followed him, no one even watched, and his flight remained undetected for two days -- partly because the “headquarters” in which he’d first heard the faint ringing in his ears was vacant, Tk weeks earlier having lost his last devotees and patients. Even Mrs. Huntley had moved out, although she’d not entirely quit him. And now he was gone, too.
She confirmed that he’d taken not only the Great Work’s treasury but also their remaining inventory of nostrums, tonics and raw ingredients, everything that wasn’t confiscated during the investigation described in his final letter to the “Board of Trustees.” He’d left behind some reams of paper. With an insight honed by previous disappointments, Mrs. Huntley observed that if he didn’t splurge, his haul would last five years. “But he’ll waste it,” she thought.
One of the worst consequences of his defalcation she left unsaid: he’d rendered her destitute with the exception of a hundred dollars on her person and the diamonds that she’d long been sewing into her small clothes. And yet through her tears she’d actually thought that she probably deserved her bad luck, at least more than in the past. After all, hadn’t she left Tk first and for reasons that she feared were not entirely justified? Later, she also said she was “pretty ignorant” or at least a lot more confused about him at this time.
Mrs. Huntley did not realize that he rode away a smaller man because he knew he’d done something wrong. After her immediate pain subsided, she understood this, though. He knew he was a faker, which was worse than her knowing it. It was among the thoughts pushing him from her mind so thoroughly that if she’d heard his name mentioned again, she would have realized with surprise that she’d forgotten him.
It came upon him suddenly as he was driving his phaeton, and he pulled to a stop in a shady spot. How was he to go on? Wanting to flee from his own retreat, he got down, and there in the shade he bent into a crouch like a child who believes that no one will see him if he just hides his face. His blood beat strangely as if calling him out. He’d nowhere to go. He crouched more tightly but then slowly stood up and drove off, dazed.
After He Left
A tolerant woman, candid about her faults, including, she lamented, being too forgiving, Mrs. Huntley saw she’d over-indulged Tk’s fixations, such as his months-long fascination with the Green Children who’d appeared in Wales in the spring of 1150 as if blown from the depths of the earth. Ignorant of all known languages, they could not eat with the exception of dried green peas, which he told her they pinched between their long fingers. Then there was his infatuation with the Great Pyramid of Egypt, which a fortune teller said would intrigue him, and his story of the man, blind from birth, ignorant of the most basic notions of “dark” and “light,” who while near death had verifiably seen, although he returned to blindness.
Tk also told her about a spirit, “Orton,” who in the 14th Century had appeared in the shape of two pieces of straw that twirled and twisted above the floor while predicting the future to the Lord of Corresse in the County of Foix.
As best she could understand, these things fascinated him because they were imperfect yet promised a new sense of physical, mental and psychical reality that one day might change the meaning of “imperfection” to something as impossible as a unicorn or a fairy.
“You, my dear,” he once said -- gallantly, she’d thought, although she changed her mind when she saw that notions of charm were alien to him -- “are perfection itself!”
Ignoring this, she’d asked, “How did you get to know about those green children?”
“That man knew a lot,” Tk had said. “He knew what happens when the dead are brought to earth -- bad things.” It chilled her. She’d asked, “What man?” but he just shook his head.
“And what about those pieces straw?” she asked. “That Orton?”
“I was there,” he answered.
How could you give up on a man like that?
Mostly, Mrs. Huntley thought, he was a fine man, a good speaker and a hard worker, if not as fun as some she’d known. He wasn’t crude or cruel like most of them, either, including the most important man from her past, Frank “Tiger Balm” Wald, who’d started her on her career before she’d lost the habits of the farm, having addicted her to opium, inured her to agnosticism and had a large green dragon tattooed on her thigh when she was anaesthetized under the belief that her appendix had burst, which Frank had simulated by slipping some drops into her coffee causing acute abdominal pain. This episode had another unfortunate result: the dose or its cure left her unable to conceive a child.
Mrs. Huntley acknowledged she’d found a happy refuge with Tk and their growing circle in Chicago. He and she were on to something far more important, leading to a far steadier life than lecturing and selling pills and tonics -- which she’d nevertheless excelled at with Frank Wald. Indeed, she’d relished that former life, or much of it, whereas the prospects revealed by Tk were so open-ended that she sometimes found herself wary of the future he so extraordinarily promised.
Anyway, Tk had spoiled it. He was too good to be true.
Despite the pleasure of their first meeting, for a long time Mrs. Huntley did not regard him as more than a force to be reckoned with, certainly not someone to be loved. She accepted that he did not even pretend to be like anyone else, he was an aberration, like an odd green light in the sky or a tree’s strange burl. She saw, too, that he was singularly self-possessed, if also peculiarly shy, and thus she believed that he could not be a soulmate.
But his spirit or use of Thought Matter worked their way until she began to feel they’d actually known each other for a greater span than she could reasonably believe, perhaps from before her birth. Still, she did not desire him. Perhaps because Frank Wald caught her when she was so young, she’d never really experienced physical desire, nothing more, that is, than a warm sentiment for certain men.
To her credit, she feared Tk must be something or go somewhere or pursue some other kind of life than the almost Elysian existence they led at times, as if he was beckoning her to the worst place that she could imagine.
And then when she thought she saw him clearly in this frightening light, he’d startle her with a new wonder.
One afternoon, for example, he ushered her into a room that within seconds grew frigid and filled with frosty grey, white and pink trails flying faster and faster until she stood gaping as they danced with such speed and grace above her head that she was almost unable to breathe.
When it was over, she was clutching his arm so tightly it took a long time to open her fingers. In fact, her whole body was numb and then very hot. She could scarcely remember what had happened.
She shouted, “How did you do it!” crying out again, “How did you do it?” and he gave her such a look that she felt she would break his heart if she said another word. Instead, she began to run around looking for the devices that she thought he must have operated and at the same time feeling the most joyful sensations, in fact realizing she’d never been so happy. When she returned to the center of the room, however, still so excited that she almost believed she could fly, too, or leave her body if she jumped up or merely if she fell into his arms, he’d disappeared. Sensing with a mixture of guilt and wonder that it had not been a trick, after all, that Tk had summoned the streaks with a power only he possessed, she was ashamed to have doubted him. Then she almost simultaneously felt a surprisingly different and shocking desire. During the following weeks, this yearning, which she’d never experienced before, greatly troubled her.
Only his reserve, or strangeness prevented her surrender. And so eventually she decided that he must want something else from her and resigned herself to wait for it. One afternoon while she was washing her hands, she even looked up with the idea that she might be one of those women who’d loved a man only to discover he was her long-lost brother or son. Another time she had an even stranger idea -- Tk was not a man at all and at night became a beast.
So Mrs. Huntley’s doubts returned, if now tempered by her appreciation of the amazing craft that based on all her experience she felt he must be exercising when he worked his illusions, although she still hoped for more, that the trails of light she’d seen really emanated, for example from an unearthly source only he could summon. In any event, his powers excused many things.
She did not foresee what happened next, although she’d awaited it. He’d scheduled a meeting with one of the people who were coming more and more often to “headquarters” -- a young mother who’d lost her child. Tk, the poor woman and Mrs. Huntley had entered the “visiting room” to journey to the Summer Land -- Florence feeling greatly affected, in fact nearly overcome by the mother’s grief.
Saying that her child had wanted her to take care of it, the woman handed Tk a doll, and it was clear she’d been looking forward to this meeting with all her heart -- in fact, she was almost panting. Her eagerness so disturbed Florence that she turned to tell him to stop whatever he was planning, because it seemed almost criminal to take advantage of such a poor thing.
But before she could speak, she saw such an expression of tenderness in his eyes that she blushed and remembered a phrase from the Bible: “Take up your bed and walk.”
Almost as suddenly, they seemed to have gone up to a bright place where another person stood still, a little girl.
Seeing her, her woman began to weep, body rocking, her fingers moving first to her face, then toward the child and then to her breast.
Florence looked at the girl, who she realized was “off” or “slow.” Although possessed of an angelic beauty, she had a small paunch. Yes, thought Florence, she was “slow,” although she seemed to be a dear little creature.
It may be that she saw her mother, but the girl turned her head almost immediately and stared at something beyond, which Florence realized no normal person could see.
Her mother was trembling, moaning and crying, “Baby! My baby!” Quivering, she held her hands to her lips and kissed them before extending them to the child while tears fell from her eyes.
For a moment, the girl looked fixedly at her mother, and then she looked at Florence with what can be described as an expression of cunning, which was oddly endearing coming from such an innocent source.
Forming each word carefully, the girl said, “I don’t like it,” and shook her head. Then to her mother she said, “So sad!” and as if praising her own effort -- and it had been a great effort, because it was clear she rarely used words -- the child held her hands up, palms out, and smiled.
The woman stopped weeping with a kind of a hiccough, and it seemed as if she might actually have forgotten how to breathe. Just as suddenly, she began to laugh in a way that seemed full of surprises -- it certainly surprised Florence -- a laugh as fresh as May! The child started to laugh, too, like little bells. She was so lovely! And then she sneezed twice and was gone.
Florence and the woman turned to each other with the greatest happiness. Still aglow, they looked at, Tk, Florence realizing that she’d forgotten him. She also thought, but quickly discounted, that the girl had strangely resembled him. Sitting there, he, too, seemed happy, as happy as she’d ever seen him, in fact, except perhaps at the Parliament of Religions. Then the young woman stood up and thanked Tk and Florence profusely, if also to make it clear that she’d never see them again. Florence walked her to the door, and she took her leave.
In the past, Florence had tricked many people in ways that left them perfectly content. Now she reflected that she’d not felt a trace of guilt over this particular incident. She also understood the cause of Tk’s pleasure was as much her own happiness as the mother’s joy, and so she walked back, reached over and tried to kiss him -- indeed, to kiss him for the first time. Feeling his awkward attempt to accept her embrace and simultaneously fend her off, she moved away and saw that he seemed immensely grateful. Then she promised herself to devote her life to him.
* * * *
However, even as they entered a period when Tk spoke to her in the easiest yet most serious way she’d ever experienced, communication so true it seemed a miracle, something prevented their love’s consummation.
And then he insisted that she stop taking opium. He also focused on what Frank Wald meant to her, apparently believing that Frank was still part of her life, although she’d revealed his existence because she thought he no longer influenced her. And then he forbade her contact with Dr. Holmes, telling her to find a new supplier. She tried to, through a tall Italian, but she did not like him.
Of course, she couldn’t blame Tk for being jealous, or for disapproving of her opium habit, although she’d explained it to him long ago, how she was bound by it and it was a part of her. Because Frank had caused it, it had not really been her fault. But this excuse did not make him relent but just agitated him, especially when he saw the extent of her need. She could not help thinking, though, that a person like Tk should accept that she could live and help him just as she was.
Sadly consistent with her general experience of men, he blamed her for his failure to understand her. “Well,” she thought, “I can’t expect him to be perfect.”
But then she saw something worse. Love her though he might, he could not see her as a human being, as if he was an exceptionally bright and determined child for whom she was an extension of his most cherished dreams, and unfortunately, she’d lost her maternal instincts while recovering from Frank Wald’s mistreatment. Although she loved him, her awareness of his selfishness galled. More than anything, she wanted him to see her as she was.
Apparently, she was tainted, because how could she be his ideal if she did not want to be his ideal and, of course -- she knew this better than anyone -- she was nowhere near perfect? Almost simultaneously she started to have a hard time understanding his instructions, almost as if he’d stopped using English, although she felt much of what he said had to be true and obviously bettered the lives of many who’d been seeking them out. Also he found herself turning more to her drugs until Tk discovered it and tried to cut her off. She had a lot left over, though, separate from the ingredients for the Tonic and the Cream, which she used in secret.
