Chapter One
The Dark Side of the Moon
* * *
If a man could pass through Paradise in a dream,
and have a flower presented to him as a pledge
that his soul had really been there,
and if he found that flower in his hand when he awoke
—Ay! and what then?
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Anima Poetae
In dreams begins responsibility.
—William Butler Yeats, Responsibilities
Moonlight filters in through the city skylight. The air is fragrantwith the scent of flowers and the smoke of burning incense.Candles flicker and glow, bathing our bodies in golden light.Holding hands, we begin a quiet chant: "Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate,Demeter, Kali, Inanna...." Singing the names of ancient goddesses,our voices blend and rise, our bodies sway and dance, faster and faster wecircle.
The room around us blurs, the earth slips away beneath our feet andwe are spinning together, weaving a wild and timeless web of energy.Suddenly the circle stops. Our arms fly upward, the power we have raisedshoots from our fingertips into the night sky above. A shout explodes fromour lips, then disappears into the thinnest whisper of breath.
I inhale slowly, feeling the energy rushing through me. I have neverfelt so alive. I look around the circle of women who stand with me—theireyes full of fire, skin flushed and glowing, their hair dancing about theirradiant faces. "Thou art Goddess," the woman next to me says. "Thou artGoddess," I reply and turn to send the blessing around our circle.
Our magic is done.
I awoke that Monday morning to the perfume of roses filling my room,a silver mantle of moonlight draped across my bed. I reached for thepen and notebook on my nightstand. The images were already disappearingas the words appeared on the page. I sat, head in hands, graspingfor wisps of my evaporating dream. Isis! There it was again—thename had been floating in and out of my sleeping and waking consciousnessfor weeks, weaving a spell of strange anticipation. I knewonly that Isis was an ancient Egyptian goddess, but her name reverberatedinside of me, as if it were a magic word that could unlock the doorsof paradise.
Outside, a siren shattered the sleepy morning. I threw off the coversand went to my window. Across the street, an ambulance and a policecar pulled to the curb, their red lights flashing. A small crowd gatheredon the sidewalk below, drawn by the magnetism of calamity, or the fearthat it could be someone they knew. Though it was early, New Yorknever fully slept and I could see those who'd been up all night, or whohad reason to rise before dawn—Mr. Rocco on the way to his bakeryaround the corner on Bleecker Street; Mr. Tomanello coming homefrom the late shift; and the old women, in their black dresses, clusteredlike crows portending a final journey.
A feeling of sadness pressed in upon me as I pictured a man, perhapsin his late sixties, or just prematurely aged by a hard life of too manydisappointments, a weekend's worth of grizzle still on his chin, an oldT-shirt stretched across his belly. His wife stood in their bedroom doorwaywearing a robe covered with vivid roses. She shook with grief as twoyoung men in white uniforms settled a clear plastic mask over her husband'sface. A name flashed in my mind: Paul Berzini. As a student, Ilived on the periphery of this community, but two weeks ago, my neighborRenata had told me that Berzini's wife was afraid he was going tolose his job as an insurance salesman. He'd worked thirty years for thecompany, and was too old to be hired by another. The recession of theseventies was still taking its toll.
Somehow I knew what I had imagined was real. Staring at the oldapartment building, a wave of fear overwhelmed me. It was too muchpain and I pushed it away, raising my eyes westward, toward a river Icould not see. Scanning a black asphalt landscape, I looked for the fewrooftop gardens that grew red tomatoes, yellow sunflowers, and hope,until the sense of panic faded. A vivid blur of blue landed on my fireescape—the blue jay that visited every morning, screeching exuberantlyfor crusts of bread.
I checked the clock and realized I had only twenty minutes to get toclass. I rushed through my shower, threw on my clothes, and raceddown the stairs, almost crashing into Renata on the front stoop.
"Don't run like that, you'll live longer," Mrs. Tomanello chided me.She was a tough old bird, dressed in her perennial widow's garb. Herhusband had been a stonemason, and she lived in my building, in thesame apartment her husband had grown up in.
"So, Mikey's one of the cops, he told Tony it's Pauli Berzini—a heartattack. Poor Maria, what's she gonna do? Two sons dead in the war andnow this?" Renata crossed herself, a gesture quickly copied by the smallgathering of women who turned, as I did, to see the figure of a man,strapped to a gurney, being lifted into the ambulance.
"Blessed Mother," Mrs. Cardozi murmured, and the little prayer,like the invocatory gesture, rippled through the group.
"They'll be O.K.," I tried to reassure Renata. She nodded sadly and,knowing there was nothing to be done, I left, running down the blocktoward New York University Law School. Knowing my vision of whathad happened to Mr. Berzini was real, I felt myself caught between thepleasure that came with my strange new talent, and repulsion for whatit had shown me.
The visions had started a few months back—coming in psychicflashes, premonitions, and even precognitive dreams. It was 1978, myfinal year in law school, and while most of my fellow students werenarrowing their sights on which corporate or tax law firm they wanted towork for, my world was expanding in ways I could not comprehend.
My sixth sense had begun with small things—like knowing that thephone was going to ring before it did. And then knowing who was on theother end of the line. I knew the answers to a professor's questionswithout having read the assigned case law or text, and I often sensedwhat people were going to say before they spoke. And though it wastemporary, I had developed a photographic memory that allowed me toscan pages with tremendous speed, later calling them to mind as if theywere lying right in front of me.
I rushed beneath an arched gateway and through a courtyard intothe large brick building that housed the law school. Standing before abank of elevators in the lobby, instinctively knowing which set of doorswould open before me, I entered the elevator feeling as if the "normal"world had once again shifted, showing me a side of reality ordinarilyhidden from view. This ability to see the dark side of the moon wasthrilling, even when it was disturbing. It was the provocative opposite ofthe rules and regulations, the laws and codes that had, until recently,held my complete attention.
