Page 33 of An Immaculate Deception

Guided by the flickering glow of the candle, I slip into the dim corridor. I grasp the banister as I climb down the stairs in slow, careful steps. The floor is cold on my bare feet. The flame of the candle falters, as though fighting against a light wind, but I don’t feel anything. A faint stale smell hangs in the air, like champagne and perfume and wine, remnants of recent gatherings. Doctor Lobo seems the type who likes to entertain, and who would be at the center of his lavish parties.

There isn’t a soul in sight.

I hear the noise: a faint buzzing. Perhaps it is only air moving through wooden panels, or bats trapped in the attic. Some wind tunnel playing tricks on my mind, just like the vision of that reptilian beast that plagued my dreams earlier. Mother says I am prone to idle fantasies. I can’t discern the true nature of the sound, but I have an instinct to follow it. I feel the hum of his voice under my skin, pulsing, calling to me.

I notice an old-fashioned daguerreotype photograph framed on the wall. It depicts a group of people dressed up, at a party of sorts, in this house. For all his talk of travels, medicine, and philosophy, he speaks surprisingly little of his own personal life. I don’t even know his first name. I’ve assumed him a single man, but maybe he is married with children. Maybe he has another house somewhere. That is what men do, isn’t it? Mother said one of my uncles on my father’s side has a separate house that he uses only for his mistress, and his wife knows about it. I always picture this second home being in Boa Viagem, facing the ocean. If I were a man and I had a secret love shack, it would face the ocean.

As I peer at the photograph, I notice something peculiar. Several of the women wear dresses with wide mutton sleeves similar to the dress Leandro gave me. Which I suspect belonged to the foul woman…I don’t know what to make of this. Are these people from a different country? It makes sense, considering how well traveled the doctor is. I bring the candle close to the image to inspect it. I look at the women’s faces, searching for something special, a je ne sais quoi about any of them. Wondering if one of them could be the mysterious woman from Leandro’s past. But they’re just…women. There are three of them and nine men. Doctor Lobo stands in the center, beaming. In the bottom corner, there are words written in tiny letters. I bring the candle closer to it and read: The Hermetic Order of the Shining Light.

I look around for more pictures, but don’t see any others along the wall. I slide into the nearest room, his study. Study is perhaps the wrong word; it is a spacious library with tall ceilings and plush Persian rugs, towering bookshelves filled with heavy volumes. I wave the candle over shelves of books that look like they have been here for generations. There are also all manner of peculiar and interesting artifacts: a small rosewood compartment chest filled with thin bags of loose-leaf tea, a tea caddy of sorts, a glazed redware crock and a carved wood candle box, another wooden box filled with pine cutlery. I shake a brass oilcan in my hand, not even sure what I’m expecting to find in it.

A leather-bound manuscript on his desk grabs my eyes. It has a peculiar cover with no title or images on it. When I open it, the first page is blank except for a handwritten line at the bottom, which reads: This manuscript is forbidden to all but the initiated members of the H.O.S.L. The letters within almost seem to be inscribed by hand, like the manuscripts of the past, but it is hard for me to tell under the feeble candlelight.

I hesitate. Mother says ladies should not fill their heads with useless knowledge. But the memory is stale as a decades-old pamphlet. What is she so afraid of me learning? Following her rules, following all their rules, has led me only to ruin and misery.

Perhaps it’s time to break the rules.

I do not fear the unknown. I feel called to it.

I inspect the contents. Parts of it are written in a foreign tongue while other pages contain symbols and drawings with inscriptions. There are diagrams of the world, the spheres of Jupiter and Saturn inhabited by the hierarchies of the angels, astronomical charts, depictions of the fall of Adam, cosmic eggs, and cryptic geometric engravings. There are charts for solar and lunar eclipses, mystic enneagrams, ornate hieroglyphs, and the universe depicted as a river of space and time. I find myself sinking into the images. When the concepts are too esoteric for me to understand, still they draw me in, like obscure verses that transcend the intellect and speak directly to the spirit.