Then, tidying up in their new house she’d found a list, and all of her disenchantment arose in a way that although surprising couldn’t be denied. It was in his handwriting and he’d left if on the chifferobe, near her mirror, almost as if on purpose. There was a checkmark beside each entry:
“What is Sin? √
What is Duty? √
What is Life? √
What is Mind? √
What is Reason? √
What is Belief? √
What is Truth? √
What is Justice? √
What is Mercy? √
What is Morality? √
What is Immorality? √
What is Immortality? √
What is Love? √
What is Lust? √
What is Fear? √
What is Hope? √
What is Will? √
What is Envy? √
What is Faith? √
What is Greed? √
What is Error? √
What is Knowledge? √
What is Anger? √
What is Magnanimity? √
What is Denial? √
What is Pity? √
What is Self-Pity? √
What is Wisdom? √
What is Sorrow? √
What is Charity? √
What is Honesty? √
What is Loyalty? √
What is Courage? √
What is Impulse? √
What is Continence? √
What is Incontinence √
What is Chastity? √
What is Instinct? √
What is Jealousy? √
What is Sympathy? √
What is Humility? √
What is Kindness? √
What is Generosity? √
What is Judgment? √
What is Stupidity? √
What is Intuition? √
What is Happiness? √
What is Dogmatism? √
What is Conscience? √
What is Credulity? √
What is Subjection? √
What is Subjectivity? √
What is Personality? √
What is Intelligence? √
What is Cheerfulness? √
What is Dread? √
What is Terror? √
What is Despair? √
What is Corruption? √
What is Death? √
What is Mastership? √
What is Self-Control? √
What is Sacrifice? √
What is Abuse? √
What is Self-Abuse? √
What is Consciousness? √
What is Spirituality? √
What is Creativity? √
What is Generosity? √
What is Individuality? √
What is Accountability? √
What is Responsibility? √
What is Personal Responsibility? √
What is Moral Responsibility √
What is Spiritual Responsibility? √
What is the Primary Purpose of Mankind? √
What is the Primary Purpose of the Soul? √
What is the Great Super Ape? √
What is Mrs. Florence Huntley? √”
It was as if he’d been learning every word, every concept, for the first time, as if they were foreign. Then she saw that on the last page he’d written and underlined, “Obviously, she needs a child. To be the dear sweet mother,” and he’d added another checkmark: “√”
“Fool!” she shouted and stamped her foot. “Fool! Fool! Fool!” she cried.
After she calmed down, she read it twice over, read the part about her two more times, groaned, tore it to pieces and decided to leave. Enough with these odd ducks! She packed a bag and checked into a hotel. The desk clerk recognized her, and she returned his greeting as one sighs after slipping into a hot bath.
On reflection, however, she decided not to run away but to keep her distance. After all, she thought, she’d already made the Work partly her own -- why couldn’t it be as much hers as his? Making sure he was out, she’d returned to the house on Kinzie Street and left a note on the couch on which he liked to nap, which ended, “I’m going to help you, but I can’t live with you. Please try to see me as I am. Florence,” and returned to the hotel.
Of course, he was happy to have her back. He may not even have accepted she’d left. And during this difficult time, she kept her promise to help. She also felt sorry for him, particularly because her departure coincided with the investigations into their business, especially the Technical Work, which she’d foreseen when she’d told him not to trust the aldermen, but she did not bend.
After she moved out, Mrs. Huntley and he spoke to each other only a handful of times that she could recall. The first was when he’d told her he’d seen or perhaps heard Uncle Wallace knocking from inside his coffin “loudly and rapidly,” apparently as a warning.
There was one exchange in which she’d asked him without success to look beyond himself, to a higher power.
The next time was when she’d experienced inexplicable waves of mighty and infinitesimal trembling that confirmed she’d been right to move out and also led her to vow never to take opium again, although she postponed that resolution until they could put the Great Work back on track.
Then one afternoon when they were alone at “headquarters,” Tk said, “I don’t know if we can go on. I’m afraid for the Work. I fear we must separate.”
After this, she’d cried -- and she hardly ever cried -- because even she continued to love him. Two days later, they talked about the persecution of the Technical Work.
“How could they make one-half of what we do illegal?” he said. “They’re killing us!”
She told him that what they’d been doing had been illegal in several states for years.
“No! That makes it worse,” he said. “It’s the last straw. The last,” and she sensed he was really afraid of something else that she didn’t know about, but she did not press him. After a while, he repeated, “How could they do it?”
“What about me?” she thought. “No one sees me whining and moaning.” But she hadn’t said it. Instead, she reached for his hand, which he pulled away, and then she walked off.
As noted, it was Mrs. Huntley who discovered Tk’s letter of resignation to the “Board of Trustees,” having come to headquarters to see if he was all right. She’d been shocked by its description of their encounter with Dr. Holmes. She’d been almost as puzzled by Tk’s assessment of him. She knew him to be a cold man, disagreeable in business and at times frightening, but she couldn’t believe Tk’s accusations. Of course, when she later learned what Holmes had done, she was shocked in a different way, almost as much by Tk’s knowledge as Holmes’ crimes.
* * * *
Reminiscences in 1938
In addition to The Dream Child, Mrs. Huntley wrote another book, published in hardback on cheap paper with a four-page insert of black and white photos blurred by poor printing. It was an “as told to” memoir called Bring on the Band! The Life and Times of Mrs. Florence Huntley. Written decades after the foregoing events, it reached its fifth printing in 1940 because it was very good. Although grainy, the photographs, which dated from her teens and continued at least into her sixties, confirmed Mrs. Huntley’s remarkable beauty. Among them was a picture of a man who although smiling resembled an angry bandit. It was captioned “Frank ‘Tiger Balm’ Wald.” There were no photographs of Tk. In fact, one could read it from cover to cover without learning of his existence.
Tucked inside the dust jacket of a copy was a letter from the newspaperman who had transcribed Mrs. Huntley’s memoir and may have helped shape it, which was addressed to “Mr. George E. Rogers,” 14 Arroyo Street, Los Gatos, California and dated June 12, 1938.
It came to this point: although Mrs. Huntley never mentioned “Tk” and therefore he never appears in “our” book, information links him to her. Further, the writer has connected “Tk” to Mr. George E. Rogers, whom he presumes to be the same person as the addressee. An already seemingly ancient newspaper clipping describing Tk’s disappearance from Chicago accompanied the letter, which ends with a question: would Mr. Rogers like to meet? There is something sinister about this request, the writer having assumed the right to intrude. Journalistic curiosity sometimes only appears as malicious as blackmail, however. The reporter may have written as he did because he feared he’d otherwise be ignored. In any event, Tk accepted his challenge.
* * * *
He was a pale man with thinning hair, easily distracted, readily misled by his vanity. Not until he was leaving did he recollect his original mission and ask Tk, “Why don’t we meet again and I’ll interview you?” Tk saw no harm in saying, “Of course,” since he knew that in a few months they’d be conversing in a completely different place, because the man was to die of a rapid cancer. He avoided shaking his hand.
Earlier, with a skill verging on hypnosis, Tk had led him to recall Mrs. Huntley as best he could, flattering him about “their” book, and when the reporter admitted most of it had really been her work, urging him to reveal how it came to be. The man was eager, because she’d left her image on his heart -- she could not have failed to.
He told Tk that they’d met several years before, in June, 1932 after she’d been married for several years to her present husband, who like all her husbands was not named Huntley.
Tk shook his head at this remark, which the reporter obviously had used too often, but asked him to continue.
Having made his way to her ranch on the lower slope of a Colorado peak, the reporter said his first impression was of her beauty, which she’d retained past middle age. It seemed her presence demanded acceptance of the proposition that some people differ from the rest. This was a fairly good observation for a man of his type, Tk thought, and he smiled so warmly that heat traveled through the reporter’s body.
In the town below her ranch -- everyone referred to it as her ranch, not her husband’s -- he’d learned that she was one of those people whose peculiarities become notorious and then loved. For example, she hated the word “rotten” and had thrown a man out of her house for using it. Interested, he’d decided to interview her, perhaps for a chapter in his next book. Character studies were his specialty, he said, and Tk knew what he meant -- write-ups of “personalities” or “eccentrics,” tricked out with aphorisms that rarely succeeded. In any event, the reporter said, he’d shown her some of his articles and asked to interview her, all self-deprecatingly, but she hadn’t smiled. In fact, she mostly invoked wariness. Although he didn’t tell Tk this, for the first few minutes they’d talked, or, rather, he talked and she listened, he’d felt like a mouse who’s seen a hawk’s shadow.
He’d continued speaking, though, and she didn’t stop him, if she hadn’t encouraged him, either. She watched with a look that went inside him but returned nothing.
Tk nodded.
Finally fearing he’d never get her to open up, he said he’d heard a story about a boy whose father had beaten him. He’d heard she’d intervened. To his surprise, she showed a trace of fear herself, or at least caution.
Tk asked him go on.
“I suppose he was his father,” Mrs. Huntley had said. “But I will not say another word unless you promise not to cause any trouble,” and of course the reporter agreed. She looked at him closely and said, “He was a good boy, five years old and a little saint. He shouldn’t have suffered for a second!
“I was in town for supplies,” she said. “The man had been drinking, and the woman was ‘off,’ or just stupid. You can tell. He was with them, and he had a toy, a little wooden doll. He was whispering to it while people went about their business.
“Then she took it from him. At first, I thought it was a game, since he tried to smile, but then I saw something was wrong. He looked old and worried when she gave it back.
“She went away and came back and grabbed it again -- jerked it like she was stealing it -- and then she gave it to him, gentle as can be. He almost didn’t take it, but she pressed him. Then she went away, and he was standing still, trembling a little, and she and the man came back, and she pulled the doll free. She tried to make him take it again, but he wouldn’t. I believe that she was quite disturbed. She had a stupid look in her eyes, and her face was dirty.
“When she tried to force it on him, he held his arms to his sides like they were made of wood, but she pried open his fingers and put it inside, and then after she’d closed them, she snatched it back with a proud look. He looked at the ground.
“The man said, ‘Do what she says, you hear!’ and the boy grabbed the doll and made himself very small.
“’Stand up!’ said the man, but he crouched more.
“He pulled him up, looked at her, and I knew that it had happened before. The boy opened his fingers and dropped the doll. The man put his foot on it.
“‘Now what are you going to do?’ he said and kicked the thing across the room. ‘You want it?’ she asked, simpering but he shook his head, tears coming, and she said, ‘You want it?’ with that stupid smile, and in a small voice he asked could he have it, and she said ‘No, you can’t,’ and he started to cry.
“I took a step, but the man came up, and I thought he still might help, so I stopped, which shames me, because he didn’t help. He pushed his little head down and kept pressing it down, pressing him as if he was a dog. ‘Get down!’ he said, ‘Get down and shut up!’ and he pushed him some more, although the little thing was already on his knees, whimpering. He kept pressing him until it looked like he was going to flatten him, but the worst thing was the light in the man’s face. I think he wasn’t very bright, either.
“Now the man seemed to be wiping him against the boards until somehow he escaped, ran to the middle of the room and curled into a ball, his head in his arms. The man walked over, reached down, pulled him up and slapped him! As he dangled from his hand some of us shouted, “Stop it!” but the man just shook him. The boy started wailing now, a terrible sound. Moving his legs in the air, he turned his head this way and that while the other one shouted, ‘Shut up! Shut up!’
“He caught him one on the ear, and then he slapped him on the back of his head, saying, ‘You’re gonna get it now!’ And then he slapped him again and said, ‘You’re gonna get it, boy!’ And he jerked him up so fast that his little legs flew, and his body came back and hit the man, which seemed to send him over the edge, and he started to shake him so hard that I thought he was going to tear him apart.
“The boy was howling now, and the rest of us were shouting to stop, but we didn’t know what else to do. I suspect we’d all had a time or two with our parents -- I did -- but nothing like this. And at the same time, the thing I most wanted was for him to stop howling.
“The man dropped him, and he lay on the floor crying. Then the man started to take off his belt with a wild and stupid look.”
Mrs. Huntley was quiet.
“What happened?” said the reporter.
She turned so swiftly that he pushed back in his chair. “Listen,” she said, “there’s a difference between telling the truth and stirring things up, and I’ll kill you if you do anything to hurt that boy!”
“I wouldn’t hurt him!” he said. “Never!” He believed she’d kill him if he broke his promise.
She said, “If you make trouble you won’t be around long, I swear,” and he said something he’d never expected, and meant it: “I won’t write about it if you don’t want me to.” She nodded.
More calmly, she said, “I picked up an axe handle, and I came up behind him and hit him on the hand, hard, and then I hit him on his elbow, as hard as I could. Then I hit him as hard as I could on his head, and he went down and fell flat. I thought I might have killed him. There was no sound. He was lying there,” she said, “not moving. There wasn’t much blood.” She frowned. “The boy was quiet, too. His mouth was open.
“He looked at me, got up and ran to a corner. I went over to the woman, who was staring with her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were big. I still had the axe handle in my hand, and I must have been a sight. She stepped back, and I said, ‘Now look at him.’ I pointed to the boy and said, ‘You tell him he’s a good boy, and tell him you’re done with him. Tell him you and that sorry son of a bitch are done with him and you’re not going to hurt him anymore! Ever!’ She just stood there, her mouth open, and then she ran to the man and knelt down. I didn’t know what I was saying,” said Mrs. Huntley. “It just came out.