Perhaps it could be traced to the old Sicilian lady who lived and diedin my building, the one Mrs. Cardozi called a strega, whose powerfuland mysterious presence seemed to linger long after her soul left herbody. Perhaps it was triggered by the little bundle of blue corn andstrange herbs given to me by a young man who taught on a Hopi reservation.He had called it a medicine bundle, and told me it was given tohim by an elderly woman, with instructions to give it to the butterfly girlwho came to her in dreams seeking justice. There were times when Ithought it came from my practice of yoga, or from a contact high fromthe sweet-smelling marijuana smoke that curled out from beneath myroommates' doors when their boyfriends came to call.
It may have all started because deep within me, hidden somewherebeneath my well-trained, analytical mind, an instinct was guiding me tobreak out of the chrysalis of my rational self. And perhaps it was all inthe timing, for I later learned that others underwent similar epiphanicexperiences at that remarkable moment in time, when Jupiter and Saturnwere about to conjoin—an astrological occurrence that happensonce every twenty years, bringing a new spiritual vision.
Memory selects events with significance, discerning a pattern that isinvisible in the moment. I now know that my shift in consciousnesscame from a magical combination of all of these things, stirred togetherin the cauldron of a young woman on the threshold of life. What wasunique was not the latent gift, for I now know it resides within all of us,but my ability, my willingness, my desire to pay attention to the signsand summonings that drew it forth. But that year, all I knew was thatamazing things were happening, and the universe seemed alive andaware of my existence. It seemed to be sending me messages, as ifto guide me in a direction I'd never considered. The question was:where?
Once in class, I pushed my musing aside and concentrated on masteringthe intricacies of pension and welfare plans, for I had some plansof my own. I had accepted a position as legal director for a rank and fileunion reform group fighting against organized crime in their union. In afew months, after I passed the bar, I'd be heading to work in the group'smain office in Washington, D.C.
But the name Isis continued to echo through my mind, haunting meas I walked down the busy streets of Manhattan. She was a mysteriousfigure that beckoned to me, summoning me to steal an hour here orthere, during the day, between or after classes, to search for her name,her face, a clue to her meaning. I soon found myself among the ruinsand artifacts in the high marble halls of the Egyptian collection at theMetropolitan Museum of Art.
I stood for hours in a gallery of beautiful frescoes that climbed to theceiling. The colors were breathtaking—sea green and lapis lazuli blue,honey gold, and carnelian red. Women with wide jeweled collars andlong black hair, dressed in sarongs of pleated white linen, stared at mewith their large almond eyes across the abyss of time. I could hear thehypnotic shaking of their rattles, the sistrums in their hands, the tingof golden finger cymbals, the provocative, soul-summoning thock of drumsmade of hammered silver, ceramic fired mud of the fertile Nile, orcarved from the trunk of the fragrant myrrh tree in the shape of the fullmoon or a woman's body, and covered with antelope skin.
I envisioned these graceful women in their ancient serpentinedances of sex, death, and rebirth, the mysteries of the moon, of desireand the womb so powerful in its summoning forth. I longed to dancewith them in the presence of grand ibis, the birds with black beaks thatcurve like scimitars spearing fish in the emerald waters of the Nile. Isaw men with crescent horned oxen plowing brown fields, and everywhere,lotus flowers in colors of a desert rainbow. It felt vibrantly alive,the energy as vivid as the colors that dazzled me, and I was inexpressiblyhappy. The beauty there made it difficult to return to the canons of law,which seemed as dead and dusty as I had once thought the worldpainted on the museum's walls.
Long before I dreamed the name Isis, I had longed for the colors ofthe Nile. When I first moved into my West Village apartment over a yearbefore, I had painted my bedroom the very same coral I found on thesewalls. I hung posters on my wall with portraits of Egyptian priestessesand queens, papyrus fronds billowing in unseen breezes, and lotus budslooking like spherical dreams waiting to be opened. I slept onterra-cotta-colored sheets marked with ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. Thesesilent symbols of venerable magic, these incantations of reincarnationand ecstasy, which I could not read with my waking mind, summonedthe part of me that walked in dreams each night.
In those dreams I found truths and precognitions I could not havelogically foretold—the sudden death of a beloved aunt, the return of along-lost friend, my father's recovery from a coma. There was also aterrifying nightmare about an accident that appeared in the headlinesthe next morning. And several times I had the same mysterious dreamin which I felt more awake than asleep: Each time it began, I was alonein a great hall. Music like rippling water filled the room, and a womansat before me. Her face was pensive and serene; a book lay open in herlap. A shining light crowned her head and a necklace with a six-pointedstar hung at her throat. The power that radiated from her crown and herthroat became so bright I was momentarily blinded. I blinked and shewas gone. Who was she? I wondered. Could she be Isis?
I searched my memory for answers, but it seemed they came to meonly in the dark cave of sleep, when the portal opens into a mysteriousrealm of power. In our dreams, we willingly pass through to the otherside, journey to far-off places, encounter demons and lovers, fly likebirds, and swim like dolphins. We learn a language of symbols, andspirits speak to us, guiding our waking days, though we may not rememberwhen the sun rises why we suddenly know the truth or choose anunexpected path. We are rewarded with signs and talismans that transformour waking world with the magic of dreams come true. And oneday, we awaken at the precise moment when the moon sets and the sunrises and we realize that new life begins with a dream.
