The Freewayfayers' Book of the Dead Read online

  For Harry it is all fun and games. Even when her climax comes, and she moans and sighs, “My sweet Lord Z,” he is not so free of vanity that he does imagine his own charm and magnetism are what’s getting to her.

  And when she’s had her laughs she excuses herself and says without sentiment, in a voice that has the Lord behind it, “That’s enough for now, my man. I prefer to sleep and wake alone.” And she rolls over, praising the Lord, without so much as a thank you or a good night kiss for Harry. Swan, well-fondled as he is, cannot help but be a bit deflated. The poser is still a puzzle, he thinks, as he makes his way upstairs. Yet he is already looking forward to seeing her again. Her shortness with him makes him long for her.

  Generally, her interest in sex wanes as the week goes on. Usually on Friday afternoon Harry is the last thing on her mind. She is so choked up over Corn Dog and wants to spill her guts and confess her sins to her sisters and have their sisterly love absolve her of her guilt. But when the meeting is finally convened, and that guilt is changed into desire for the Bending End and allowed outlet, she feels too relaxed in the aftermath to stand up and make a clean breast of her past. Besides, she is not at all ready to give up her pain, that is, the fond, soft spot she has for the gentle brave. The fine points of her recovery will take some time. There will always be the hole in her heart where the brave buck disappeared.

  Meetings can’t do everything, but they surely help. And so does Miss Lord. In the coming weeks she leans heavily on Laudette for everything, and does all she can to get a grip on herself. Books strengthen her. Now, with knowledge of the origins of her Master, Doctor Haddock-Watt’s translation of The Poongi Book of the Dead is on the top of her list. This leads her into study of “Eastern philosophy.” She reads Scriptures, Bhootist and Pandavi. In the written tradition of the Clear Way is a sutra called The Crystal Case Book.

  When asked about morality, the Sage replied, “‘Doing nothing’ is always the best first choice for a course of action. When that’s not possible the less done the better. Every action has good and bad consequences, the Clear Way is to let the past and the future go, live in the present moment without leaving traces. Love your opposite. Live and let live. Forgive and forget. See that what is unreconcilable, impossible, and contradictory is actually interdependent, complementary, perfective.”

  Whatever goes around, comes around. Sarah sees this clearly because she is experiencing it. But the morality of any act can only be judged in comparison with the harm done by other courses of action she might have taken; freedom is surrender to necessity, living in the present, and accepting the consequences of one’s actions. “All life is suffering,” say the sages, “all is impermanent.” This is reassuring: everything is gone before it even arrives. But if everything passes, she wonders, why not say “Life is delightful” and enjoy the romance and the necromance of the endless rounds of returning to this physical plane? Bhootist, Shmootist, Sarah, ever a would-be freethinker, takes every “truth” with a grain of salt. In questioning what she reads, she gains her freedom from words. She even gets a copy of The Good Book and marks it as if she were an editor, starring the “good parts,” those verses which mention carnal affairs, in black ink, and using red to cross out where the God of wrath and jealousy comes in. She adds substantially to her library: the great works of Western literature for the downstairs stacks and additional unusual titles for her “private collection,” that wall of books in the closet in her bedroom, manuals of the occult and bare-balled pornography. Not only does she read, but for the first time in her life she does some writing, taking a moment in the morning to jot down her dreams and her first feelings of the day.

  Although her sisters talk among themselves before and after meetings Sarah makes no social contact with them whatever. Her silence speaks volumes for her pain. The others see how low she is before the show, how heavy her mood, and sympathize. They don’t ask questions or pry into her personal life but support her by filling her in on a variety of ways to help put herself in the present. “From now on, Sister Bharani-Sarah, when the world gets you down and you want to escape to the fruited plane on your own, try putting your head south, between your own legs …” She also learns something of the art of meditation from her fellow fruits and nuts.