“She put her hands under his head, and pretty soon he started to moan and move around. I dropped the axe handle and took the boy outside to my truck, told him to get in, and drove back here. He didn’t say a word. That was the last I saw of them. They let us alone. He never looked back. He didn’t look anywhere but straight ahead, except when he looked at me. They didn’t try to come after him -- no stomach, I guess. They’d have regretted it if they had.”
The reporter had heard this story in town, pretty much the same version. Mrs. Huntley took the boy and kept him after his good-for-nothing parents disappeared.
“How long ago was that?” he asked.
She gave him a smile that was as fine in its own way as her story: the reporter told Tk he’d imagined Queen Elizabeth smiled the same way to Sir Francis Drake.
Tk shrugged.
“Say what you will,” said the reporter, “but that’s how it seemed.”
“That was almost four years ago,” she’d said. “He’s been with us almost as long as with them. We’re his parents -- he’s ours.” Her face was peaceful, glowing with light that fell through the large window framing the mountain across the way. In the silence he’d heard the whirring of a hummingbird, and past her head he’d seen the sky showing through the clouds like pieces of a puzzle. Then it seemed that he was able to see the whole iron-grey mountain across the valley, its peak patched with snow, while the clouds left their shadows behind. It didn’t seem much past his reach. He told Tk that he’d fought not to tell her she was the most wonderful person he’d ever met. Then he’d realized that she’d seen it on his face.
The reporter saw that Tk was especially and perhaps profoundly pleased by this story.
After he’d recited his background in greater detail, the reporter explained his idea to her, which he felt was more important than anything he’d ever hatched. He wanted to write her story, her life story, he said -- the whole thing, not just a sketch. He promised they’d work on it together.
Mrs. Huntley thought for a while and told him she’d let him know the next day, over the telephone.
“Let me come back,” he said.
“You can,” she said, “if I say you can.”
“And of course she did,” said Tk.
“She did say it, yes,” said the reporter. The next day, she agreed to work with him on a book about her life, although she imposed conditions.
It must be in her own words, she said.
Tk smiled.
She would let him transcribe her story, but that was it, with no additions. He agreed, but she made him put it in writing -- he’d use only what she told him, and if she didn’t like it there wouldn’t be any book. They signed it.
Again Tk smiled.
For several mornings he’d driven to her ranch and not returned to his hotel until well after dark, hardly noticing the road’s twists and turns, its switchbacks lit now and then by the moon. In the sunny room with the large window letting in the mountain and then by lantern she’d dictated to him, and he recorded everything she said. It was easy, he said, because she spoke in complete sentences, not too fast and almost without stopping.
“She was well taught,” said Tk.
In fact, it was as if she’d done it before, the reporter said, although she’d told him she hadn’t been able to stay in school much past her letters and times tables. She’d picked up a lot of things from other places, though.
Tk nodded.
Soon after they began, she revealed why she’d decided to tell her story -- the only reason she thought it was worthwhile -- and it turned out to be as unexpected as so many of the things she said. She wanted to describe how she’d beaten her addiction to opium, which no one he’d talked to seemed to know about. In fact, she wanted to tell him about this first, although she would need to cover a lot of ground to explain it. If others could see how she’d done it, she said, it might do some good.
The reporter told Tk that he’d known a few drug addicts in his time and a lot more alcoholics and alcoholics who claimed to be on the wagon, and none of them were like her. He couldn’t believe she’d been one, because she seemed unable to lie, and he said every addict he knew was a liar. All of them are liars, he said. But no one could say that about her.
“Agreed,” said Tk. “But why anyone finds this interesting is a mystery to me. Opium is the least important thing about Mrs. Huntley!”
“I you say so,” said the reporter, “but she didn’t want anyone to forget what it had done and how she beat it -- that’s why she talked to me,” and then he retold the story of her recovery, believing, it seemed, that he owed it to her, not to back down to Tk about her ordeal, which she’d narrated not so much with pride as in almost scientific detail so that he’d seen her addiction in fact had become another identity and eventually more than that. It had taken over so much of her there was only the smallest bit left. She’d had a hard time.
“That’s what I mean,” said Tk, “it’s that little piece that counts,” but the reporter just kept talking.
He said that he believed every word Mrs. Huntley told him about how she knew she was killing herself and kept trying to break her habit, and how at last, after she’d almost given up, she’d saved herself and never turned back.
Perhaps the difference between Mrs. Huntley and the others he’d known, he said, was that when she’d begun smoking opium it was easy to come by -- it wasn’t even illegal -- and she’d acquired the routine of working for it rather than stealing or selling herself. Or, he offered, maybe it was because when she started, she’d been so innocent that she really didn’t know what she was doing. Or maybe she was just different.
This seemed to perk Tk up, and he asked the reporter to explain.
Instead, he replied that the only time she might have sold herself was when she raised the money to pay for what turned out to be her final treatment. Although she’d developed a routine to cause men to fall in love with her while giving them homeopathic advice, she’d escaped their worst advances. She believed that her habit may have dampened her desires, preventing something she’d regret. He’d also sensed she felt some modesty about the dragon tattooed to her thigh.
Tk frowned but let him go on.
After three different doctors had told her she’d be dead within a year if she didn’t stop -- by then she was taking cocaine as well as opium -- and more importantly having realized during a particularly frightening moment that she wouldn’t mind dying, she hooked an old miner. He happily lent her some money -- it turned out he liked the dragon, although, sensing her pride, he was decent enough to conceal that he mostly felt sorry for her.
Tk shook his head.
She was lucky in her choice of a doctor, too, or perhaps her acknowledgement of her weakness brought out his kindness. He admitted that he didn’t know a reliable cure. In fact, he acknowledged there was nothing worthwhile written on the subject, because treating an addict was illegal, but he was willing to try a series of staged decreases in her doses. He warned her that it would be painful. From her previous attempts she knew it would be far worse than he predicted, but it was the only way. The plan was simple -- to continue the weaning process until they’d starved the drugs out of her. As they progressed, he was shocked by her decline, but he never lost his kindness.
“Good man,” said Tk.
“Of course,” said the reporter. As for Mrs. Huntley, she sank so low that for stretches she scarcely knew she was alive. “When I say that it had to come out, it literally did -- it oozed out, along with almost everything else she had. She stank, she didn’t eat, her headaches seemed to break her in two, she couldn’t feel her skin and then it seemed to crawl until she was on fire. Early on, she abandoned any attempt to keep up her appearance. In fact, she didn’t bathe or change her gown for the entire time, and after not eating much more than her own spit for she knew not how long, her bones showed through. All the while, she fought her doctor’s tenderness, too, because she didn’t deserve it. He took care of her, nonetheless, even after she’d run into the desert and cut her legs and feet one night and scared the hell out of him.”
The reporter assumed the doctor had fallen in love with her, but Mrs. Huntley hadn’t suggested this. She said only that after she’d recovered, he’d remained a friend, and the reporter could see that she deeply regretted his death a few years later.
“Dear Florence,” said Tk.
After her recovery, the miner dropped away. Within a year, though, she mailed him the money she’d borrowed, and this, the reporter said, meant she’d never really done him wrong.
Tk remarked that Mrs. Huntley’s desire to repay the miner must have carried her through many days as grey as old slops. In any event, he told Tk she’d remarked that at some point she’d finally regained her old self, although this momentous and lonely moment occurred long after her treatment had ended. Partly it meant that she knew she was healthy, partly that she welcomed the future.
Tk leaned forward.
The the reporter said that she’d not talked much about how she felt after her transformation with the exception of remarking, “It was a change, certainly.” And then she said, “I want people to know they can do it. They’ll find out for themselves what it’s like. It’s harder than they think, but they can do it.”
Tk shrugged.
The reporter told him she’d given him her peaceful smile after she’d said this -- not her Queen Elizabeth smile, he said boldly -- but he’d thought she was wrong, although he didn’t tell her. With all his heart, he believed she was unique. Her story might inspire others, but no one could imitate her.
“Exactly,” said Tk, “but in this she’s like everyone else if only they knew!”
The reporter had no idea what he meant but didn’t stop to consider it. He said instead that Mrs. Huntley had let slip she’d begun to smoke “hop” when she was so fresh from the farm that she was wearing old flour sacks for underclothes. She’d been so simple, she said, that Frank Wald had convinced her to smoke it as if it was a charitable act, not having told her it was opium. He’d said that he needed her help with a kind of medical supply operation that he ran on the side as a public service. Frank had said the two of them would “refine the medicine by reducing its raw material to a precious essence!”
As the reporter related this, Tk turned pale.
“So,” Mrs. Huntley said, “Frank and I lay together with the shades drawn, and we smoked pipe after pipe.” She held her hands up, palms out and laughed. In fact, she said, every day during the last month of her fifteenth year they’d done it -- reduced the tarry plugs to ashes -- she feeling intensely virtuous at the fiery glow because of her contribution to medicine, especially when Frank carefully knocked the ashes into small wax paper bags “for the doctors.” She told the reporter that she’d spent more time during those weeks lying down than standing up.
Tk placed a hand over his forehead.
Several months later, she’d said, an acquaintance revealed they weren’t making medicine, just smoking opium. She’d vowed never to be taken in again, but by then Frank had pulled her into his life. It turned out that he was the principal attraction in a medicine show, and soon they were on the road, where he introduced her to silken clothes, jewels, large meals -- her fondness for whole roast chickens delighted him -- and first-class hotels. On the circuit, he was known as the “Tiger Balm Man.”
Mrs. Huntley revealed that she thought she’d come to love Frank by then, chiefly because of his attractive and manipulative mind, despite his having gotten the better of her. She also said that her love only slowly died.
Tk looked even more pale.
For over ten years, it had run and twisted and changed its course, because while he was educating her, Frank always made sure to keep a few steps ahead.
Again, Tk touched his head.
Having opened these memories, Florence reminisced freely about her life with Frank. At first it seemed he’d wanted to train her because he needed someone to talk to, although it turned out that he was really teaching her how to support him. In any event, he’d given her a unique education, because he could expound on almost any subject with a voice that practically hypnotized anyone and overcame whole crowds. With it and the knowledge retained by a mind that flew like an acrobat, he could charm an audience until they’d beg for his ointments and creams. “It’s a wonder,” she said, “he didn’t try to take more from them.” Soon he was teaching her his tricks as she marveled at the prospect of making money seemingly without working, simply by the promises that broke from her lips.
She learned he could be almost pathologically lazy, full of schemes to live well while doing as little as possible. He said that one day he’d give up the show and live on his savings. Only later did she realize that he’d seen she could be his meal ticket. So, he trained her, and despite the physical abuse, because her instruction sometimes involved beatings, . . .
Tk rose and began to pace, but he gestured to him to go on.
. . . Florence loved the results. Then, she said, she pitched along with him, and soon she became a feature.
None of her routines seemed like work. Manipulating a crowd with a story, a promise or an idea thrilled her -- she was an actress! How many other women did that? Thus, even as she learned his weaknesses, she stayed true to him.
She acquired a reputation as a “healer” and a nickname -- “Diamond Flo,” as much for the treasures that flew from her lips as the jewels she sported. Then one day she took a dare. She told their friends and colleagues that she was going to make a man faint.
Tk sat down, still pale.
She said that she’d address the evils of “self-abuse.” Their friends and colleagues agreed, and Frank roused himself to give one of his best introductions, telling the crowd that she was a professor of health with degrees from the greatest universities in this country and abroad. But there was far more to her than that, he said -- she’d learned secrets from Tibetan monks who after her parents’ death had become her spiritual fathers, and later she’d traveled the jungles of Africa and the Amazon to learn witchmen’s lore. For minutes he continued until some in the crowd half expected a demon to emerge and many a saint.
Then she stepped onto the stage and stood still, an icon, an oracle, the embodiment of obscure and miraculous wisdom, brightly lit while she beheld one of her favorite sights: the faces of nearly a thousand people, mostly men but some women and children, too, their mouths open, eyes alight. They were too worked up to applaud, and in the silence she could hear the sounds of the fair across the way.
After several beats, she said that the women and children would have to leave because she proposed to discuss something ill-suited to them unless they’d undergone her training. Naturally, this sent a shiver through the crowd, which stirred and rippled while most of the women and children made their way out and many men pushed forward. She smiled to herself, noticing that some boys and a few women hung back in the shadows, and then she raised her hands and, silence having fallen again, started to speak.
