NFTF: Brother Ambrose in the Chapel of Meditation

Brother Ambrose sits in the Meditation Chapel, a blank sketchbook on the table before him, a stack of similar sketchbooks on a small table to his right. Smoke trails up from within three censers placed in a triangle, outside of which he sits: one with a blend of cinnamon, sage and rosemary; another with cloves, star anise and bay; the third with frankincense and myrrh. To his left, within view, Father Michael sits hunkered forward, watching. On the right, equidistant, sits Brother Domenico. The three of them and the three censers form a very distinct shape: it could be a Star of David, it could be the Square and Compass, it could be many things. Brother Ambrose is very aware of the specificity with which Father Michael and Brother Domenico arranged their seating, the censers, and the circles of herbs and minerals which surround them now.

This was the last thing he expected when confessing his recent nocturnal exploits to Father Michael. Admittedly, their monastic retirement home did seem to be more eclectic that he had initially expected, but Brother Ambrose had spent his time here focused on deeper, more important issues than what everyone else was doing or where they had been before they were here. Or why they were here at all. Now, as he begins to allow the random detritus of his unconscious to bubble up and distract him, accepting and examining every peculiar gift and setting it aside, he realizes for the first time that many of his brothers here are much younger than he. How he never noticed this before, he does not know. It's so surprising that he almost speaks aloud.

Instead, he controls himself. Accepting that he won't know the answer to this until later, he sets the question aside and waits for the next distraction. And the next. And the next. Allowing his mind to wander rather than forcing it down a prescribed path, he is thus able to let go.

The first nibble, like the tug of a tentative trout, pulls him to the labyrinth. Not a maze. No. A classical labyrinth. Its gateway ever changing, the labyrinth holds questions and answers in equal supply. A wave of exhaustion washes over him. He endures it, allowing his mind to throw up whatever complications it wishes. The pull of the labyrinth is always stronger. Sometimes the gate is hard to recognize, but it always draws him in when he needs it. 

Once, it was a book.

Another time, it was a bell.

It has never been a candle.

Brother Ambrose follows the smoke from the censers up with his eyes, letting them unfocus, letting the smoke draw him in, letting pictures form in his mind, letting shapes array themselves from within the smoke. It forms into a Celtic braid, flowing up out of the top of the Meditation Chapel to blend with the other smoke, the smoke from the fires and from the burning mountain. A part of himself goes with the smoke.

A part of him remains.

The smoke spreads out in its braids, forming smoky ribbons in the air. Within those ribbons, letters form from ancient alphabets: Cyrillic mixed with Aramaic, Greek and Ogham flowing together with ancient Etruscan, Hebrew, and older, more primitive symbols with which he is unfamiliar. Ribbons of letters flowing now in two directions: horizontally from right to left, vertically from top to bottom, the ribbons have formed a globe in the air and he lets it sink into him, he lets the shapes and forms open new thoughts in his mind, letting his soul wander among the smoke-filled night as this antediluvian ticker-tape begins to flow more freely through his mind, some letters repeating now and again until, at last, he has one word in mind and it repeats and repeats and repeats until he feels it bubble up from within and he speaks it aloud:

"Mana," gasping, Brother Ambrose sets down the pen.

The nine candles that had been lit by Father Michael and Brother Domenico are still burning, but have burned down deep into themselves. It is late at night. Brother Ambrose is shocked to see Father Michael so pale; Brother Domenico is trembling.

"What is it?" he asks. His voice is deep, heavy, as though he has slept.

"See for yourself," Father Michael says, indicating the table before Brother Ambrose.

Looking down, he sees the table covered with the sketchbooks. Each and every one is open, scattered, intact but splayed as if thrown in haste. Brother Ambrose picks one up, opens it, and sees that every page is covered -- both sides -- with the handwriting he has come to associate with a specific voice in his recent nocturnal scribblings.

"It's him," he says. "It's Torvald Mayberry. I think I understand, now."

"Let's not jump to any conclusions. Pick the book you are drawn to, follow your first impulse. We will go with that," though his face is pale, Father Michael's voice is calm, his eyes clear. Brother Domenico says nothing.

Brother Ambrose lets his hand follow the pull he felt the moment he opened his eyes. Taking the sketchbook in hand, he opens it and reads aloud,

"October 9, 1956. 
We had a guest lecturer today. Dr. Isaac Bonewits, the only person to have ever obtained a degree in Magic (Cal Berkeley, 1970 -- am I in the right school, a question for later). He made a lot of jokes about Sophomores. Kept telling us that there was a riddle right in front of us, laughed a lot when nobody understood. I still don't understand. Seemed like a pretty arrogant fellow. 