I turned twenty-five during my last term of law school, and among mybirthday gifts I received a biography of the actor James Dean, whowas also born on February 8. I longed to sit in the park and read, but itwas a bitter cold day and so I took it with me to the MetropolitanMuseum. I sat in the cafe, reading, when a quote from The EgyptianBook of the Dead rose startlingly from the page: "Give to me my mouththat I may speak with it. May I follow my heart at its season of fire andnight, they come forth the souls upon earth...."
I felt as if I'd opened a time capsule and found a note from Isis withmy name on it. And the added coincidence of finding those words at themuseum thrilled me. From the collection's statues and artifacts, I knewthat Isis was a mother who suckled her son as she sat upon a throne,she carried emblems of divine power, wore a crown of vulture's wingsand a serpent's head, was glorious and beautiful. But I longed for more.
The next day, during a break between classes, I ran to the undergraduatelibrary and quickly prowled between the bookcases until Ifound my quarry—The Egyptian Book of the Dead, translated by E. A.Wallis Budge. The leather binding of the ancient edition cracked open,and the afternoon quickly fell away. I missed my classes, caught in thespell of the enchanting prose. Carefully turning the yellowed pages, Iread of how Isis—goddess, wife, sister, and Witch—journeyed to theUnderworld and by her magic restored life to her beloved husband, thelost and sundered god Osiris.
My law books remained closed that night as I read Isis's lamentationfor the death of Osiris. I traveled with her into the nether realms to healhis wounded form, journeyed through the rich Nile valley and throughthe desert gathering the thirteen pieces of Osiris's body that had beentorn asunder by his envious and angry brother, Set. I watched as sheknelt above his lifeless body, heard her voice singing riddles of rebirth,saw her hair spill forth to shield them from view as she worked hermagic. I marveled at ancient mysteries and the magical powers of lovethat could summon back life from the realms of death. But still I wonderedwhat these lost miracles had to do with me.
In the past, everything about my life had been thoughtful and sensible.My parents were intellectuals who had left the superstitious constraintsof religion behind them long ago. As a young girl, I rememberasking my mother whether we believed in God. She replied that webelieved in the goodness of the human heart and, when I grew up, Icould find out for myself whether God existed. I was satisfied with heranswer and lived my life as I had been raised—by the Golden Rule andthe basic conviction that human beings were responsible for their owndestinies. Life was what we made of it and it was up to all of us, together—notsome distant God—to create the promised land here onearth for everyone.
But though my parents' moral beliefs were founded in reason, theywere still two of the most spiritual people I had ever known. I'd learnedfrom example as they practiced their beliefs. My father, who'd gone tosea at the age of twelve, was a union organizer; my mother was a diplomatwho, despite her wealthy upbringing, was part of the early fight forracial equality. I'd been raised with Woody Guthrie and the MetropolitanOpera, John Steinbeck and William Shakespeare, in a family thatdefied the boundaries of class, religion, and race. As my parents had, Idefined myself by my intellectual capacities and convictions. I studiedphilosophy at Brown University and attended one of the top law schoolsin the country.
My idealism, and my career choice, seemed resolutely sensible:Democratic unions meant a democratic society, and an agenda of socialjustice was the only rational course for a great nation. My recentpsychic experiences, however, were not "sensible." They were extrasensory,and the world I lived in had no explanation for them. And so I keptmy secrets to myself.
I was unaware that I was experiencing a shamanic break—a breakwith the socially defined reality opening to the greater reality of a sacred,living universe. Some Native Americans, and Witches, would describeit as "a calling." Aldous Huxley referred to these experiences asan opening of "the doors of perception." In other cultures, otherepochs, I would have been swiftly sent off to study with the villageshaman, or to attend the college of priestesses. Or I might have beenburned at the stake. But this was New York City in the 1970s. I'd beentoo young for the psychedelic sixties, I'd never read Carlos Castaneda,and Esalen was a world away in California. I had no frame of referencefor understanding or cultivating what was happening to me. Yet becausemy psychic flashes were objectively borne out by events, I turned toscience for sensible and rational explanations.
Between classes I returned to the undergraduate library. In books onphysics, the original "natural science" devoted to the study of matterand energy, I read that physicists had discovered a new level of reality.Underlying the three-dimensional, physical world described by Newton'sLaws, they found an "invisible" realm, a quantum level of subatomicparticles and energy. It is a realm that underlies, pervades, andforms the world we "see" and live in each day.
At the quantum level, everything is interconnected energy, evenmatter. Quantum reality is another level of existence, another dimension.Here the energy field is the underlying order, a hidden orshadow reality of our daily lives. We see solid material objects as separatedfrom one another—a rock, a table, a human being—but onthe quantum level, they are all actually bundles of vibrating, interactingenergy. And though we perceive them to exist separately, theseenergies—the rocks and tables and ourselves—are interconnected. AsEinstein said, "Our separation from each other is an optical illusionof consciousness."
Even more extraordinarily, I learned that quantum physics experimentshave shown that we can influence objects, even people, andevents in ways I never imagined. Science opened the doors of my perceptionto an astonishing reality: The role of the human mind in thisrealm goes far beyond that of an analytical tool. Experiments have actuallyproven that we can influence the movement of subatomic particles.In other words, the experimenter can directly affect the outcome of theexperiment, through thought and will alone. Our simple observationsand our expectations of subatomic particles will alter their course. Themagic of yesterday is today's science.
I sat at my desk with a pile of physics books to the right, law books tothe left, and The Egyptian Book of the Dead in the center. Though it wasthree o'clock in the morning, I was unable to sleep, awestruck at theimplications. With unrealized powers, we create our reality in virtuallymagical ways. But what of the longings of the heart, and the fears thatlurked in the shadows? What realities would they create?