Earlier she’d told their friends to keep quiet about her plan, but the warning proved unnecessary. Even their most experienced colleagues stood still.
She said that she would recount a true story of a promising young man, as handsome and strong as one could hope. During an unguarded moment, though, he’d succumbed to an abhorrent practice.
“This vice is unique to man,” she said, “because no animal except he indulges in the ‘solitary sin,’ as the farmers here will confirm.” Some people looked around, and others said she was going too far, but their neighbors silenced them.
“Soon,” she continued, “this youth found that he was losing weight and with each passing day turned paler, eventually whiter than the most sheltered girl -- milky in fact -- whether from lack of sleep or the degenerative effects of his solitary habit, science has yet determined. He was growing dark circles under his eyes, too, and becoming less and less coordinated, until he often knocked things over and stumbled.
“With a puzzlement turning to disgust, his friends witnessed this physical transformation. Oh, how he hated the lies he told them as his body spoke the truth! Yet he could not help himself, because whenever he surrendered to his perverse desire, each time he forfeited his self-control, he was not simply physically depleted but also morally defeated!”
She saw a few nod in agreement while many seemed to have grown thoughtful.
Tk looked worried too.
“And thus,” she said, “by the time his family and friends acknowledged the dreadful origin of the changes he was exhibiting, this young man whose future had been so bright was wandering down a dark path with little hope of return, stooped as if bearing double his weight.
“As time passed, his skin erupted in pimples and pustules until he no longer wanted to show his face in public.” She saw some of the younger ones touch their faces. “And then,” she said, “he fell so far behind his studies that he stopped going to school, although he’d once shown great promise. Now he couldn’t focus on the simplest things -- his mind was empty.”
A farmer in the front row elbowed another and winked, but she didn’t hesitate.
“Sometimes he still had to appear in public,” she said, “but when he did, he was mocked. Bullies picked on the poor boy,” she said, and she looked straight at the farmer, who blushed.
“Quite right,” murmured Tk.
“No one extended him a helping hand, no one. He was lost to the world, disgusting, loathsome, with no friend to his name. Not a friend, dear people!” she cried, “Abandoned!” and she saw the farmer now near tears, and he was not alone. “Where once he’d stood his ground before all who think they can pick on a talented boy, he slunk away now, or took a drubbing.” Her voice broke.
“At first, it’s true,” she said softly, “the lovely girl who’d proudly called him her sweetheart stood up for him, hurt though she was by his inattention, but in time even she acknowledged the unmistakable signs of his depravity, and then after a talk with her mother revealed their source she broke their engagement in a storm of tears. Yes, indeed, he’d lost her!”
Her voice broke again, but she continued. “That is,” she said, “he knew he’d lose her if he couldn’t stop his terrible, selfish and debilitating habit. But he couldn’t stop! He couldn’t help himself! In truth, he was engaged now to something else entirely, a lonely passion precluding any chance that her dainty arms would ever encircle him. In the end, he accepted without a word the return of the ring he’d worked so hard to buy. Who shall be faithful, who shall be true?” she cried, her eyes wide. “When all is lost, who’ll stand by you?” and as she looked at the faces below, she saw only fear and despair.
Tk shook his head and sighed.
“Even as his health declined, though, our young man couldn’t stop! Despite the terrible consequences he increased the times he surrendered to his desires until he went down to what seemed the very bottom, until he was no more than a wild-eyed beast -- no, beyond a beast, a self-made ghoul -- his body strangely twisted, his eyes like a raccoon’s, his face exhibiting an sickly glow! And then one day he decided that he could not show himself again and fled the last people on earth who loved him, his dear mother and father.”
“Oh, dear God!” someone cried, and the reporter saw Tk’s eyes were moist.
“They tracked him to a rough shack in the woods. My friends, no parents should witness what they broke in on that day!” she cried. “Through the gloom they found him cowering in a corner, half-covered in rags, a living ruin! Their ministrations and the imposition of physical restraints saved his life, but he passes each day now, hour after hour after unrelieved hour, - physically and morally alone, . . .”
“No!” whispered Tk.
. . . “shameful and despised” she cried. “He lives in a private institution for the feebleminded, a misshapen husk, an object of shame and pity to his teachers, his friends, and the girl who loved him, and most of all to his dear parents!
“And so, my friends,“ she said above the sobbing, “I’ve recounted a human tragedy, a tragedy of the body, mind and spirit, begun with the solitary indulgence of a single moment followed by uncontrolled, repeated depravity! Dear friends, an instant’s weakness ruined this boy’s life. Please, oh please don’t let it happen to you!” She held out her arms.
From below came a groan and a cry, and she heard someone to her right call for a doctor. Murmurs came from the crowd, joined by cries of admiration from those in the know, freed from her spell. She heard a man identify himself as a doctor, and then others were shouting to make way while money changed hands among her friends, bets won and lost. She’d done it!
Tk looked in front of him, eyes red, and shook his head.
Later, she’d been the guest of honor at a banquet hosted by Frank where some of the best men in the business toasted her as their ladies -- one of whom found the courage to say that she’d like to try public speaking -- looked on. For his part, Frank never stopped praising her, so much so that it crossed her mind that he was almost treating her performance as his own.
In the midst of her triumph, it also was not lost on her that while Frank played the host she’d paid for the party.
Tk slumped.
During the next months, although Frank tried to keep the upper hand his life turned sour. He became even lazier, although that scarcely seemed possible, and spent hour after hour in their hotel room smoking opium that she’d bought after selling their pills and ointments.
Much of this time he was developing a complex and apparently entirely imaginary genealogy, which, she said, showed that he and Adam Worth, the “Napoleon of crime,” were consanguineous cousins. He also took to not finishing his sentences except for the slurred phrase, “and dot, dot, dot.”
“But Frank,” she said, “no one can read your mind,” although she feared that he just didn’t know what else to say.
It was during this time that a friend told her Frank had been raised by a terrifying father who was fiercely intelligent one moment and delusional the next. Everyone conspired to hide a surprising array of objects from him -- keys, cutlery, anything that could be thrown or swallowed. This same person told her that as a boy Frank had locked his father inside a storeroom and even had to tie him down and stand guard to keep him from attacking his mother and sisters or anyone else unlucky enough to cross his path.
At first, these revelations awakened her sympathy, something she’d never felt for him, but then she feared Frank would become like his father, and eventually her knowledge of his past made him seem smaller in a way that was not at all appealing.
Also, during the few pedagogical sessions to which he roused himself, Frank took to beating her more cruelly than before, without excuse. To her disgust, he’d also begun to encourage her to throw herself at wealthy men until she actually tried it. When she deserted her mark before her payday, though, Frank beat her again, more, she felt, from disappointment than jealousy. By now, she scarcely tolerated him.
Her gambit with the other man came back to them. They were eating in a hotel dining room when a friend warned them that her admirer had hired a brute to give Frank a hiding. In fact, their friend said, the bruiser was on the veranda right now. Frank’s face lit up as of old, and for a second she thought that he might confront him, but to her surprise he summoned a waiter, ordered half a watermelon and rapidly ate it. Then he winked, stuck his finger down his throat and spat it up!
Crying, “I’m hemorrhaging -- help me!” he rose and grabbed her arm. As the two of them stumbled across the room, Frank coughing and gagging great red globs that stained his shirt and face while she, half believing he was dying, shouted to make way. Having fled past diners and waiters, she ordered the man who’d been lying in wait to help them into a hack and told the driver to head for the nearest doctor. Once they were alone, though, Frank started laughing, streaks still marking his chin, and next morning they’d caught the first train out of town.
“Remarkable!” said Tk with the heaviest irony, although his eyes burned.
The event was memorable for another reason, too, said the reporter. Uncharacteristically, Frank had admitted that another deserved credit for his watermelon-eating trick.
Tk sat still.
And so, Florence first heard of Tk -- although Tk realized this and the reporter did not, because Frank had called him by another name. During the ride from the hotel, she’d mused about the “Wild Wooly Wizard of the West” who’d found such a use for watermelons. He could use a shorter nickname, she’d thought.
After repeating her recollection, the reporter paused to look at Tk, who so disconcertingly returned his stare that he found himself compelled to continue.
It was not long afterward, said the reporter, in fact while she was cleaning her clothes that night, that Florence observed an old bruise on her arm and realized she would never love Frank again. Apparently, she’d lost her fear of him, too, because the next day when he was raising his hand to hit her, she shouted, “Listen, if you touch me again, I’m going to go into the street and run off with the first man I meet!” He knocked her down and she struggled free and straightened her clothes, while Frank, his arms folded, shouted, “Do it! Do it!”
Within two minutes she’d picked up a man.
Tk sighed.
Only later did she realize why he hadn’t stopped her -- she’d forgotten to take their money, the money she’d earned.
“The beast!” said Tk, to which the reporter agreed.
Fortunately, the first man she’d picked up was harmless. It was a nice change. He had a pleasant, open expression like an affectionate dog and was popular, if not respected. His name was Victor -- “Vic” -- Cocovenus, but she called him the “Dago” because of his olive skin. Having last worked as a hotel porter, he was out of a job, and having fallen in love with her, went wherever she chose.
Tk frowned, though his eyes brightened at the mention of the man’s name.
Learning about Frank, Vic had gone to his room one night and returned looking quite green and mumbling that she needn’t worry about “him” anymore. Indeed, Frank didn’t bother her again, didn’t even contact her for several years until he’d sent a message through a friend that he was ill, so ill she might not recognize him. She wrote a short answer and put some money in an envelope, but at the last moment kept it in her purse where it stayed for a long time until she opened it during a bad spell.
“He was going to cheat her,” said Tk.
“Someone was,” said the reporter.
Mrs. Huntley recalled that having granted Vic’s wish to include him in her act, over the course of a few weeks they’d developed a good routine. In each town they’d rent a “doctor’s office” where she’d take a physical examination of the more credulous members of the audience for a fee that was ten times the price of the pills and ointments they sold at her lectures.
Florence and Vic -- now a “Doctor,” too -- hung the waiting room with pictures of microbes and human organs as well as of people afflicted by odd goiters and palsies, having lined a shelf with jars of tapeworms, a pickled liver and a model of a brain. In this setting most of the men who came in -- she refused to see women and children -- were so happy to receive a certificate of good health after she checked their pulse, reflexes, eyesight and hearing and listened to their troubles, that they literally forced money into her hands.
Every now and then, someone showed up hoping to expose them. But she instructed Vic to give these types a special examination so invasive that it would never be described to anyone, notwithstanding others’ curiosity about its recipient’s newfound thoughtfulness.
Tk rubbed his jaw.
She said that she’d done some good work, nonetheless, including sending several men to real doctors when she saw something was actually wrong with them. Unfortunately, however, Vic proved to be jealous, not from any two-timing on her part but because she did not reciprocate his affection.
Tk smiled.
Eventually his accusations so alarmed her that she decided to hide away in a little town on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon.
Tk beamed.
When Vic found her at last, she was lucky enough to put him off before taking a roundabout cross-country trip to Washington, D.C., though eventually she ended up in Chicago. By the time she reached that city, she’d passed through two or three other partners chosen primarily because they were addicted to opium, too, and were even more manageable than Vic. In fact, as if to measure the changes that had occurred, she admitted after she’d met the last one that she’d told him, “You’ll do.”
Tk rubbed his forehead.
In Chicago, though, she’d moved on to what seemed an entirely different life. It was especially welcome, she said, because almost by accident she’d escaped inflicting the little cruelties that had increasingly been tainting her.
Tk sat up straight.
And when Vic finally caught up with her again, he saw she was a different person, too, and resigned himself to losing her. He’d actually joined in the work she’d found in Chicago, liking it so much, in fact, that he took to it like an alter boy.
Tk looked like one, himself.
But Mrs. Huntley did not tell the reporter about Tk. He’d assumed only that some sort of religion had gotten a hold of her, or that it had at least hovered around her in Chicago as she tried to get a hold of it and shared her new good love with everyone she met.
For her part, she didn’t know the reason for her silence about Tk, the need for which suddenly impressed itself on her even as she heard herself joking that the reporter obviously didn’t know that she was an author already, having published a series of articles in a magazine called Life in Action that she hadn’t read in decades but presumed would be complete nonsense if she ever found them. Nor did she acknowledge that she kept a copy of the book she’d written, The Dream Child, in the darkness of her bureau.