Interesting concept, though: he spoke of a Mana Tap. If one can raise Mana, if one can tap into it, one can achieve just about anything. According to Bonewits, all it takes is the right knowledge, the correct preparation, and then tapping into a source of Mana powerful enough to affect the result one seeks. From my notes:

     'Some might even say that with the right amount of Mana and the proper direction of the mind though sigils and whatever else is needed, one could achieve the impossible.
     Q. from Louise: Like what?
     Bonewits: At the risk of seeming rude, let me answer your question with a question. Is that alright with you?
     L: Yes.
     B: What do you think is impossible?
     L: ... What do you mean?
     B: Let me open it to the room, so you're not put on the spot. Anyone? Tell me what's impossible! Go on, shout it out!
     Various answers [the ones I noted, along with some I remember]:
     Flying!
     Interplanetary travel!
     Zombies!
     Getting Ike out of the White House! ( ! )
     Raising the dead!
     Healing the blind!
     Enchanting a broomstick!
     Permanent penis enlargement!
     [Everyone laughed at that last one, from D. 
     Prof. Bonewits was very amused. Then he spoke again.]
     B: I am here to tell you that every single thing you have all just mentioned, and possibly more, is achievable -- given the right timing, the right mental or emotional conditioning -- sigils, runes, whatever is powerful to you -- and a deep enough, accessible well of Mana.
     [Louise raised her hand.]
     L: What is Mana, and how would one ... what was the word?
     B: Tap. How would one tap it? Is that your question?
     L: Yes. Thank you.
     B: My pleasure, Louise.
     [gasps from the class -- no introductions had been made; still mysterious, despite his reasonable explanation]
     L: How did you --
     B: Ah, the simple magic of verbal communication. Professor Hemphill described you all to me and I memorized what she said, then listened to you all chattering as you came in. You are Louise, that's Daniel, there's Torvald ... [he went around the room naming us all, completely correct] But that's not the interesting part. The interesting part is that, because I have your focus on this spot and you're amazed, I can do this:
     [HE STEPPED INTO THE AIR, LIKE HE WAS STEPPING ONTO A STEP STOOL, ONLY AN INVISIBLE STEP STOOL! I have to get my head around this. It was all anyone could talk about at dinner. As everyone gasped and stood in amazement and the excitement level grew, Prof. B raised in the air, like an excitement -- or emotional, at any rate -- thermometer. The more amazed we became, the higher he rose, until his head was pressed sideways against the ceiling and he said,]
     B: Okay, everyone! Stop looking at me! I need you all to sit down and stare at the floor where I was, or you're going to slam me through the ceiling! Thank you, Louise, that means you, too -- stare at the floor and breathe calmly, my Chiropractor is back in California and if you keep thinking I'm a demi-God, it won't help me to nap on my return flight. So ... ah ... yes ....
     [He settled back to the floor, there was a flood of questions.]

My question for him: is this what Christ did?

His answer: Oh, indubitably. And according to what we're studying from Nag Hammadi, Christ said anyone can do this. The point that is most important is this: Mana can be raised from many sources, from positive excitement like you all just generated, to sexual  -- oh, is that shocking, ladies? Well, it's true: sexual excitement and specifically orgasm is a major source of Mana -- but so is fear, so is pain, so is anguish and so is torment. All intense human experiences, be they positive or negative, generate Mana. All Mana can be used for acts of great good or darkest evil, o Students of Divinity, but the soil in which the root is planted will affect the nature of the fruit. Do you understand? And knowing what you know about the history of the Catholic Church, what do you think was feeding off of the anguish of those innocent women burned at the stake during all the witch trials and various Inquisitions? But yes, Torvald, anyone can do this. That was what Christ was trying to tell us.

Anyone! That's incredible. Did he learn all of this at Cal? I haven't been this excited in a long time! Am I in the wrong major?! 

I can't be the only one wondering about this. Heading down to the Grand Rumpus, Charlie is chairing tonight's debate, and it's almost Witching Hour (an idea I take more seriously, now, I realize).

Until then,

TWM
Arkham Conservatory
Class of 1959"

After he finishes reading, he looks up and sees Brother Domenico sitting with his face in his hands, Father Michael standing next to his chair, gripping the back of the chair so tightly his knuckles are white.

"What is it?" Brother Ambrose asks. Bonewits' riddle is nagging at him.

"I know what Mayberry is up to," whispers Father Michael. "Johannes and Oswald may be too late to stop him -- or to save any of those people."

"What is he doing?" Brother Ambrose doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to get involved. But he can't help himself.

Father Michael closes his eyes, silent for a moment before he speaks. When he does, it's barely audible, yet his words echo in the Meditation Chapel:

"Time travel. And I think I know where he's headed."