With growing excitement I learned that my experiences reflected anentirely different set of rules about reality. These rules defied theexpectations with which we were all raised, and by which we lived. And moreimportant, physics provided a hook for me to hang up my skeptic's hat.Like a child whose storybook had suddenly come alive before her, I hadstumbled into a universe of astonishing possibility. Still, sciencecouldn't help me explain the quality of my experiences—why the worldwas now intoxicatingly alive, full of wonder and miracles, strange eventsand shimmering beauty. Most exhilarating of all was the unshakablefeeling of a presence observing, accompanying, and even guiding me. Ibegan to sense I was in touch with an élan vital, an intelligent andcreative universe.
There were times when I felt the universe come to me like amother's encompassing embrace, and other moments when it seemed tobe the enchanting magnetism of a lover's presence. But why theseevents were happening to me, what they meant, and what role I playedin them as the "experimenter," remained a mystery.
After my graduation, I studied intensely for the bar exam, marvelingat the usefulness of my enhanced memory. When the exams wereover, I packed and left for Washington, D.C. But, once there, I missedNew York and soon realized I dearly missed the magic I had left behind,for the premonitions, dreams, and insights had stopped. Pushing asidemy disappointment at having the door to this other world closed, Ihoped it was only a matter of time before it would open again. In themeantime, I threw myself into my work with complete devotion. Like somany young idealists who head to our capital, I was determined to helpmake a difference for those who lived in the shadow of the Americandream.
With a religious zeal, I lobbied Congress, counseled drivers withproblems in their locals, and testified before congressional committeeson the appalling absence of truck and bus safety and the devastatingdamage to the health of drivers. I consulted with lawyers about litigationto clean up the union, dealt with the press, worked on grant proposalsand legislation for workers' health and safety, and traveled thecountry on organizing drives, urging union members to battle forchange. Unfortunately, less than a year after I'd begun, the Washingtonoffice was closed and my job was sacrificed in a merger of reform organizations,victim to budget cuts, differing priorities, and most of all,politics, of which sexual politics was certainly a part.
A shadow had fallen on my idealistic expectations, and though disappointed,I was also relieved to return to New York City. I now knew lifewithout magic was no longer enough for me. So I settled into a tinystudio apartment, and waited for the magic to begin. I went back to thefoundation I'd worked for in law school. I filed briefs to democratizecorrupt unions, wrote articles, organized plaintiffs from around thecountry for lawsuits. And I waited.
Months passed without sign or stirring of enchantment. Maybe themagic needed jump starting, I thought, so I began to hang out at rockand roll clubs like CBGB's and Max's Kansas City, rubbing elbows withthe Lower East Side's black-clad punks and rockers. It was a culture ofrebels who knew that music could be a magic carpet to a world ofpassionate intensity. And there was always the hope that my romanticdreams might materialize in human form, wearing old blue jeans and abeat-up leather jacket, with a light in his eyes and a heart full of poetry.It was an instinctual choice to roam among this crowd, and though Icouldn't prove it yet, I was certain that passion, music, and magic wereinextricably interwoven.
I soon found myself managing a band. After finishing up work, Iwould head for the Music Building, an old warehouse on Eighth Avenue,alive with the sounds of all kinds of bands rehearsing: heavy metal,rhythm and blues, punk, new wave, and rockabilly. It was a scene, vitaland alive, full of raucous jubilation and the rapture of amazing harmony.I accompanied my band to gigs or hung out with musicians untildawn. Many nights I crashed on a mattress on the floor of the rehearsalstudio, and made love with my new boyfriend, a volatile and handsomeleft-handed drummer. In the morning, I donned my business attire andraced off to fight corruption in trade unions. But though the music wasmagical, and the work was gratifying, there was still no magic withinme.
And then the music brought Sophia to me. She arrived in the MusicBuilding like a messenger sent to set me back on course. We hit it offright away, hanging out on the third floor where the band she managedrented a space. Equipment was jammed all along the walls and therewere piles of clothes scattered around the floor, soda bottles, the usualmess made by lost boys. Sophia and I were a couple of Wendys, but wedrew the line at cleaning up after them. Sharp as a tack, Sophia wasfunny and hip. But there was one odd thing about Sophia: She calledherself a Witch, a white Witch.
My parents had taught me not to judge by labels, for beneath stereotypesthere was often a very different reality. I decided to ignore thisone, to dismiss it as an idiosyncrasy. And then one afternoon while wewere waiting for the roadies to load her band's gear for a gig downtown,my curiosity overwhelmed me and I finally asked her: "So exactly whatis this Witch thing?"
Sophia dropped into the sagging couch at the front of her studio anda cloud of dust lifted into the air.
"First of all," she said, "before I can tell you what it is, I have toexplain what it isn't. It has nothing to do with Satanism. That was acompletely false accusation made by the Church in an effort to suppressthe Old Religion. They called it Satanism and that justified theiruse of torture and violence to do away with the competition."
I nodded. I was all too familiar with the practice, and consequences,of witch-hunts. "Go on."
"The word Witch comes from an old Anglo-Saxon word wicce.” Shepronounced this word just as she said the word Witch, adding a soft a tothe end of it. "It meant a wise one, a seer, a shaman. And, it may alsoreflect an old Nordic word, vitke, which meant a singer of sacred songs.The Old Religion is a lot like Native American spirituality—it's theindigenous earth religion of Europe. There's a Goddess as well as aGod, and everything that exists in nature is experienced as sacred, aspart of the Goddess, and the God. There are also remnants of the MysterySchools of ancient Greece and Egypt in Wiccan cosmology."