Instead, it seemed that the source of Mrs. Huntley’s words, which had flown so freely, dried up. As if shaking herself awake, she told the reporter that he must be sure to go see the fireworks in town on the 4th of July, which was fast approaching. She’d always enjoyed the 4th, she said -- when she was performing it had always been one of their biggest days.
When he pressed her to tell him more, she surprisingly volunteered that in Chicago she’d crossed paths with the infamous Dr. Henry Holmes. She said that she wasn’t sure why she was telling him this, because nothing had happened, but without realizing it she’d nearly been lured to his house of death. One of her acquaintances had gone instead to pick up a prescription and had disappeared. “Well forever more, imagine that!” said Mrs. Huntley. She also couldn’t resist hinting that she knew the cause of the fire that had destroyed his house. Strangely, though, the reporter didn’t follow up, perhaps because the subject frightened him deeply. It also seemed far removed from the rest of her story. And although he only sensed this, her memories of the episode were becoming increasingly hazy.
“Yes, yes,” said the Tk.
Or possibly, said the reporter, he hadn’t wanted to press her about something that might, unlike everything else she’d told him, not be true. She’d even blushed and rubbed her wrist when talking about it -- perhaps, he felt, because of her allusion to taking opium -- but then she’d observed truthfully enough that there was something about the man that made you believe in the Devil, or that some people weren’t really people at all, just beasts. She’d told him that after she’d learned about what he’d done to those poor people, just thinking about him turned her cold. They fell silent.
The reporter told Tk that Florence had seemed to grow very sad then, and he’d thought that this was not simply because they’d been talking about Holmes.
To his great surprise, a large tear fell down Tk’s face. It was embarrassing, to say the least, and also had the effect of precluding any more questions as Tk quickly ushered him from his bungalow into the little front yard, that is, until the man had asked whether he could come back for an interview and Tk had looked at him, divining, and agreed. The reporter had noted that Tk was no longer teary, although he couldn’t say the tears had been fake or what actually had provoked them.
* * * *
That night in 1932
After the reporter left on their next-to-last day together, Mrs. Huntley thought calmly and coolly to herself, as she generally was able to since she’d made peace and quiet return to her life, and decided that she’d sleep on whether to tell him about Tk.
This led to the best part of her story as far as Tk was concerned, although the reporter never learned it because she decided not to discuss it, and so of course he’d not recounted it.
But Tk knew.
That night when she was lying in bed, Florence had thought -- she’d really concentrated -- about Tk for the first time in years.
She knew that besides Frank Wald he was the only man she’d ever loved. And his desertion had hurt her almost as much as Frank’s cruelty. In the past, this was when any temptation to recollect either of them stopped and she’d move on to something else. But now she continued to think about both of them, but mostly about him.
Among all the men she’d known, Tk was different, if in many ways similar to Frank, even physically. Their differences were connected, too. For example, although it was hard to imagine anyone talking more than Frank, Tk did, and what he said was odder. In fact, she acknowledged that much of the time she’d not actually followed what he had to say -- his references to making the right choice, observations about psychology (a term she’d learned from Frank but often used by Tk), incidents from history, travelogues and details about people he’d met in the “Summer Land,” as well as stories about places and people she wasn’t sure were real -- although she later learned that at least some of them were, if what he told her about them often seemed to have happened after he’d described them. Then there were his references to the “equilibrium” or the “equipoise” after they’d spent more time together, which seemed to have something to do with what he referred to as “kinetic energy.” If largely incomprehensible it could be intriguing, too, although once or twice she’d thought not only that he really wasn’t making sense -- like poor Frank’s “and dot, dot, dot” -- but that he was “slow” or “off.” Again, some of the things he’d said came true, or at least became clearer. And he was never less than pleasant and sometimes quite uplifting, especially when helping people. All in all, he wasn’t like anyone she’d ever known or would know.
As importantly, he relieved her of the pressure to be the breadwinner that she’d had on a daily basis almost since Frank had pushed his way into her life, although she contributed a lot to the Work, being in charge of the Tonic and the Cream, for example. At that she sighed.
For a time, things had gone so smoothly with Tk that it was better than her earliest days with Frank, before she’d started to perform, although it also differed from that time when all she had to do was lie down in the twilight beside Frank and smoke pipe after pipe while his rich voice flowed and she found they’d journeyed to classical Greece or ancient China, or she listened to his explanation about some new insight into the ironic workings of the world and time and ideas curled up in her brain. With Tk, she was responsible, but her work didn’t seem like work, either.
Unlike Frank, Tk didn’t see any ironies, let alone look for them. He earnestly kept on about going UP, about the Great Work that they would make real, and the little Chinese man with the large head called the One-hi, and soon she found herself going along with him. It was refreshing because what he said was so heartfelt, so different from Frank, particularly because he listened to everything she said with a kind of wonderment until it seemed that she was able to talk with him, at least at first, like she’d never talked with anyone before, not even her dear mother. It was one of those rare times when God seemed to say, “Have you considered this?”
And no doubt he was able to make some very strange things happen, which she preferred not to dwell on.
Also unlike Frank, he never meant to take advantage of her. He was probably harmless, in fact, but undoubtedly odd, so much so that she eventually decided despite all his words that he was holding something back. Once he’d told her that they’d been united once in the form of two blue crabs. Can you imagine that? He’d said he remembered the clicking of their claws and how she’d cleaned some sand from his nub -- and although when he’d begun, he’d charmed her, she was nearly stamping her foot by the time he finished. And then near the end after many truly startling things had happened and just as she was beginning to accept that she was attracted to him perhaps more than she’d thought possible, she realized That he’d been treating her like an idea and he’d written that terrible list and said she needed a child. And then he’d done that other shameful thing that she would never tell anyone about and left her far worse off than Frank had done.
In fact, he’d hurt her so much that she’d felt her life depended on driving him out of her mind, and somewhat surprisingly she’d succeeded after a few months, if only by smoking so much opium as well as inhaling such remarkable amounts of cocaine that she nearly died.
Her pursuit of these drugs so consumed her that she thought if she sought out Tk she’d have to cross great, unmapped spaces to find him. Because she no longer felt the need to think about him, though, she didn’t. He rarely returned to her memory, and then only as a dimly shimmering specter.
Over a year after he’d left, she’d received an odd letter that she presumed came from him. For a moment she decided to answer it, if only to abuse him or, better yet, to pry some money out of him, because she’d dipped deep into her special savings. In fact, she composed more than a few letters to him then -- one that said it was from her and many that purported to come from others. Although she mailed them, something distracted her, and she retained enough self-respect not to write again. She’d not really expected a reply and did not receive one.
She did remember their parties fondly, which before they’d moved to “headquarters” they’d thrown in her flat, and all the men and women they’d attracted. The “gatherings” and initiations, the “Personal Demonstrations” were such fun! You could really let your hair down! And the dancing, how wild it was! As she intimated to the reporter, she’d also enjoyed working on a “great book” with Tk -- The Dream Child -- which basically meant letting her mind wander, open, as he inspired her, letting in whatever might come and babbling whatever she thought. She’d been proud of that book -- it actually made some sense when she read it -- and to his surprise, it was their best seller!
Some of the ideas she’d dictated to Tk arose from memories of her time with Frank. Others were attempts to translate what she’d managed to distill from Tk himself, although they changed wildly as she recalled them. Perhaps there was more that deserved to be said, for example some of the things Tk seemed to cause to happen, but she found them difficult to remember in detail, and it was all so hard to know what to make of them. She’d enjoyed dictating to him about the baby, the Dream Child. He wasn’t a real baby, of course, more like the water babies her mother had told her about. And then she’d put in some sweet things about her mother and ideal love.
But he wasn’t really sweet at all, just different.
Once she’d seen a man perform a swami act in which he described a great ape-like beast who induced people into a trance from which they’d witness the presence of floating mountains or trees without a base, and as he described this creature, he made the audience fall into the same kind of trance. After she’d been with Tk, she remembered this episode because things about him reminded her of it. She knew that the swami act was just an act, but like all the best routines there was something to it.
After the reporter left, Florence went to bed with these thoughts and closed her eyes to see Tk’s image, which was deeply puzzling after so many years. She recalled almost no physical side to their time together, except the one shameful thing, and yet she remembered when she’d yearned for him, a feeling matched only by her love for her boy and maybe once or twice something Frank might have inspired. With these thoughts turning, she became sleepy to the point that her head rocked back, her eyes closed, and she crossed into a dream.
Two men, Frank and Tk, each dark-haired and pale, sleek and glossy and with an air of command, were seated at a little table on either side of her, and although this was unspoken, they were engaged in a contest, if she could not quite say that it was for her love.
In his richest voice Frank began.
“When flatboats started to travel the Mississippi River to New Orleans, they were like seeds sown to grow bars and brothels at the end of their journey. The boatmen liked gambling best,” he said, “and all the saloons and fancy houses in New Orleans, even restaurants and rooming houses, had card games, faro, monte, bunko, roulette and other trials of chance.
“Outrageous cheats ran most of those places,” said Frank, “except Grampin’s. He was honest, which made him proud -- not so much because he ran a clean game as he was smart enough to know he needn’t fix the odds that already were in his favor. Because it was a fair house, men came and spent their money on gambling, on whiskey, on everything, and he could invest more and more in his place until it lit up the boatmen’s dreams during their long ride down the river.
“One of his best customers was a flatboat captain named Watson. “On every visit, said Frank, “Watson proved Grampin’s theory about honesty. Married, sober and a Methodist, he loved to gamble, and even more than most of Grampin’s customers, he was a fool. Betting systematically -- strictly to a pattern -- Watson would hold a talisman or assume a posture he’d convinced himself would bring him luck, and for a whole night’s play he’d keep it up until he lost, and he always lost big. During his next visit, though, he would make his way to Grampin’s with another equally flawed system. Another thing stayed the same from visit to visit -- Watson always bet silver dollars, the price for the cargo he’d delivered.
“Watson’s crew helped prove Grampin’s theory, too, because they respected their captain despite his reverses and gambled through the night according to their own abilities until they also emerged in the morning pale, hoarse and poorer but satisfied.
“And never was anyone cheated.
“One night,” said Frank, “Watson and his men spilled through the door to receive Grampin’s embraces and a round of whiskey. But Watson was determined to start. Announcing that he’d a vision on the river, he sat beside the roulette wheel, held up a silver dollar, placed the rest in a small stack to his right and said, ‘Now it begins. Let it ride ‘til it ends.’ Grampin and the croupier agreed, of course, and Watson placed his chin carefully on the palm of his hand, locked his eyes on the wheel and said, ‘Red!’
“It spun, the ball rolled, clicked, bounced and stopped on red! Everyone looked at him, but he didn’t move, chin resting on his palm, eyes fixed on the wheel, and his men said to themselves, ‘It’s happening -- he’s done it at last!’ Most covered his bet. The wheel spun, the ball bounced and clicked and whirled and stopped on red! And again, they looked at him, again he sat motionless, chin on his palm, eyes staring forward, and they let it ride. Once more, it stopped on red! Embarrassed, the croupier looked away, and Grampin touched his forehead, but Watson sat rapt, his face haloed by smoke.
“’Let it ride, let it ride,’ cried the crew -- and red won again!
“Astonished, they drew even closer, although knowing that nothing must make him move, they treated Watson with delicacy, because of course he sat in his lucky position, as still as before. How could he not, having found his way at last?
“Again, they doubled on red, and again it won! And so, the coins multiplied, rising in a pile in front of him that threatened to spill across the table to join the piles of those who’d covered his bets, and now Grampin was pacing. Marveling at their captain’s self-control, his men grew silent as the croupier once more called to place the bets. Everyone looked, but still he did not move.
“’Let it ride!’ they shouted, and the wheel turned, the ball hopped here and there, skipped, and then -- red!
“Hoots, hollers, cheers! Grampin moaned. But Watson’s eyes didn’t move, his body a stone, chin on palm, the aura around him now so bright that it was almost white.
“Grampin knew the next turn could wreck him. Coins cascaded across the table. He bit his lip and groaned, and it took all his will not to throttle Watson, not to shout, ‘stop it, for Christ’s sake!’ But he’d built his house on the odds, and so he hoped for rescue.
“Everyone was silent, awaiting the croupier’s call as they turned to Watson, who stared at the future, unblinking.
“Crying, ‘No, no,’ Grampin saw the laws of chance desert him. The wheel spun, the ball clicked and hopped, jumped and stopped, and the others raised their loudest cry -- RED!