  Inclined to poses, anyway, Sarah starts her yoga just after her daybreak jottings. Every morning she twists, flexes, and arches her spine, making the motion toward coming to face her basic nature. She also meditates, trying to get her understanding beyond her flesh and bones, toward the center in her Whole Being. She takes Keinar’s advice and starts to model herself in mind on some of the saints she hears about at the meetings, particularly the Goddess of Wisdom and Compassion, “Bharani”, an ideal rather than a historical personage. At first it seemed ironic to her that Lord Z would mix her up with this paragon of unselfish virtue, but in some small measure, by sitting still in bed and simply watching her breathing, visualizing herself as the Goddess, she does begin to find a grace and a generosity within.

  One quite ordinary Thursday evening, about six-thirty, for a moment while she is alone polishing her nails, time stands still. Her depression lifts and she is conveyed to a meeting frame of mind, sharply aware of the transient nature of the individual in the immense fabric of time and space, the vanity of life, and how ugliness and beauty go hand in hand.

  This world of everyday life is the real fiction, she sees, only the shadow of the source field where Z Bharavi leads, and even that, the fruited plane, passes. Fleetingness is at the heart of every phase of the existence, birth, death, and all points in the Between.

  The Goddess pictures her body as being the enfolding petals of the void, holding within it the blossom of the Light that makes all things clean. In due time, she reflects, I will die, the bud will open, and in dying I will live.

  A fiber breaks in the bond that ties her to the buck. Still mired in darkness, nonetheless she sees a light, faint as a distant star, a pin prick hole at the end of the tunnel. Her Cornie is gone, gone forever. She knows it and knows she knows it in her heart, and while by no means does she rejoice in it—indeed, as Gloria grows older and more inquisitive Sarah’s dread over their eventual confrontation increases—yet she does take solace in the certainty that there is an imperishable brightness, a flame, at the core of life, and Corn Dog is in it. And in more than a manner of speaking so is she, for it underlies all life in this world, and in the end consumes it. She knows for certain her goal of liberation exists: freedom is merely an uninhibited acceptance of the chains of life.

  She gives thanks to Z for her new awareness and her heart of light, and to Madam Keinar and her sisters for teaching her the Craft, helping her moderate her obsessions, the doggedness of her drives toward the men of her dreams. Those ecstatic feelings she has at the meetings fade, but, increasingly, the insights linger. As through the week she finds herself in conflict, her chronic split state, she meditates religiously on the certainty of death and, with the sense of completion such thoughts give her, her focus shifts from what she lacks to what she is. As a sign of her inner self being filled, the tension in her heart passes before fatigue and withdrawal set in.

  The Horny God is less manifest every week. As the women’s internal perceptions build, the attendant external phenomena recede. They no longer need such marvelous signs as six-inch flaming monkeys hatching from crystal eggs over their heads. Soon, except for Keinar’s turning blue, there is little else to objectively indicate the nearness of Lord Z. He comes to each along her subtlest lines, and his Presence is felt all the more strongly for it.

  The fledgling Goddess of Compassion is fully aware that the splice of life does no stock plugging, that when he goes into the ears of her strange bedfellows, he stirs each to a different in-depth experience. The ring of women are all his wives, and he comes to each equally in the form she finds most exciting and desirable. Through this, Sarah is able to take an initiatory step on the path of power: she transposes the poisonous feelings of rivalry, jealou
sy, vanity, and alienation into ones of increased excitement. When she sees what used to be her seasoning alone pinching the other nuts in her bed, she channels her emotions, getting the better of them wherever she can by feeling the thrill of turning the other cheek. Jealousy sparks her appetite. She likens her adventures with Lord Z to those of her schoolgirl days when Shibbolite Elders gave polygamy their blessing, and she imagined, when the Lord of the Prophet took a poke at her, that he would just as soon poke any other girl who pleased him. Somehow it was his power that made him desirable. Now she feels that familiar force from Bharavi. It is natural for him to want to share himself. And she is exalted by sharing him, not unlike a Shibbolite wife whose husband takes another, treasuring the delicacy of the submission of the commonplace to the divine, of the suppliant before the celebrity. Who is she to tell the Ball of Heaven where to roll?

  On the other hand the balls of earth, the Swan family jewels, are her playthings.

