the idea of a powerful lost book, as well as the order’s cabalistic, Masonic and astrological symbolism. He had successfully progressed to the highest inner levels of the order, and hoped to attain the title of magus or priest, which would recognise him as a human conduit of wisdom from the supernatural to the natural.
A man dressed in the uniform of a butler ushered Yeats upstairs into a room on the third floor. The five men seated within were used to assembling in more luxurious environments, in plush sitting-rooms overlooking the Houses of Parliament, or fine manors in the countryside where the extensive parkland provided a necessary buffer against prying eyes, and the more adventurous members of the Order could entertain the society’s female novitiates.
The room in which they had gathered was so secretive only a handful of elders within the Golden Dawn had ever set eyes upon it. The library shelves and walls were masked in dark tapestries embroidered with iridescent symbols and Latin words woven into Celtic knots. A series of allegorical pictures ran the length of the room, depicting a man torn in two by an eagle, wild beasts, hunchbacks and jesters with gaping smiles. The central tapestry depicted a large diagram in the shape of a wheel where the phases of the moon were intertwined with a golden apple, an acorn, a silver cup and a wooden wand. Upon the ceiling was an immense rose wrought in mosaic and coloured with red and black petals.
The five men were seated on a platform lit by candles in the middle of the room. At the centre was a hollow, in which an opened coffin lay. When Yeats entered, the men were muttering together. The mood was not good-humoured.
The eldest of the men, who went under the title Ruling Chief, rose with the help of a walking cane, and greeted Yeats. He had a trimmed white beard and shining eyes, and his hand gripped the ornate ebony head of his cane. He seemed eager for the poet’s company, while his companions remained in the shadows cast by the bright oval candle flames.
‘My dear Willie, we were beginning to worry you had been kidnapped.’ A smile played upon his lips.
‘Why would that cross your mind?’ asked Yeats.
‘These are dangerous times, you know. Troublemakers and spies have overtaken the city, while abroad good men are dying in their thousands. Killing on such a grand scale is very contaminating and strenuous on the collective consciousness.’ He tapped the cane on the floor. ‘Are you ready for the ceremony?’
‘Ready enough.’
The leaders of this occult movement set their own rules of conduct, devised their own rituals, but sometimes they went a step too far. The last ceremony Yeats had taken part in, the enactment of a fake hanging, had left him so overwrought that afterwards he had to rest in a chair for two days without reading or trying his mind in any manner.
‘Enacting one’s death is hardly an experience one looks forward to,’ murmured Yeats.
‘You should think of Lazarus who was four days dead before being miraculously raised.’
Very slowly, because beginnings are more difficult than endings, Yeats undressed the upper half of his body. The old man slipped a hood over his head, and with the help of the butler, Yeats laid himself out in the coffin. A bell tinkled, and a stiff curtain of tapestry that had been concealing an inner door shifted and into the room slipped a young woman wearing a white dress bordered with a hem of red roses.
‘I hope you are not afraid of ghosts, my dearest,’ said the elderly man.
She smiled weakly in the flickering candlelight.
‘More afraid of flesh and blood,’ she whispered.
The Ruling Chief understood her comment as a reference to the fate of the last handmaiden, a sixteen-year-old girl called Celestine.
The old man’s voice sank. ‘That was an unfortunate accident. Caused by an excess of zeal from a member who has since been banished from the society.’
The girl moved to the centre of the room.
A man dressed in the uniform of a butler ushered Yeats upstairs into a room on the third floor. The five men seated within were used to assembling in more luxurious environments, in plush sitting-rooms overlooking the Houses of Parliament, or fine manors in the countryside where the extensive parkland provided a necessary buffer against prying eyes, and the more adventurous members of the Order could entertain the society’s female novitiates.
The room in which they had gathered was so secretive only a handful of elders within the Golden Dawn had ever set eyes upon it. The library shelves and walls were masked in dark tapestries embroidered with iridescent symbols and Latin words woven into Celtic knots. A series of allegorical pictures ran the length of the room, depicting a man torn in two by an eagle, wild beasts, hunchbacks and jesters with gaping smiles. The central tapestry depicted a large diagram in the shape of a wheel where the phases of the moon were intertwined with a golden apple, an acorn, a silver cup and a wooden wand. Upon the ceiling was an immense rose wrought in mosaic and coloured with red and black petals.
The five men were seated on a platform lit by candles in the middle of the room. At the centre was a hollow, in which an opened coffin lay. When Yeats entered, the men were muttering together. The mood was not good-humoured.
The eldest of the men, who went under the title Ruling Chief, rose with the help of a walking cane, and greeted Yeats. He had a trimmed white beard and shining eyes, and his hand gripped the ornate ebony head of his cane. He seemed eager for the poet’s company, while his companions remained in the shadows cast by the bright oval candle flames.
‘My dear Willie, we were beginning to worry you had been kidnapped.’ A smile played upon his lips.
‘Why would that cross your mind?’ asked Yeats.
‘These are dangerous times, you know. Troublemakers and spies have overtaken the city, while abroad good men are dying in their thousands. Killing on such a grand scale is very contaminating and strenuous on the collective consciousness.’ He tapped the cane on the floor. ‘Are you ready for the ceremony?’
‘Ready enough.’
The leaders of this occult movement set their own rules of conduct, devised their own rituals, but sometimes they went a step too far. The last ceremony Yeats had taken part in, the enactment of a fake hanging, had left him so overwrought that afterwards he had to rest in a chair for two days without reading or trying his mind in any manner.
‘Enacting one’s death is hardly an experience one looks forward to,’ murmured Yeats.
‘You should think of Lazarus who was four days dead before being miraculously raised.’
Very slowly, because beginnings are more difficult than endings, Yeats undressed the upper half of his body. The old man slipped a hood over his head, and with the help of the butler, Yeats laid himself out in the coffin. A bell tinkled, and a stiff curtain of tapestry that had been concealing an inner door shifted and into the room slipped a young woman wearing a white dress bordered with a hem of red roses.
‘I hope you are not afraid of ghosts, my dearest,’ said the elderly man.
She smiled weakly in the flickering candlelight.
‘More afraid of flesh and blood,’ she whispered.
The Ruling Chief understood her comment as a reference to the fate of the last handmaiden, a sixteen-year-old girl called Celestine.
The old man’s voice sank. ‘That was an unfortunate accident. Caused by an excess of zeal from a member who has since been banished from the society.’
The girl moved to the centre of the room.
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