“Amidst the shouts, Grampin grabbed Watson’s shoulders, the man’s head turned to the side, his chin fell to his chest, and he collapsed in his arms!
“The cheers turned to cries of surprise, but Grampin’s wail could be heard above the rest -- ‘He’s dead!’ he shouted. ‘He’s been dead all along!’
“This they saw was true.
“In seconds, they scooped up the coins and grabbed some whiskey and smashed the rest -- not just the whiskey, in their rage they broke the furniture, pulled down paintings and statues, turned over the faro table and roulette wheel and ripped off the curtains. One climbed onto another’s shoulders to pull down the chandelier. They rammed the piano against a wall and cut its guts out with their knives. Every mirror they shattered, and then they smashed the bottles. One even picked up the little white ball and threw it out the door where it fell with a click in the night.
“Howling, they knocked Grampin over and tried to throw him out the door, too, but he held onto a pillar. They kicked him about the arms and legs, but he didn’t let go, all the while screaming like a child. Then they grew afraid and fled, never to return.
“When some people arrived, they found Watson’s body where he sat, slumped and limp, and discovered Grampin where he’d crawled to hide. He was weeping.”
In Florence’s dream, Tk glared at Frank, expressing such disdain that Frank looked down.
Then in a low but commanding voice Tk spoke, and until he finished there was no sound except the flow of his words.
“Gryffd ap Llewellyn, High King of Wales,” said Tk, “was covetous and skeptical. In common with his family, only his lack of trust rivaled his greed. He never expected honesty in others, not even in response to simple kindness. He feared and respected treachery. But he had a soft spot -- he loved his wife and was always jealous, always on guard over the young woman. Although he could not confirm it, he felt that she did not reciprocate his affection, whether because she understood his character or because of the confines within which he kept her or simply because it was not in her nature.” Tk looked steadily at Frank.
“One day,” said Tk, “Gryffd ap Llewellyn learned of a handsome young man who’d boasted that he’d loved the Queen in a dream. He had him imprisoned immediately, although it was clear that she and the young man were blameless.
“The young man’s family was wealthy, but it was not true as many speculated, that the High King had seized him to pluck their fortune. Gryffd ap Llewellyn simply could not endure the thought of another possessing his wife. Indeed, except for his fear of his family’s prominence, he would have summarily executed the interloper.
“The young man’s friends and relations pleaded, they planned his escape and even threatened rebellion, but nothing changed. They summoned wise men, mediators and counselors to pronounce on the couple’s conduct and the High King’s. Gryffd ap Llewellyn also called champions to argue on his behalf, and eventually the whole country was astir with bishops and deans, lawyers and deacons as speeches and rhetoric, proposals and counterproposals, threats, precedents and jargon rose like a foul fog resembling the High King’s soul.
“Then someone remembered a judge who was said to be wiser than all the rest, and eventually they found him, brought him to the palace and told him everything that had happened. By his alert yet sober bearing they saw at once that he was the man to end their troubles.
“He asked the principals to speak for themselves, so the High King gave his arguments and the young man his own, and, having reflected for a few minutes the judge stated his ruling, first stating that what must be done was so clear he was surprised no one had said it before.
“For as long as it could be remembered, he pronounced, the punishment for ravishing the wife of the High King of Wales was to forfeit of a thousand valuable animals -- oxen, bullocks, horses, ponies and other beasts of burden, mastiffs, coursers and falcons -- and a lesser number if the husband was of lower rank, and a lesser number still if he was a freeman.
“Everyone gasped -- the penalty would surely ruin the young man’s family.
“But the judge was firm. In this case, he said, the young man admitted that he’d possessed the Queen. His punishment could not be avoided. Therefore, on a clear day shortly before sunset the young man’s family must assemble a thousand valuable beasts beside the lake across from the west wall of the palace.
“Then, the judge said, the High King would see the beasts’ reflection in the water, after which the young man’s friends and relations must lead the animals home, because, as the young man’s crime had been only a dream, his punishment must also be a shadow.
“The nobles and their attendants, churchmen and their servants, lawyers and all the rest shouted their approval, the beasts were soon assembled, and Gryffd ap Llewellyn, High King of Wales found himself watching the animals’ reflection in the water.”
Tk looked at Florence while Frank Wald turned rapidly from her to Tk and back to Florence again. He could see that she had liked the story. Then Frank put his hand under the table and pinched her thigh, as if a needle had pricked her. He pinched so hard, in fact, that she woke up.
She awoke clear-headed, but unlike the effects of some of her dreams, this one did not leave her feeling incomplete or wanting to take some unknown, unspecified action. She knew instead, without having to think about it, that her dream had been complete in and of itself, and she knew that this was a good thing because it re-confirmed the end of her love for the two men. Frank was a demon, and Tk was too far removed from this life -- she did not try to consider it further. Instead, she repeated that neither meant much to her, even if they’d invaded her sleep. She understood this in part because of the discrete and formal way they’d appeared in her dream. Satisfied, she slid deeper under the covers.
This, however, left her feeling dizzy. Catching her unawares, another thought entered her brain, or rather a sense memory took over and she had no time to puzzle about whether she was still awake.
She seemed to be gliding upward in a smooth ascent. This sensation wasn’t like the effects of opium. Instead, it resembled the state of mind Tk had sometimes induced long ago. Her heart beat faster, and she felt, although not quite in a panic, that she was hurtling through a region of powerful energy removed from space and time -- she had the presence of mind, though, to sense that she was going up, as Tk had so often repeated that she must go UP -- and for an indeterminate period she involuntarily rose frightened and excited.
Then emerging abruptly, she was surrounded by brightly lit beings, or the beings themselves were alight, and she realized that one of them was her poor mother, dead long ago, since her tenth year!
And then she looked at the others and saw a crowd of brightly lit animals or creatures, each standing in a section or compartment of a large wooden structure, and these beasts were as if made of light, too, and their house was round like a wheel. Then she saw Tk outlined very brightly, more brightly than the rest, it seemed, as he stepped from one of the stalls and came up and reached out and touched her head. She moved backwards from the force of it, and there was a great rush like the sound of water pouring into her ears and a whirl of voices as she felt a sensation of love, a deep and not frightening love that brimmed with happiness as well as a profound apology. It differed from any drug or anything else that she’d ever felt.
She didn’t want to have anything more to do with him. She wanted to scream.
Then she awoke, breathing heavily, her eyes wide. Her hands pulled the blanket to her chin and wrapped the covers tightly around. Thus bound, she looked out. Beside her bed, she had a little wooden horse that her son had carved. She could feel her heart beating rapidly.
“I couldn’t have done that,” she thought, but she had.
For what seemed a long time, she stayed awake. Eventually her skin grew hot until she thought to unwind herself from the bedclothes. Although she was wide-awake, Florence did not summon her husband from the next room. She was thinking clearly. She admitted she’d missed Tk. Also, she knew that she’d changed her life for the better since he’d left. For a while she’d been much worse, but now she was peaceful. She had her son and her ranch. She even had her husband. She swallowed and said to herself, perhaps a little too readily, “I’m a sinner.” And it came to her not for the first time that she deeply regretted having called Victor Cocovenus the “Dago” and begged God’s forgiveness for this and other things she’d done.
She decided not to discuss it with anyone, pulled the covers to her chin and said a prayer.
Mrs. Huntley’s acceptance of God is easily explained. After she turned fifty and during a moment when she’d felt that opium might tempt her again, she’d joined a church whose minister, a plainspoken man, appealed to her sense of fair play and let her think about the infinite in a simple way. Now she prayed as he’d taught her a prayer she often recited. “Oh God, please bless and protect and keep me. Please do not let me experience fear, harm, terror, pain, madness or death today or tomorrow or for generation and generation to come. Please bless and protect my family and me, and do not let us experience fear, harm, terror, pain, madness or death today or tomorrow or for generation and generation to come. Please let us do Your Will in everything we do and in response to everything that is done to us. Thank you for Your Blessings, and have mercy on us, have mercy on us, have mercy on us. Amen.” She believed that this prayer would not get her loved ones or herself into trouble, such as if she’d asked for something that could be turned against them, and she felt thta it could do them some good. After a while during which she said her prayer again and again until the words started to merge, she fell into a dreamless sleep.
* * * *
Tk was glad he’d brought Florence to the Wheel. In fact, his companions saw he’d become almost ecstatic. He felt he’d done her a great kindness, more than he’d ever been able to before, more than she was able to do for him, although she’d been kind to many people -- truly kind, without thinking, as he’d now finally been kind to her and apologized, which conferred on him a pleasure rivaling that of confession.
He’d been especially moved by her look when she’d come into the Summer Land by the Wheel and had seen her mother and then him -- because not only had he been there, he’d known what she’d thought then. She’d not really known him until then, he thought, though she always was magnificent, and he saw that she could not know him any better than she had then -- when he’d let her see her mother, when she’d seen him reach out to touch her forehead and then he’d let her know that he’d failed her, asked to be forgiven, and had shared his love. An instant later, after she’d returned to where she’d come, he’d experienced in full the “Fourth Great Truth” -- love’s memory -- which stayed with him. This may not have been the same as love itself, but it was less chaotic. A short time later, he’d said -- as much to himself as to the illustrious beings standing around him in their niches – “I’m amazing. I’m invincible. There’s nothing I can’t do.” They smiled and shook their heads.
Sometime later, during a visit with one of his colleagues, he seemed especially still. Then he said softly, “I’m nothing” and wept.
Later, back in his bungalow, he thought, “I’ll never see her again. I just as well killed her.”
* * * *
1938
The reporter told Tk that in a few weeks Mrs. Huntley and he had finished editing her memoir, having exchanged the last mark-ups through the mail. It was an easy job, because she dictated and instructed him clearly and straightforwardly. The book had been a success. It was her book to the extent that it told the truth and the reporter’s to the extent it did not, which the reporter readily acknowledged along with the fact that she’d made him a better person. The reporter thought this admission might have been why Tk’s eyes had started to grow bright with tears as he ushered him from the little house and out into the yard.
* * * *
A copy of a generally admiring obituary of Mrs. Florence Huntley from The Denver Post, in which the sobriquet “Diamond Flo” appears twice. It is folded over an old letter -- in fact it dates from the 1890s -- from her.
As one could only hope from such a declaration, the letter says,
“Dear friend:
“I think of you often and find myself actually feeling pain when I fear we might not become better friends. Would you welcome such a friendship, or have I said too much? Yet I know I can say things to you I have never said before, and I believe that without meaning to you have deeply affected me, much more perhaps than you might expect. At least I have never known this feeling. You see I am not what you think I am, dear friend, not at all. But then I may be wrong -- you always see the best in me. This is so new that I must tell you I’m trembling. Write me anything. Write ‘I will see you tomorrow.’
“Love,
“Florence.”
Did Tk know when he opened this gift and felt his heart beating as he read her confession, that her love would not last as it was at that moment? He chose for a while, though, not to be the knower, as if his face was pressed to the window outside what he had always understood, leaving mist on the glass.
* * * *
Tk in Las Vegas
1991
It can be established with reasonable certainty from the recollections of his former neighbor that Tk was alive on the outskirts of Las Vegas, Nevada as late as Christmas Eve, 1991. This woman recalled he’d brandished a golden star before placing it atop her tree.
She also recalled that he usually sat on a lawn chair outside, notwithstanding the heat, almost motionless like a man getting a shave. One should know better than to assume he was approaching the end, though, despite his age and sedentary habit. For one thing, he was living with a woman named Rose Lazaro, who performed professionally under the name “Rose Elle,” although at home she preferred “Rosa.” She was popular as far away as Reno, including with a number of public employees and professional men -- a municipal judge, a police captain, firemen and high school coaches, among others. Tk’s neighbor recalled that when she drove her convertible down the Strip, men shouted cheerfully, “Hey, Rose Elle!” In addition, although the neighbor didn’t know this either, Tk experienced none of the unhappy transformations of old age.
Rosa had confided that shortly after she’d moved to Las Vegas there was an incident during a magic routine in which she’d permitted herself to be placed into a trance. Having awakened to feel the traces of the people who’d taken her to a dressing room, she sneezed twice and looked up at the hypnotist. Although not in so many words, she said that since that moment with Tk she’d lost much of her self-absorption and as if in compensation felt an all-embracing need to serve others, a desire that never left.
