No! The story of John Dee, a late descendant of one of the oldest houses of these Islands, of the old Welsh Princes, an ancestor of my mother’s line – that story shall not be lost for ever!
But I realise that I cannot write it as I would wish. I lack almost all the necessary background, especially the great knowledge my cousin enjoyed in those sciences which some call the occult and others think they can brush aside with the word “parapsychology”. In such matters I lack experience and judgement. The best I can do is to sort these scattered fragments and order them according to some clear plan: in the words of my cousin, John Roger, “to preserve and pass them on”.
The result will surely be a mosaic with pieces missing. But does not the fragment often exert a stronger attraction than the complete picture? The way the curve of a smile breaks off to continue in the crease of a tormented brow – an enigma; the eye still staring out when the forehead is missing – an enigma; the sudden blaze of crimson from the crumbling wall – enigmas, enigmas ...
It will take weeks, if not months, of meticulous work to bring some order to this tangle of already half-decaying documents. I hesitate: should I undertake it? If I felt certain that some inner spirit was compelling me to it, I would refuse out of pure contrariness and send up the whole bundle in smoke to ... “to do the good Lord a favour”.
I keep on thinking of poor Baron Michael Arangelovich Stroganoff, who will not even finish his packet of cigarettes – perhaps because God has scruples about allowing one man to do him too many favours. Today the dream with the jewel returned. Everything followed the same pattern except that the icy feeling as the crystal came down over my double head caused me no pain, so that I did not wake up this time. I’m not sure whether it had anything to do with the fact that it finally touched the top of my head, but, at the very moment when the beam of light illuminated both faces equally, I saw that I was the double-headed man and yet, at the same time, was another person: I saw myself – that is, the “Janus” – move both lips of the face on one side of the head whilst those on the other side remained motionless. It was the silent one that was the “real” me. For a long time the “other” made great efforts to produce a sound. It was as if he was struggling to find some word from the depths of sleep.
Finally a breath came from the lips, wafting the words through the air towards me:
“Order not! Do not presume! Where reason imposes its order it dams up the fountainhead and opens the way to ruin. Let me guide your hand as you read so you bring not destruction. – Let – me – guide – –”
I could feel the torment that the effort of speaking caused my “other” head; it was probably that that woke me up.
I don’t know what to think. What is going on? Is there a ghost somewhere inside me? Does some phantom from a dream want to come into my life? Is my consciousness about to split, am I becoming ... “ill”? For the moment I am sure I am perfectly healthy and whilst awake I do not feel the least temptation to grow a second face; even less do I feel under some “compulsion” to act or think in a certain way. I am completely master of my emotions and of my will: I am free!
Another fragment of memory from the ride-a-cock-horse conversations with my grandfather surfaces: he told me that the family spirit in the dream was mute but that one day it would speak. That would mean the end of time for our bloodline; the crown would no longer hover above the head but shine forth from the double brow.
Is the “Janus” about to speak? Has the end of time come for our line? Am I the last heir of Hywel Dda?
No matter; the words that are lodged in my memory are clear:
“Let me guide as you read!” And: “Reason dams up the fountainhead.” – – – So be it; I shall obey. But no, no, it cannot be an order, otherwise I would refuse; I will not submit to orders. It must be advice, yes, yes, advice – merely advice! And why should I not follow the advice? I will not order the material. I will record whatever comes to hand.
So at random I picked up a sheet bearing the angular handwriting of my cousin, John Roger, and read:
It is all long past. All the figures whose desires and passions mark these fateful records and in whose dust and decay I, John Roger, now venture to delve are long since dead. They too disturbed the ashes of others who were then long dead.
What is dead? What is past? All that once was thought or moved is still thought and motion – might and power live on! Not one of us, though, has found what he sought – the true key to the treasure-house of life, the secret key, the search for which makes all life meaningful and worthwhile. Who has seen the crown with the crystal above it? What have we found, we that sought – only misfortune and the sight of death: yet we were promised death should be overcome! The key
