The hearth glows with creative fire. The whole world seems to be reflected in it. Showering sparks hiss, darkness flares into light, colour pales, clouds of smoke thicken and disperse: terrible forces of destruction, chained and imprisoned in iron vats, seethe and bubble infernally – the wisdom invested in the retorts and furnaces holds them captive.
“This is your workplace; create the gold you have longed for – but the gold of the sunlight. He who increases the light is one of the noblest of our brotherhood.”
I am instructed. The wisdom spreads around me like the radiance of the sun. Its glory destroys all my puny earthly knowledge. One last question still buzzes round my mind like a tiny will-o’-the-wisp:
“Tell me, my friend, before the questions cease for good: who was ... who is the Angel of the West Window?”
“An echo, that is all. It was right when it said it was immortal; it was immortal because it had never lived; if it had never lived, it could never know death. All knowledge and power, all good and evil that came from it, came from you. It was the sum of all questions, wisdom and magic that was hidden within you, but that you did not know you possessed. Each of you contributed to that sum and each of you marvelled at the “Angel” as at some divine revelation. It was the Angel of the West Window because the West is the green realm of the dead past. There are many such “Angels” in the realm of growth and the realm of decay. It would be better for mankind if no such angels crossed into the world, but there are paths of hope that lead astray. Behind your Angel of the West Window was Bartlett Greene. Now he has ceased to be since your questioning has ceased.” – Gärtner turns back to the forge – “The ancients said: everything is a vinculum, a link in the chain. One of our brotherhood had called this “everything” an image. – These vats only seem to boil. These tools hammer away – but nothing happens. This globe here: merely a vinculum. When your ignorance is complete, then you will know how to release the gold this apparatus contains. Then you can touch one spot on the earth with your finger and streams of forgiveness will spread through that spot from the warmth of your finger; and whirlwinds of destruction, like spiritual volcanoes, will descend on that place from the cold of your purifying hand. So guard your fire well! Remember: men will impute all your deeds to their God and call up angels from the West. Many a one who was not called, but still trod the path, found himself thus translated into the dead form of an “Angel”.
“And – that – is – my – task?!” I stammer, trembling at the burden of responsibility.
Calmly the adept replies:
“That is the greatness of mankind in every rebirth: Not to know any more, but to act. God has never broken his word nor diminished it one iota.”
“How should I weave fate without mastery of the art or knowledge of the pattern?!” – that is the last outburst of despair from the cowardice that sits deep in every human breast.
Gärtner says no more, leads me down the porphyry steps and accompanies me to the little gate in the wall. He points to the garden, then disappears ...
In the midday glare my eye rests on a sundial fixed to the white wall and a fountain tirelessly splashing in restful melody. The sunlight strikes the rusty pointer, a dead lump of iron fixed to the wall, to create the shadow; and the shadow makes: – time.
A shadow can make time! And the time-shadow is accompanied by the fountain’s self-important pitter-patter. The splash of water is activity in the time of the shadow – links all around, links in all things; even time and space are links within which images move.
Deep in thought and immersed in landscapes of the creative spirit, I turn away and wander through the flowerbeds towards the yew-tree arbour that shades the deserted grave. Again the sun’s magic wand seems to give the surrounding garden a strange depth. Again I see in the distance a shimmer as of some shining garment. Fear and lust are far removed as I watch the radiance take shape, float forward, pause, then slowly move towards me, like a mirror image following me – and yet this is no mirror image! Gliding towards me is a creature of light that is beyond the shadows of reflected images.
I stride forward; approaching me with firm tread, no longer imprisoned in the golden cage of myth, is the Queen. Her eye is clear, joyful, steadfast, calmly fixed on mine. I draw near to Elizabeth, two comets about to converge after thousands – millions – of years in different orbits. How weak are such thoughts, for they speak the language of images, of time-shadows and splashing fountains!
I feel the heat of the first contact with the other orbit and, finally, Elizabeth stands before me. Close. So close that eye seems to touch eye; so close now, that Elizabeth has become invisible to my physical eye and invisible to the head of the Baphomet hovering above. Every nerve and fibre and feeling and thought tells me that the two orbits have crossed and the two comets united. No more shall I seek, no more shall I find – the Queen is within me, I am within the Queen: child, husband and father from the very beginning. A chorus of blessed thoughts rejoices inside me: Woman no more! Man no more!
And yet: there is one tiny, distant spot in the sunlit landscape of my soul darkened by a small cloud of sorrow – Jane! Should I call for her? May I call for her?!