  That less may mean more is a similar truth to grasp on the gut level than the idea that death may mean life. Thoughts of her own eventual demise fill Sarah with positive feelings about others. Trite but true, charity begins at home. Instead of worrying about the intrusion of Laudette, Keinar and the rest into her privacy, she remembers them with love in her daily prayers and meditations.

  After six weeks of meetings she has regained most of her peach flush and fresh-cream looks. Returning to her cosmetic ways with a cosmic consciousness, Sarah’s previous beauty is not only restored but developed. The sleek platinum luster is growing back on her head and with it her enjoyment of playing the role of siren: the classic, fatally attractive woman.

  Harry doesn’t press her in her social obligation to be a beautiful young piece on his arm, and bring him the public appearance of a successful marriage. The real Sarah is the one he sees, and he is satisfied that she makes a point of keeping up appearances for him in private. Otherwise, were he to dwell on the whole, he would still have to think that the woman he married, ravishing sweet beauty that she is, has an oddly stretched imagination, and might still, by society’s standards, be considered a candidate for the funny farm. But where looks are concerned, (and in the playboy’s book looks and sex appeal are synonymous) when he sees his fair, statuesque, poetry-breasted wife, in the mood for love, he thinks of her as anything but funny.

  She pities Harry for his total superficiality. She sees in him herself as she used to be: shallow, with thoughts only on the trivial, rather than contemplating the mystery of life and death. Harry’s joviality, his manner of cultivated naivete, his easy take on this vale of tears, his unquestioning belief in the illusion of this world, annoy her. Damn, Harry never seems to suffer. He takes things at face value, does everything he can to pursue pleasure and avoid pain. She looks down on him, and looks down on her looking down on him. She begins to understand that in her flip-floppy body chemistry this abhorrence she feels for the man who adores her spawns a sexual warmth in them both, a gift from Lord Z. It’s almost like being in love.

  More than ever before she understands that attractiveness is power. Taking semi-honest looks at her split, the pea can better accept the part of her that likes being a model. She enjoys showing off her perfection. Love is a game of beauty and the beast. No harm is done by her being something fine to behold. To entertain herself as much as her husband, she refurbishes her wardrobe, fills her closets with racks of elegant bed jackets, kimonos, and lounging robes. Once again the Peach of Zion walks the primrose path. She flatters herself and the giver by wearing whatever jewelry, perfume, and clothing her husband’s tribute sprees bestow on her. Once more the rival of any depression-era silver screen goddess, disguised as a strange and beautiful queen every night, she carries both husband and herself beyond any lick of routine sex. Their marriage bed is never dull for they feel themselves outside it even though they are in it.

  In the museum the split personality keeps her furs, fleeces, skins, and fine feathers locked in the large walk-in storage closet behind the hall of mirrors, the same one which houses her adult books. This vault is a sepulcher and a wardrobe, a death row embodying her naked shame, a temple to her fetishes and taboos, a shrine for the sacred relics of mink, alligator, lynx, marabou, fox, iguana, kid, lamb, stone marten and more—alongside scripture, poetry, music, philosophy, magic, and sex. She recalls how her Cornie would dress himself in buckskin without blame and be in contact with the animal spirit. By the same token she sees no reason why she can’t get into the spirit of a leopard-skin coat and some alligator shoes. It is in loving memory of him, a friend of the animals, that she consigns the animals’ remains in with her most precious, prized books.

  When huge wooden crates arrive which bear the playboy’s hunting trophies, he thinks they belong in the great hall, in between the stations of Saint Stanislaus, Supper Bowls I through XIV, but Sarah insists they be put into storage with her furs. Harry balks, but the seductive peach whispers suggestively how they might be used on occasion to prop up their love life. Whatever fetishes excite her excite him. That night she wheels out a taxidermied grizzly carcass to watch over them as they sport.

  In May she comes to the first anniversary of Corn Dog’s death. She considers the enormity of her transgression, and feels sorrow and remorse, and although she still wishes, for the sake of justice, she were dead, she can actually say that she is glad to be among the living.

  What a year of growth it’s been! Praise the Lord for he has led me to find love in my heart in the worst of circumstances!