"Mystery Schools?" I asked, my attention caught by her mention ofgoddesses and Egypt. I thought of Isis, my dreamkeeper.
"Yes, they were the dominant religious traditions for several thousandyears throughout Greece and the rest of the Fertile Crescent. TheMystery Schools centered on the worship of the Great Goddess. Theirprimary mythos was the story of the Goddess's descent into the Underworldand her divine gifts of restoring life to the world."
It was Isis's story. A thrill shot through me with the hope that mymagic was returning.
"Anyway, the way we practice now has remnants of ceremonial traditionsthat sought to preserve those mysteries, and the folk practiceswhich are very shamanic."
"Shamanic? You means like shamanism, European shamanism?"
Sophia nodded.
I knew from my college anthropology classes that shamanism was anancient religious practice that enabled the shaman, or "medicine man,or woman" to enter a state of ecstatic consciousness. He, or she, wouldthen receive the aid and guidance of spirit helpers, who often came tothe shaman in the form of an animal. My excitement grew as we discussedhow, in this state of ecstatic consciousness, the shaman coulddiagnose and heal illness, commune with the divine, and receive informationabout practical matters such as where to hunt, plant, or live. Ihad read that shamanism was practiced throughout the world by indigenouspeoples, such as Native Americans, Aborigines, Africans, the Inuit(Eskimos), Lapps, Siberians, Hawaiians, Tahitians, Japanese, and others.But I'd never realized Europeans had also practiced shamanism.
"Do you belong to a ... coven?" I hesitated saying it, anxious athow quickly dark and frightening images came to my mind.
Sophia shook her head. "No, I prefer to work alone. But I knowsome other Witches, if you'd like to meet them. They're mostly hidden,for obvious reasons, but there are certain ... portals."
I smiled. "No thanks. One Witch in my life is more than enough forme."
"You'd be surprised," she said mysteriously, and got up to let theroadies in.
I let the subject drop, feeling too awkward to ask more questions infront of others, unable to understand how a bright person like Sophiacould be involved in anything so ... offbeat. I could accept her explanationthat it had nothing to do with Satanism, but what about castingspells on people, and riding on broomsticks, and magical potions,and ... still, I respected her and enjoyed her company. Who knew,maybe there was more to Witchcraft than met the eye. And certainly,when I thought of Witchcraft I thought of magic—perhaps knowingSophia would lure the magic back into my life.
A month later, I woke up with a stiff neck to the sound of unfamiliarvoices and the smell of strong coffee. Where am I? I wondered, groggy withsleep. And then it came back to me with a rush of sadness: Lastnight I'd finally broken up with my boyfriend and Sophia had let mecrash on her couch. She was standing over me with a cup of steamingjava.
"Good morning. I've got an idea. Have you ever had your cardsread?"
I shook my head. It was too early for this stuff. It was too early to beconscious. It was Saturday, and I just wanted to sleep.
"Well, I want you to meet Maia. I called her and she says she canread you this morning."
Too tired to protest, I murmured my assent, then left the room totake a quick shower. I want to go home, I thought as I dressed. Actually,though, I didn't want to be alone. We were headed out the door when Iremembered my silver and jade ring. Sophia had taken it from me lastnight to "charge" on her altar and, while it sounded a little weird, Ihumored her. I had watched as she slipped it onto a long willow branchtied with feathers and bells that jingled softly as she handled it. Sheplaced the wand, with my ring, on a small table beside her bed. It waslow to the floor, covered with a pink silk scarf. Spiraling nautilus shellsand roses, gemstones, crystals, and a statue of a female figure were alsocarefully arranged on the table. As I drifted off to sleep on the couchthe night before, I could have sworn I heard the sound of women'svoices singing, and laughing.
"Here it is." Sophia raced back and handed my ring to me. I slippedit on the third finger of my right hand. I shook my hand, my eyesopening wide in disbelief—my finger was tingling with electricity.
"Come on. We don't want to be late," Sophia said, smiling at myastonishment. She lived in the Village, not far from my old apartment.We quickly walked up Sixth Avenue, turning off onto a block in theupper teens.
We stopped in front of the last place on earth I would expect to findmyself—on an incidental side street, in front of a dusty storefront window,and beneath a long green banner with large, gold, Gothic lettering:MAGICAL CAULDRON. I peered into the dusty window and saw a smallblack cauldron, a statue of an Egyptian goddess, and bookcovers withstrange markings. There were decks of Tarot cards, an odd assortmentof silver jewelry, green stone scarabs, and a large crystal ball. A broomwith a rough-hewn handle and long yellow straw leaned against theglass. And in the middle of all this was an apparition, a face that appearedand disappeared as swiftly as the clouds racing across the sky. Iblinked, and there it was staring back at me—my own startled facereflected in the plate glass. Joke's on me, I thought. Then I looked downand found myself standing in the middle of a large symbol that lookedlike a medieval number four surrounded by indecipherable charactersall marked in green chalk on the sidewalk. I heard the sound of bellsand saw Sophia disappearing through the old front door. What the hell,I thought, think of it as an adventure.
I walked into a perfumed cloud of smoke that hung in the air likedrifting cobwebs. I surveyed my surroundings uneasily. It was unlikeany bookstore I'd ever seen. Instead of being brightly lit, the shop wasdark, illuminated only by a few dim bulbs hanging from the tin ceilinghigh above. Along my left, running down the center of the store, was along, crowded bookcase. To my right, a brick wall was lined with largeglass jars of strange herbs, twisted roots, dried flowers, and powders thecolor of the desert at sunset. I hurried to catch up with Sophia andfound her at the back of the shop, sniffing the contents of an exoticlittle bottle with a red jeweled top.