This change transformed her showbiz moxie. With remarkable consistency, she brought sunshine to everyone she met, especially Tk, whom she looked after precisely and innocently, like an acolyte, which clearly suited them. Rarely was he known to complain and then only about the loose hair from her cats and dogs that required him to clear his throat more than he liked. He was on good terms with these animals, though, having been seen talking with them during her absences on tour. After the trance episode, she continued her career as an “exotic” dancer, as well as becoming a “naturist,” traveling for weeks on bookings after having left behind a series of casseroles with labels on the lids.
Apparently Tk had retired. Rosa said once that he’d finished with the demonstrations and catalogues. Their neighbor recalled, though, that, in addition to sitting, he started writing some kind of book that he may have completed before they moved on. Rosa helped him by typing his handwriting, even on her tours, during which she toted reams of paper and a typewriter that sat like a tarantula in her car’s back seat with her signed photographs. It meant a lot to her to see Tk’s thoughts set down in proper form, with a carbon copy. After handling the carbon paper, the tips of her fingers would be cobalt blue.
Possibly because he didn’t have much to do, he lived a lot in his memory.
Tk’s neighbor was one of those people who are proud of their self-possession. She described Tk and Rosa as if she saw them with eyes wide-open, without condescension.
She acknowledged that Tk might have seemed strange to some, even here, such as when he mentioned the “great work” or the “face” and the “summer land” and “going up” in ways that weren’t entirely clear. And, of course, he had an odd name, but, she asked, what’s in a name? The important thing, she said, was that he made Rosa happy and vice versa.
Tk was the oldest person she’d ever known, she said, although she didn’t understand how extraordinarily old he was. Also, she said, he kept himself tidy and smelled good, and she recalled that he quivered or vibrated constantly but finely so that you barely noticed it.
She also said that during all the time she saw him sitting still, Tk looked watchful, like he was waiting. And he never burned in the sun.
When pressed, she admitted that if he was memorable in a general way it was hard to remember much specifically. She did recall something he’d said about an incident with Houdini, and a couple of times he’d become animated about “Holmes,” who she assumed was Sherlock Holmes, although she did not remember Tk ever reading. He must have done more than sit, stare and tremble, though, and every now and then say a few words to Rosa and her pets, but something seemed to keep her from remembering it.
She recalled one more thing, because she’d actually talked about it with him. It had been a bright morning, soon after he’d moved in, before Rosa came, before he’d started his book. He was sitting outside, and the sun was reflecting like a silver ball on the window behind his head.
Then for a moment, he looked to her like a beautiful baby -- as beautiful as a baby could be. “You looked like a little dream baby,” she told him. “Nothing,” she said, “is as pretty as a pretty little baby.”
She shook her head, closed her eyes and opened them, but the image remained -- a baby, soft and dimpled, sitting and moving his plump hands. “Oh, forever more,” she said. She’d not had a child. “I swear you were.”
After she told him about her vision, he’d told her that he’d “been away on business in foreign lands,” and she’d no idea what he meant and never would, but it seemed harmless enough.
Perhaps then he had one of his better ideas, although this may not be saying much. No, it was a good idea, and he began.
* * * *
A picture of Tk and the Great Work, the Greatest Fraud Revealed
Appendix 1
By Dr. G.E.R. St. George, PhD, D.Div.[56]
On the Great Work
The term “Spiritualism” entered the public mind with the astounding reports, soon verified by eminent observers, that in Hydesville, New York young girls, the Fox sisters, communicated with the dead, although the practice has been recorded throughout history. Indeed, its persistence in every nation’s annals is cited as proof that the dead in some way live: it defies belief that so many people for so long, spanning human memory, in fact, could be mistaken. And yet the term “Spiritualism” and the thematically consistent if idiosyncratic practices, rituals, terms and beliefs associated with it clearly date from that time and place in upstate New York.
One may argue that it was no coincidence the Fox sisters appeared in the so-called “Burnt Over District,” the site during roughly the same period of the revelations and visitations giving birth to Seventh Day Adventism and Mormonism, as well as a receptive ground for holy rollers, Shakers and various other utopian and millenarian faiths. Something about the educational attainment, sincerity and freedom of the people there was tinder for revelation. Sharing with Mormonism, Seventh Day Adventism and almost all earlier religions the premise that spirits exist and physical death does not end life, “Spiritualism” differed since its inception from other religions in its emphasis on the rational and verifiable proof of its fundamental tenet and its opponents’ equally persistent contention that “mediums’” ability to communicate with the dead is objectively, measurably fraudulent. Thus from the start the Fox girls were willingly put to the test by various men of science: searched, bound and gagged to ensure they were not producing the sounds emanating during their séances and repeatedly investigated to eliminate the possibility that they had known in life the people whose spirits they summoned. Just as rigorously the answers and statements of those spirits were compared with known facts about the deceased. And so the pattern continued as others developed their own powers to summon spirits and invited scientifically minded doubters’ verification of their bona fides.
Inevitably a Spiritualist nomenclature developed, used by practitioners and skeptics alike, which in its concreteness tied Spiritualism even more tightly to rational inquiry. Thus the term “medium,” deriving from the elementary sciences, is seemingly far more objective that “seer” or “prophet.” The same may be said of “vision” compared to “haunting,” “ectoplasm” contrasted with “ghosts” and even “séance” compared to “revelation.” And then of course the terms “clairvoyance” and “clairaudience,” “automatic writing,” “telepathy” and, within the last few years, “telekinesis” would be almost equally at home in the mouths of scientists as Spiritualists. Another example of this uniquely modern, objective characteristic of Spiritualism is “spirit photography,” or the recording of spirits on a photographic image. The appearance of Spiritualism in the person of the Fox sisters at almost the same moment as the invention of photography could hardly be a matter of chance.
The human element cannot be ignored, though, and is in fact a flaw in the practice of Spiritualism. The application of a rationalist framework to frail people depreciates morality and obscures the most profound truths breathing hope, fear, and profundity into religions.
One night recently at the New York Academy of Music, Spiritualism held a mirror to itself with the public confession to a packed house of the eldest Fox sister, Maggie, now middle-aged, that much that the girls had done was a lie. They’d produced the disembodied noises heard by thousands at hundreds of séances by cracking the joints of their toes and wrenching strange sounds from their bellies!
“It’s not true!” someone shouted, but Kate emerged from the wings, embraced her sister, turned to the spectators and nodded in confirmation, tears streaking her face. It got so bad, she said, they couldn’t tell a real spirit from a fake.
This event tarnished their cause, no doubt, but throughout the world Spiritualists redoubled their efforts to prove their veracity, sometimes with more success than before! It was as if this concrete evidence leant a certain urgency, if also a previously absent and not entirely negative melancholy to their efforts.
One wonders, though, whether the people affected by the Fox sisters’ confession, not only those in the theater but farther afield, reflected upon its disturbing implications for the various proofs of the existence of God, the primary being:
· The historical: namely that through the ages God has appeared in various forms as attested by the historical record.
· The universal: namely that mankind has always in all cultures believed in God.
· The natural: namely that the patterns of nature are neither random nor fully susceptible to human replication and therefore must be a Supreme Being’s handiwork.
· The ontological: namely a Supreme Being must have started everything else.
· The idealistic: namely that a Supreme Being must exist because we conceive of perfection but cannot attain it.
· The immediate: namely certain individuals’ recollection of their direct encounter with the Divine Presence.
Not necessarily that these also were tricks; rather, the girls’ inventions regarding the most important question -- what happens after? -- might confirm the next-to-last proof of the divine better than any metaphysical formula. But did the Fox sisters’ disgrace really mean no real tie can be extended to the world beyond, that we at best only await God’s appearance and perhaps even then will not really know it?
Here we turn to the primary subject of this essay: The Great Work, a book authored by an individual known only as the “Tk.” Why do we bring it to your attention? Not merely to highlight its brilliance, the elegance of its analysis or its lapidary prose (these qualities were evident upon its publication some time ago). Nor do we do so because of the author’s expose of the tricks and frauds of Spiritualist charlatans, although the Fox sisters’ confession confirms much that he has to say on the subject -- for example, that fraudulent mediums’ emission of “ectoplasm” is often nothing more remarkable than regurgitated cheesecloth or expectorated egg whites, or that “spectral” beings may be projected by something as simple as a tilted mirror or ingenious devices beaming light through a transparency upon which an image is painted. (We must admit to enjoying his account of the farmer who attended a séance because he wanted to see his dear Daisy again, only to shout when the medium called down his wife, “Great Mother of God! Has she died, too, along with the dog?”)
No, we commend this book because it predicts another aspect of the Fox sisters’ story: the inevitable degeneration of all who engage at length in Spiritualist practice, because it was clear to those attending the New York Academy of Music that the sisters were appallingly worn down by addiction to strong drink and other forms of dissipation properly left undescribed in polite discourse.
One might think that such dissipation reflects merely the psychic toll of Spiritualism’s falsity. But according to Tk the explanation is more complex. The physical and moral degeneration of almost all Spiritualist practitioners stems not from guilt over the frauds they perpetrate but rather something inherently evil in Spiritualist practice, something he contends mixes fatally with our naïve and flawed nature: the “evil imps” who thrive in Spiritualist exchanges like so many fleas, so-called “spirit guides,” allegedly the most helpful of the summoned spirits, are in fact hopelessly corrupt and never happier than when releasing immoral contagion in their medium-hosts. It is these imps, he says, who take us over, residing in a belly or a gland or even infecting the entire blood supply of an otherwise pure and well-meaning “medium.” Tk reaches these conclusions not only by deductive logic but also, he states, personal experience. As a former medium, he knows the greatest danger Spiritualism poses is the surrender of one’s self to a “spirit invader.” He therefore resembles the Arab imam that the ulema accused of heresy. When they demanded he spit on a philosopher’s image, he did more: he stuck his finger down his throat and vomited on it! With admirable passion, Tk hates Spiritualism because we are not equipped to engage safely with the evil spirits that we have improvidently hailed to earth.
But does this mean there is no transcendence, no chance to touch the life beyond, and no hope for true goodness on earth? “No!” says Tk, seeing clearly again -- and we repeat he has been right about so many things -- that “We may obtain from the good and fair dead -- because they exist indeed and in fact are the majority -- the invitation to go UP to their heavenly realm.” Yes, we may go UP if we accept the “Instruction” in “Thought Matter” as a kind of moral cleansing by seeing all of ourselves, the worst with the best, until we make the right choice. “Then,” says Tk, “we go UP!” That is, we literally go up to meet the good and fair spirits where they reside and in so doing rid ourselves of the devils who beset us.
Thus, Tk implies, the “face” of God is revealed not as the cold visage of the Prime Mover, the hazy reflection of our delusional selves, or the patterns of nature -- and certainly it is not present in the ghostly visitations and disembodied voices of the perverse souls awaiting a summons to Spiritualist séances. It is found instead in the countenance of each benevolent being freed from the corruption of our earthly realm that we rise to meet in Thought Matter.
Does logic when shined on these remarkable observations sustain belief? Not necessarily, but nonetheless we await more from Tk in time to come.
By so inspiring u,s he joins that small circle of Masters of the Great Work, as his own Master -- the One-hi -- has inspired him. These beings draw us toward their aura, and somehow, often in ignorance, sometimes in dread but more often in joy and always with the sense that they are our true teachers, we learn. Through these founders we see.
It may be that none has called us more strangely than Tk, although all masters appear in the strangest of forms to those who first witness them.
APPENDIX 2
On The Great Psychological Crime, by TK
By
Dr. Henry Holmes, MD[57]
The author of this remarkable, if flawed volume develops a fascinating theme: beyond the inadequate concept of “mind,” beyond the dichotomies of morality and immorality, good and evil, of fallible demi-gods and devils invading the flickering, wavering elements of human consciousness, may be found a pure and perfect state. Of course, as I have summarized it this proposition is not novel, sharing much with the doctrines of “Neo-Platonism” and its American cousin, “Transcendentalism.” But now let me relate the unique contribution of “Tk,” the author of The Great Psychological Crime: this pure and perfect state has a physical form superficially analogous to the spirit forms revealed in Spiritualist séances, although Tk repeatedly warns us not to confuse Spiritualism with his ideal because they are in fact antithetical, and this substance called “Thought Matter” is found only UP in the Summer Land of the dead.
I should reiterate that Tk is at pains to distinguish Thought Matter from Spiritualist matter as much as from ordinary, everyday consciousness, and that he generally succeeds in doing so. Indeed, the failure to distinguish these separate emanations, one real, the others mere shadows or worse is the “Great Psychological Crime” of his title.