I come upon a striking image that makes me still. It is a circular ladder like the one in my dream, depicted in brilliant shades of gold and orange. There are angelic beings on the ladder, which ascends to Heaven. The attribution reads: William Blake, Jacob’s Ladder, c. 1800. And beside it, a biblical quote: A ladder appeared to Jacob in a dream, and the top of it reached to heaven: and the angels of God were going up and down on it. Genesis 28:12. This is accompanied by an image of the anatomy of the inner ear. Juxtaposed against Jacob’s ladder, it is clear that the spiral shape of the ladder mirrors the spiral shape of the inner ear.

I shift my attention to some highlighted passages:

The truest magic is not what takes place within the bounds of the Flaming Pentagon, but the transformation that occurs inside the Convert, and that is inner alchemy.

Most people seek to understand the truths of their world and find their place in it. But the visionary is one who creates truths and who carves the reality of their world by the power of their vision.

One section is heavily annotated, titled “Ascension Through the Ranks.”

Just as the soul rises through the nine steps of the empyrean ladder to reach the heavenly realm, so, too, do the members of the H.O.S.L. ascend through nine ranks to achieve mastery. To ascend to a higher rank, a member must prove readiness before two witnesses. Members of the inner circle must bear witness.

Only the truly worthy reach the final ninth rank, which is that of Magus. It is at this level that admittance to the inner circle occurs, and the ancient secrets are made known.

At the bottom, there is a handwritten annotation:

Feb 5: Witnesses have been notified.

My reading is interrupted by the sound. A buzzing like before, only this time slightly louder and more distinct. It’s not in my imagination, it’s real. I stand and listen. It seems to be coming from inside the walls. I follow the sound, my feet guiding me to the far corner of the room. I come to a bookshelf and run my fingers over the dusty spines. If there ever has been a house which is the type to have a secret room hidden behind bookshelves, it’s this one. I probe between rows of books and behind them, feeling for latches or notches, searching in every crevice for disturbances in the wood. I search along the perimeter, but I don’t detect anything. Yet as I wave the candle over the bookshelf, searching, I become more and more convinced that the buzzing sound is his voice.

You hear my voice.

I am so close. I pull books off the shelves, but find only empty spaces. I swipe my finger on the back panel and it comes off dusty and makes me sneeze. I hear his voice; I am certain of it. He is behind this wall. I bang my fist against the wall, drop the candle, and the light goes out.

Darkness fills the room.

I feel my way back to the writing desk. Given the oil lamp on the desk, there must be a matchbox nearby. I pull open the drawer and feel all the objects in it, one by one, until I find the matchbox. I strike a match and a thin flame comes to life. I light the candle.

From this angle, I see something I did not notice before. Next to the bookshelves stands a row of lush deep-green wide-leaved houseplants. Could it be? I spring to my feet. I move all the plants out of the way, one by one, frantically. Now I see it: the frame of a small door, shorter than a normal door, the kind you might find in an attic. It is painted the same dark green as the wallpaper, so it almost disappeared behind the houseplants. The handle is discreet, too, but when I turn it, the door opens. I step inside.

18

I am in a chamber that is unlike any place I’ve ever seen before. It is dark all around except for the center, which pulses with light from a ring of a dozen brilliant burning torches. They surround a pentagram drawn on the floor in white and blue chalk. I see now why the book called it a flaming pentagram. The massive torches are the only light source in the room and greatly illuminate the center; but the edges of the chamber, where the light doesn’t reach, are so dark that I cannot make out any walls. This creates the illusion that the flaming pentagram is rising out of an abyss.

He sits on the pentagram, robed and hooded, with his back to me. Before him, a podium bears a heavy book. The flames cast dancing shadows all around him.

He doesn’t turn around. I’m not sure he knows I am here. I open my mouth to call out to him, then suddenly the door falls shut behind me. I startle. From the inside, it doesn’t even look like a door. I don’t discern any handles. I am puzzling over this when I hear his voice.