"Mmmm, a new oil. Smell." She waved it under my nose and imagesof tigers and elephants, crowded open air marketplaces, and billowingcurtains of pink and saffron silk blew past my mind's eye. I smelled thespices coriander and cardamom, then ginger, cinnamon, and flowers Idid not know.
"It makes me think of India."
"Very good—it's a Lakshmi oil. Lakshmi is an Indian goddess offertility and love."
Dark brown and cobalt blue apothecary bottles filled the narrowshelves along the back wall of the shop. "Oil Office" noted a littlecalligraphied sign. Several leather-bound books with yellowed pages satopen on a wooden table, next to funnels of various sizes and scores oftiny clear glass bottles.
"I wonder where Maia is?" Sophia asked, and smiled at me reassuringly.
"Maybe she's invisible," I quipped. The bookstore was just a little toopeculiar for me. "Listen, I'm perfectly happy to come back another—"
The wall in front of me started to shake and the colorful robeshanging from a wooden pole began to dance as if ghosts had jumpedinto them for a midnight romp. The wall wrenched open and before mestood a small, olive-skinned woman with thick raven hair and a lovelyround face.
"I keep telling Herman we've got to get this damned door fixed."
Hugging Sophia while laughing warmly, she turned to me.
"I'm Maia. So, Sophia told me you need to have your cards read? Sitdown." Waving me to a seat at a small table, she carefully began tounwrap something from a purple silk bundle.
It was a deck of Tarot cards. They were larger than playing cards,with an elegant blue and white mosaic pattern on the side facing me.She began shuffling them nimbly and I glimpsed flashes of color as theyflew from one hand to the other.
"Have you ever had your cards read?" she asked, her voice rich andfull, with the earthy tinge of a Bensonhurst accent.
I shook my head.
"Ah," she murmured, a little smile appearing, and nothing more wassaid.
My gaze shifted to her face—she was the image of a Sicilian madonna.Though her movements were quick and energetic, her composurewas tranquil. She looked up, her deep black eyes meeting mine."What's your question?" she asked.
My mind flashing on carnival gypsies, I ran through a sensible list ofpossibilities—Will my grant be renewed so I could stay at the foundation?Will I find true love? Should I continue managing my band?—as ifthis were a mere sideshow game, but I had been yearning for more ofthe magic that had invaded my life. And in spite of my skepticism, Ifound myself speaking from the heart.
I asked: "Where does the path lie?"
Without hesitation she replied, "It lies within."
"But how do I get there?" This was no minor question, for the onething I knew with certainty about myself was that my life had alwaysbeen thoughtfully directed toward the outside world—to get goodgrades, work hard, fight for social justice, try to make the world a betterplace. The idea of an inner life was only just beginning to take shape inmy mind. But events had awakened my heart to its unsuspected capacityto know this hidden realm of being and I hungered for a portal backto the magic that had enchanted my life.
She replied by shuffling the deck of Tarot cards and smiling.
"Cut the deck into three piles, then put them back together, any wayyou want, into one pile."
I could feel by their well-worn edges that the cards had been used inmany readings. Thinking of all the fortunes they must have foretold, Iwondered about mine as I lifted and rearranged the piles. Maia pickedthem up, held them between her hands, closed her eyes, and sat for aninfinite moment.
She opened her eyes and, very slowly, turning over one card at atime, spread sixteen cards in an intricate pattern on the table before me.Though they were upside down as I viewed them, I could see brightlypainted images of people, animals, cups, staves, swords, and shiningdisks. I watched and wondered if it was possible that the unconsciouspowers of the mind—my mind—could instruct the placement of thesecards. Would this ancient set of symbols fall into patterns that revealedmore truth about me to a complete stranger than I knew about myself?Would the laws of quantum mechanics work as my expectations influencedthe movement of energy, and particles, and cards?
The answer went beyond my conscious anticipation. But it wasn'tMaia's prophecy of a new job where I would make a great deal ofmoney, or her insights into my restless heart, that persuaded my skepticalsoul that this woman had a talent for the truth. As she interpretedthe cards' meaning for me, Maia spoke of things I had told no one,small things that astonished me—like my missing carnelian ring, whichI usually wore on my left hand, taken from me by Antonio, a man I'dmet at a party, to ensure that I would see him again. Maia could haveknown about my work as a lawyer, my family background, dozens ofthings from Sophia. But no one knew about Antonio and no one knewabout the ring. I couldn't help but wonder whether it wasn't just a luckyguess, despite the precise details with which Maia described both myring and Antonio. But then she paused, as if startled, and said, "There'sa spirit that leads you ... the woman with the star."
A chill ran up my spine. How could she know? I'd never told a soulabout my dream.
"You've met her, haven't you? In your dreams."
I nodded, knowing some force of mystery and intelligence was atplay in the field of my unspoken consciousness.
"You've been wise to follow where she leads you."
I stared at the brilliant array of cards that illuminated and bemusedme. Closest to me, at the top of a line of four cards, was the picture of awoman. She was seated beneath a large tree, and a shield that bore thesymbol of Venus rested by her side. She was pregnant and sat, smilingbeatifically, working at a spinning wheel. A basket filled with fruits andgrains also rested beside her and in the background was a vast andfertile landscape. Beneath it was the Roman numeral III. I later learnedthis is the Empress card, the card of the Goddess. As I stared at theimage, suddenly, somehow I knew: Things didn't just happen randomly,but were the extraordinary effects of a force of destiny, or desire, soprofound that it could animate a lifeless universe.