  Allergic to Horses

  All the women see the miraculous restoration of their Sister Sarah’s appearance. They praise their Z God as The Great Preservative and beseech him, in his compassion and wisdom and power, to shower them, too, with long-lasting youth and good looks. Laudette would rather not think about it, but she prays she might lose some weight, and the following day she notices a decrease in her appetite. Two eggs at breakfast seem more than enough and she is not tempted to eat again all morning. The change terrifies her so much she eats four pounds of baloney sandwiches for lunch to break the spell, all the while cursing Lord Z as the devil for what he had almost done to her, and praying to Emanual X more fervently than ever, for he had never answered her prayers to be thinner and she has faith he will not start now. She would rather discontinue going to meetings than suffer any decrease in her mammoth appetite. Still, the meetings are exciting and she cannot give them up all at once. For a time she serves two Masters. When she climbs into bed with the ring of witches, she is guarded even as she feels herself slip into a light trance. But in the thirteenth week, the tail end of May, comes the meeting when the women have a vivid dream collectively: the Master initiates them into a vocabulary of sacred syllables whose sound is more significant than their sense. Of course such power words cannot be repeated in front of the uninitiated. In the Craft tradition, the special formulae you learn in your trances work as long as you do not go chirping them out loud in public.

  Art in Heaven respects the secret oral traditions which say, quite loudly and straightforwardly, No Unauthorized Personnel. Of course, as a result of his clip from heaven, my brother can be everywhere, see everything, and make whatever slips of the lips he fancies. When he keeps secrets it’s not because the dictates of heaven prevent him from speaking freely, it’s because knowledge of the mystery cannot be derived from books, although words can point to it by referring to themselves. These things are secrets less because the insider is not at liberty to reveal them, but because we outside, or who think we are outside, the hour of our death, refuse to understand that which we dread and wish to have no experience of. It does not matter if you chee-chee “cheese” or say the seven super-refined syllables, the process of illumination goes on as long as you are consistent and repeat yourself.

  Now when Miss Lord receives her special guardian sounds, she says, “Thank you, Your Hairy Tunaship, but no thank you. I know when I’ve had enough Ping Pong. I admit I’ve seen and heard some remarkable things he
re. But it just so happens that I believe more in faith than in experience. And my faith is in Emanual. I’ve said the Lord’s Prayer just as the Dipster taught me ever since I was a little girl and I reckon I’ll stick with it. And I don’t want to be sounding like a spoilsport, but these stories are a little risky for my blood. I don’t know if X told bawdy stories, but I don’t imagine, with His friends being fishermen and prostitutes and tax collectors and such, that He didn’t hear them on occasion. Still, I’ll bet He just turned the other cheek when someone tried to bend His ear about some frisky business. Yes, the Bread of my life is seasoned with the Salt of the Earth and I don’t think my heart can take so much extra spice on it. Besides I’ve got work to do. If this place is not going to be a haunted house, I’ll be damned if it’s going to look like one.”

  Amen and allelujah! Laudette, the pit the fruit and nut meetings were formed around, does exactly what she’s supposed to do. She kicks the habit, leaves the coven physically but remains in the wings, to serve as its thirteenth wheel, the supernumerary, the often overlooked but essential ground nut in the human network crystal, the one who starts it, the one who exists outside of it to protect and preserve it, and in the end the one who will bring it to dissolution. In the meanwhile, she serves as general contractor and interior designer for the museum.

  The summer and fall pass. In December, as they approach the first anniversary of their being in the house the place still has some way to go before the renovation is complete. The details created by Sarah’s notion to keep up as much of what is old as is practical and try to make the new fit in with it create a task of trial by endless detail for the conscientious Laudette. In addition, the Swans have never hired a household staff. Harry hasn’t been able to get Heidi and Bridget, the two servants in the Emmenthal country house who turned out to be his sister’s spies, out of his mind. And although the playboy does not consider himself above cooking or cleaning up, his housekeeping standards are so far beneath the cleanly Miss Lord’s that much of that work falls in her lap.