How, may we ask, can this precious Thought Mater be obtained, or even approached? Tk describes a method based on a kind of objective analysis achieved by the adept’s physical, psychical and moral purification. This regimen it seems is most effective when one experiences intense emotions coupled with probing, restless and relentless inquiry, and Thought Matter is best discerned when such emotions and reflections are shared lovingly with another, although the Tk warns its practitioners to maintain physical, psychical and moral self-control.
His theory offers much that is intriguing, not least because it corroborates important aspects of my own research, including my observation of certain spirit-like emissions -- strange sounds and other penumbra -- occurring during physical and emotional extremis. That is, I have observed such events when innocents have entered intense physical and emotional states, most pertinently at the moment of their death. Based on my observations, however, I have concluded for reasons that I intend to explain in their proper context that such phenomena are not necessarily outwardly existing manifestations but rather more likely emanate from a source that we do not yet fully understand in a region somewhere between the human body and consciousness. . . .
APPENDIX 3
On The Harmonics of
Evolution, by the Tk
By
A Disciple
No summary of this lovely book could do justice to its truly beautiful and poetic description of the inspiration of the greatest discoveries of science, philosophy, medicine, mathematics, law, dance, music, painting, sculpture, architecture, literature and government, or unfortunately the destructive perversions of such inspiration causing incoherence, ugliness, error, cruelty, rage, ignorance, violence, chaos, revenge, destruction, injustice and war. Mankind’s survival and ultimate progress, Tk reveals, depend on the proper balance, or harmony within us of that physical property or energy lying beyond quotidian existence, and it is by causing it to resound ever more beautifully like ringing bells in Thought Matter that Mankind shall evolve beyond itself and go UP! The ultimate expression of this principle is perhaps the quality of love -- that which is both before and after, unfortunately too often false and tainted, yet always miraculously new and hopeful -- and in all of the possibilities inherent therein.
[1] No matter how faint or misleading her traces become, Mrs. Huntley’s contribution to the Great Work will live forever. Indeed, she almost caused the Great Work to be an entirely new creation and Tk to become a different person until her untimely call from above.
[2] The Technical Workers and Visible Helpers are initiates into the Great Work who have not progressed to the Personal Demonstration -- that is, to the moment they discover the greatest secrets of Mankind in Thought Matter. The Technical Workers are those active in the “Technical Work” -- that is the Great Work’s dimension developed by Mrs. Huntley involving the sale of pills, balms, compounds, salves, narcotics and stimulants.
[3] This is the house on the corner of Kinzie and Dearborn Streets in Chicago, Illinois that became the center of the great School of Spiritual Light -- a small but growing educational nexus, a haven of conviviality and instruction nurtured and tended almost as much by Mrs. Florence Huntley as by Tk himself.
[4] An advanced being and Tk’s master, in earthly form the One-hi has fine Mongolian features, especially his piercing turquoise eyes, one of which is almost imperceptibly narrower than the other. Of course, this is an imagined representation. When not with the Tk, the One-hi resides on the great Wheel of Knowledge.
[5] And where is Egypt? Africa. And why won’t they say it? Because they deny the past as they deny the present.
[6] Also known as Vitabrite.
[7] Also known as Vitaclear.
[8] Consequently, we expect most experienced Great Workers to accept with good grace the repetition of many things already known.
[9] No!
[10] That is, the Wheel of Knowledge.
[11] We say only that the next Great Spoke has not been revealed.
[12] Perhaps the writer alludes to Tk’s revelation that upon taking his place on the Wheel of Knowledge he found that he could talk to certain species of small animals. The language of the Wheel’s Big Spokes, he said, shared certain properties with that of hedgehogs, rabbits, wrens and other small creatures, as well as cats and dogs.
[13] May we note, though, that this person saw fit to reply, perhaps recognizing indifference ranks among the greatest offenses to Thought Matter?
[14] No doubt money, lots of it, was lost, but once and for all, everyone’s money will be returned in time, with interest. Moreover, what is money’s importance, really? Surely its acquisition must not be all-consuming?
[15] No, No, No, No, No!
[16] It was not a lie. The library of the State Penitentiary in Jolliet, Illinois contains a complete set of Life in Action Magazine, as well as first editions of the Three Great Books of the Harmonic Series and The Dream Child, each bound in red commemorative leather. We note, though, that Tk may have pocketed certain funds contributed to this worthy cause.
[17] That is, the Wheel of Knowledge.
[18] Fortunately, after we received this missive we took steps to ensure her cookpot stayed full for the next year.
[19] As any well-informed person must acknowledge, Tk’s chief contribution to the Great Work was to expose the danger in the Spiritualist practice of calling the spirits of the dead to earth where they may inhabit us. If you want to have such encounters, he correctly observed, “You’d best go UP.”
[20] Mrs. Huntley, you are too good for this earth! Share you observations “for what they’re worth”? We’d carry them to the end of the time, uttering them with our last breath.
[21] It will be of inestimable value!
[22] We have honored this request, although we await the day when she releases us.
[23] Unbearable!
[24] No, dear lady, we repeat that it is you who are too good for this world.
[25] Indeed, and so much more!
[26] The Wheel of Knowledge.
[27] Dear Mrs. Huntley, you’d been pushed to the brink!
[28] Why Mrs. Huntley also fails to mention Tk’s theft of a considerable sum of money is a mystery almost too painful for further analysis. We note that she has told us that when she’d asked Tk where it had gone, he actually has given her the chance to admit that she’d taken it!
[29] No, never!
[30] But have no doubt, the Free Masons’ wickedness more than rivals the corrupt politicians of Chicago, their malevolent reach extending to the farthest rings, swaths and lozenges of American society.
[31] Their First Ward, which encompasses the Loop and boasts the headquarters of many of America’s greatest business concerns also harbors the ugly mess of flophouses, cathouses, cribs, gambling halls, saloons and drops known as the “Levee,” inhabited by saloon-keepers, madams, housebreakers, bagmen, safe-crackers, topers, harpies, hypnotists, confidence men, brawlers, footpads, medicine show performers on vacation, pickpockets, swindlers, gamblers, dandies and deviates, not to mention countless untalented, uneducated, shiftless vagrants.
[32] Not that these minions are always victorious. During a city council election, a one-armed brute named Ackerman kicked, punched, tore and bit the aldermen’s enforcer, a yellow-eyed six-foot-six savage known as the “Miscreant,” to a bloody mess while Bathhouse crouched behind a wagon.
[33] In the future, how often will those in power emulate their masterful use of such alliances? You have only to gaze at the beautiful houses, lush gardens, dazzling watering holes, sleek conveyances and well-groomed inhabitants of our nation’s capital, a city notoriously lacking any legitimate source of wealth, for your answer.
[34] The Ball was held the following year in the Coliseum, rent free, where Hinky Dink controlled the concessions.
[35] After this incident, Peach circulated a story that he’d been indisposed the night of the Ball: he was suffering from a bad oyster aggravated by champagne. Later, beautifully dressed and coiffed, he tried to return to society, referring to Tk more than once as the “Ingenious Hidalgo,” and even as “Vassago.” Nevertheless, he was shunned, although later he served as ambassador to Belgium.
[36] Because, let us note, none of the “three wise men” mentioned above can serve this purpose. Swami Vivekananda, in whom many had well and truly placed their hopes, has passed on, undoubtedly released in the fulfillment of his faith to a reward removing him from the presence of Mankind. Anagarika Dharmapala repeats merely the injunction to see one in all and all in one, albeit with an emphasis on salutary physical fitness and health culture. And we foresee when Zen master Roshi Soyen Shaku shall spout this deplorable screed on the subject of “nothingness”: “Even when going to war for his country’s sake, let him not bear any hatred toward his enemy. . . . He may have to deprive his antagonist of his corporeal presence but let him not think they are atmans battling each other. The hand that is raised to strike and the eye that is fixed to take aim do not belong to the individual but are the instruments of a higher principle than transient existence. Therefore, when fighting, fight with might and main, fight with your whole heart, forget yourself in the fight and be free from all atman thought!” Although a correct summation of Roshi Soyen Shaku’s theology, its militant savagery helped spread death to millions, and surely is not a proper use of Thought Matter.
[37] We’ve also heard of another version of the turning point in Tk’s “life in action.” According to some, it was not because of Peach’s disgrace, which actually improved Tk’s immediate prospects, or the aldermen’s greed. Many believe he invented the “money-machine” dodge -- although Yellow Kid Weil took the credit -- and used it to devastating effect on the Free Masons of Chicago. The trick was to get a mark to invest money, big bills, to counterfeit in the machine. Of course, when the “police” staged a raid, the sucker was led from the scene wanting nothing more than to keep the episode a secret. We admit that Tk was rash enough to think the Masons a tempting target, but no one has proven he provoked their revenge. Still others say that he was caught with a young woman whom he called his “ward” at a train stop between Chicago and Omaha, but to those who knew him this is preposterous.
[38] Please note that our present volume contains a complimentary addendum of appendices comprising noted scholars’ remarks on each of the Three Great Books of the Harmonic Series, although our publication budget has required us to condense their contents.
[39] And what made Tk especially attractive to women? His shyness? His sweetness? The fact that he was handsome and possessed a mysterious source of power?
[40] In a work of this kind, it is best to seek the anomalous passages because they are the most likely to describe actual events, the writer believing that they cannot be omitted notwithstanding their embarrassing or even scandalous nature. We also observe that the artful incrustations upon a memoir’s “base materials” reflect the author’s active intelligence, or spirit or daemon.
[41] Because of the devil music?
[42] Tk’s “outside private research” was of course the practice of “dangerous Spiritualism.”
[43] Beware, Tk!
[44] Spiritual Mysteries Revealed: Spiritual Darkness Penetrated.
[45] I have done this, as well as items 2 through 7.
[46] You must understand that the sterling character of several of these individuals is the obverse of his or her “name,” just as the joy of our rituals belies the gravity of our cause.
[47] Tk’s great unfulfilled and beautiful promise was recently brought home to us by these notes in his handwriting found beneath his bed: “Note -- the joy, joy, joy, joy that I see, the joy of a fat man in his sleep saying “moo” and awakening alert -- the joy of a single man who lies down in his room and sees his possessions resting on the ledge beside his head -- the joy of his employer as he rehearses the sage advice he intends to give his workers -- the joy of perceiving the invitation offered by one’s ignorance!” How deeply we regret that Tk did not follow these notes to their beautiful conclusion: the acceptance of joy everywhere and in everything!
[48] As previously discussed, whenever Tk’s “Sketch” is self-derogatory it must be true. Why else would he include such episodes? On the other hand, when it is self-congratulatory or, as tellingly, lifeless, assume he has chosen to lie, or at least engaged in some form of evasion. For example, it should not be questioned that Tk actually believed that his first male guardian -- in our hearing, called “Wallace” -- was infernal. But no doubt he has left out much: the odd jobs, the shiny black suit, the long road and dirt under his nails.
[49] And notwithstanding representations to the contrary about his relations with Mrs. Florence Huntley, we know that he has not attained true peace.
[50] It is of course possible that other reasons explain Tk’s authorship of separate versions of his autobiography. For example, guilt may have touched him after he assayed his “Sketch” and found it lacking, or, as has been rumored, he may have been brought to see things differently by a flawed nostrum handed him by a Technical Worker. However, the fact that the One-hi has graced the “Second Autobiographical Account” with an Authoritative Introduction confers an unquestionable imprimatur. In keeping with the One-hi’s incomparable observations, Tk also may have taken more care to lay bare the most profound principles of the Great Work as he understood them, which he describes with a certain lapidary precision missing from his earlier “Sketch.”
[51] One best appreciates this Authoritative Introduction by reading it aloud in a cultured accent of extraordinary refinement, although of course it is impossible to imitate the One-hi.
[52] During this time, Tk earned his nickname, the “Wild Wooly Wizard of the West” -- “Wild” because his egotistical and manipulative behavior violated the fundamental principle of Thought Matter, “Wooly” because people were not sure what to make of him, “Wizard” because of his mental and spiritual powers, and “of the West” because he came from that direction.
[53] !
[54] At that time, smoking opium was not legal in many parts of California, if not, perhaps, Sacramento. Moreover, intent is everything in the criminal realm, and how could Mrs. Huntley intend to break any law?
[55] The last numeral is smudged.
[56] Kindly reprinted with the permission of Ontology (December, 1892), the journal of the American Psychocratic Association.
[57] This extract is kindly reproduced from an address to the American Theosphical Society, Chicago branch (April, 1894).