Events were spinning like silken threads from a cocoon of longing,and unseen hands were weaving them into an enchanted tapestry. Sittingin front of me was a woman at ease with the spinning of the wheeland the mysterious movements of the shuttle that flew through theloom of life. Here was someone who understood there was meaning inthe pattern. Perhaps she even knew the weaver.
In the space of less than an hour, my perception of the world, likethe cards spread before me, had again been turned upside down. Topsyturvy,I thought, and in the instant I thought it, Maia had me pull twofinal cards from the deck. She handed me the first one—it was a manhanging upside down from a tree. Beneath the man were the words"The Hanged Man."
"This is the god Odin."
I felt my heart race, for I already knew of the Scandinavian godOdin. My father passed on tales from his Norwegian ancestors, andOdin was a principal divinity of the Norse pantheon. I remembered myfather's bedtime stories of Odin, his wife, the goddess Freya, and Thor,Loki, and the other Scandinavian divinities. Odin had suffered for ninedays, hanging upside down from the Yggdrasil tree, helpless and alone,until a raven plucked an eye from his head. He lost the ability to see"normally." In exchange for his sacrifice, Odin was given the runes, thefirst letters of a sacred alphabet, which enabled him to see within, to seeinto the past, and into the future. Without the runes, there would be nolanguage, no poetry, no stories of love and valor. And there would be noprophecy, for each letter bears a magical meaning. To win the power ofwisdom and the gift of inner sight, Odin had to be willing to sacrificethe way in which he had always seen the world.
"In some readings, it is a card that can mean selfishness, but inothers it means sacrificing for wisdom." Maia pulled the card from mytight fingers. Our eyes met as she asked me, "Can you make this sacrifice?”
I knew that I had to be absolutely truthful. "I don't know," I replied.
Maia grinned. "Honest—that's good. You just might find the answerto your question." She handed me the second card. "Do you know whatthis card means?"
I looked at the tiny painting in my hand. It was gorgeous—a mysteriouswoman, dressed in a white gown embroidered with dark red pomegranates,sitting between two poplar trees, one white, the other black.Behind her was a shining moon, and in her hands she held a scroll.Across the bottom of the card were the words "High Priestess" and theRoman numeral II. I thought of the mysterious woman in my dreams."The mysteries of life?" I asked.
Maia nodded. She seemed satisfied, as if my reply had answeredmore than the question she had asked me.
"And she who seeks them," she added. I felt her study my reactionand sensed in her approval a heightened curiosity. As quickly as Maiahad handed the card to me, she now took it back, pushing it into thedeck, then giving the cards a quick shuffle. She wrapped them carefullyin the silk cloth and put them aside.
"I've just started a women's group. It meets once a week," she saidmatter-of-factly. "Why don't you come? Who knows, you might find theanswers you're looking for."
"Thank you," I said. "The reading was amazing. And thank you forthe invitation, but I may have to work."
I felt dazed as Sophia and I emerged from the quiet cave of the darkshop into the frenetic blare of the street.
"So what do you think?" Sophia was dancing around on the sidewalklike a schoolgirl after her first kiss behind the bleachers. "Is she amazingor what?"
"Are you going to this thing tomorrow?" I asked, avoiding her inquiringlook. Back in the usual world, as we struggled just to cross the streetwithout getting run over by terrorist taxis, Maia's spell was rapidlybreaking.
"I'm really not into group stuff, I prefer working alone, but if it'llmake you more comfortable, I'll go with you. You know, just to get youstarted. There aren't many opportunities to work with someone likeMaia. I wouldn't say no 'til you've at least checked it out."
I hesitated. In the stark light of day, I was starting to feel uncomfortablewith the idea of going to a meeting of strangers—and Witches atthat. "Mmm, I guess I have to think about it."
We hugged good-bye and I headed off to the office to restore mysense of normalcy. At the tiny nonprofit organization I worked for, wehad to make the most out of every penny, so the office was small,cramped, old, and donated. I put the reading out of my mind as I settledbehind my battered desk. Work kept me busy, and I lost track of time.Finally, I switched off my desk light and leaned backward as far as Icould in my chair. Stretching my aching neck and shoulders, I watchedthe brilliant blue Manhattan dusk fill my office with stillness. I closedone eye and squinted at the upside-down world out my window. Upside-downand one-eyed like the Hanged Man. How could I approach theworld like that and survive? It sounded more like a prescription forcracking your head open than finding your way. I doubted I'd return tothat strange little shop.
On any other night I would have headed to my rehearsal studio atthe Music Building. But that night I felt as though the world hadslipped out from beneath my feet, and somehow, I needed to get intouch with magic again.
The path lies within.
"CBGB's," I told the cab driver.
The club down in the middle of the Bowery was crowded and loud,but the pressure of people and noise wasn't enough to push Maia'swords out of my head. Looking around the room, I saw a legion ofyoung men dressed for a part they didn't know how to play. I had givenup looking for my incarnated rebel, my other half, my unknown love, mygod-come-to-earth in a pair of old jeans and a fast car. I was tired andbored with looking on the outside. Somehow I knew what I needed hadto be found within myself. I finished my drink, said good-bye to my pals,and headed home.
I showered off the smell of smoke and climbed into bed. I thought Iwas awake when the dream came again. She was seated beside me, andlarger than life, with a blinding light emanating from a star at herthroat. Then, suddenly, I was awake and the magic was gone yet again.
A year had passed since my return to New York, and the universe wasforcing me to surrender another set of expectations. It was clear Ihad to find a new job with a salary I could live on, since there wasn'tenough money to renew my grant. Calls, interviews, lunches, and coffeewith partners at various progressive labor law firms and unions had leftme with statements of respect, accompanied by polite apologies of nothingavailable except shared office space.
But I didn't give up. I wore my banker's gray suit, the pink silkblouse with the bow tie, and a string of pearls my mother gave me. Ipulled my hair back into a neat chignon. I carried letters of recommendationfrom congressmen and civil liberties lawyers who'd made history.I waited in reception areas larger than my apartment, sat on slipperyleather chairs, gave firm handshakes, and made steady eye contact. Thefutility of my efforts escaped me until finally a lawyer who had workedin the labor movement for years clued me in. I was looking for someoneto help me fight on behalf of the rank and file, against the mob, againstcorrupt leadership. No large firm wanted to take on that battle. I wasfeeling lost and without direction, but events were conspiring to teachme an important lesson: You cannot have the great adventure of findingyour way until you've gone astray.
I headed home, with tears of frustration shattering a dam of controlI'd kept in place for weeks. I wept, and just as I was climbing into a tubof steaming water to soak away my sadness, the phone rang. I wrappedmyself in a towel and raced down the hall to answer it.
"Did I dream that I took you to see Maia? Or were you there too?"Sophia asked.
"Yes—it was a dream and yes, I was there too."
"So, what's the deal? You've had plenty of time to think it over—areyou going to her women's group or what?"
"Well, I've been a little busy with unimportant matters like survival,you know."
"Well, it's your decision. Maybe you've been hunting for the wrongthing. I mean, you can survive, or you can thrive—it all depends onwhich path you choose. Call me when you make up your mind. If youcan't trust yourself to decide, maybe you should trust fate. Some opportunitiescome along once in a lifetime—carpe diem, darlin'."
Make a decision. That sounded good—as though I had control, asthough I could choose, instead of waiting to be chosen. Or maybe Sophiawas right, and fate had already chosen me. I had been, after all,learning to do nothing if not follow signs over the last couple of years.Was the decision to try this circle, as Sophia called the women's group,so difficult to accept because it had been placed directly in front of me?Or because it was such a damned strange choice to make? After all, theywere Witches. I pulled out my diary from the drawer of my nightstand,opening it to record my thoughts. When I looked down, I found myselfreading from an entry written years before: "Moonlight filters inthrough the city skylight.... I look around the circle of women whostand with me...."
A shiver passed through me. I scrambled into my comfort clothes—jeans,T-shirt, and leather jacket—and headed for my Egyptian oasis atthe Metropolitan Museum of Art, remembering how it had nurtured methrough that last strange year of law school. I relived my fascinationwith the images of Isis and the ancient invocations of Horus, the mysteriouslittle amulets, and the grand Temple of Dendur. And then I took adetour, leaving the Egyptian collection behind and wandering into theAmerican Wing, which I learned had a new garden extension. I pushedopen the large glass door, entering a beautiful glass-enclosed greenery.
Set within a niche, formed by the outer stone walls of the museum,the garden's gracious proportions were grand, cleverly combining theneoclassical architecture of the original building with a modern encasement.A glass wall, running along the northern side, was several storiestall and allowed soft light to fill the space. Through the glass I could seethe rolling green of Central Park. Along the walls were Arcadian Tiffanypanels, a statue of a bacchante feeding grapes to an infant, and anenormous fireplace held aloft by caryatids. The pieces were as majesticin scale as the garden itself. Four squares of English ivy divided thespace, tall papyrus fronds grew from a rectangular reflecting pool, andin the center of it all was a golden statue of Diana, goddess of the hunt,naked, standing like a ballerina on one pointed foot, her bow pulledtaut.
I walked slowly, allowing the beauty of the sanctuary to fill andsoothe me, strolling from one great marble statue to another, not thinkingabout my decision, just enjoying the silence and magnitude. Andthen I saw her—crown upon her head, six-pointed star at her throat,seated with a book in her hand—a luminescent white marble statue ofthe woman in my dream.
I felt as if I would choke on my own breath, my heart missed beatsand a terrific pressure squeezed my temples. The room became blindinglybright and a wave of dizziness hit me as I sank into a chair besidemy miracle.
I was almost afraid to look at her, astonished to see my dream cometo life. I looked instead at the discreet little plaque by her beautiful baretoes: "The Libyan Sibyl."
My eyes followed the graceful folds of sculpted stone draped acrossher lap. In her left hand she held a sheaf of papers; her chin rested inthe cup of her right hand. As in the dream, she was bare breasted. Herhair fell in plaits around her bare shoulders. A six-pointed star hungfrom a necklace that encircled her ivory neck, and a simple triangularcrown rested upon her brow. Her face was strong, intelligent, with anaquiline nose and full lips. I studied every nuance of her face, as shestared into the realm where dreams come true.
The afternoon passed while I sat in the presence of an inexplicablerevelation. At closing time, I left the great conservatory, descending thegreat stone steps of the Museum. I walked up Fifth Avenue and headedinto the park, adoring the brilliant blue twilight and dewy green grass. Iwas so energized by the encounter that I practically ran all the way backto 86th Street and Riverside.
"Sibyl, sibyl, sibyl," I sang, rushing into my little room. I pulled myfavorite dictionary, the 1933 edition of the Shorter Oxford EnglishDictionary, from the shelf and found her name: "Sibyl ... 1. One of variouswomen of antiquity who were reputed to possess powers of prophecyand divination ... 2. A prophetess; a fortune teller, witch."
I decided to accept Maia's invitation.
Excerpted from Book of Shadows by Phyllis Curott. Copyright © 1998 by Phyllis W. Curott. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Copyright © 1998 by Phyllis W. Curott. All rights reserved.
