It was 1919. One September night, in the forest, George finally saw how Olanna brought the Darkness. The silvery light, a reflection of the moon on her sweaty skin, was slowly overcome by a darkness that emanated from her, flowing from her pores. The women and priests cried out: the drums flooded the night and George Mathers watched as a forked tongue emerged from Olanna’s mouth, and as every nocturnal butterfly that got near her fell dead as soon as the black light touched it.
After that particularly intense ritual, in the doorway of his house, George Mathers found a very small clay statue of a naked man sitting with his hands on his knees, with a long, erect phallus. The great god Pan? he thought, in Ibadan, in the African forests? He was afraid, and he decided to return to England. But he didn’t want to go alone: he wanted to take Olanna with him and give the Order a medium. She had come to him, for him: he was sure.
Taking her was very simple for a man in his position. For us, it is always easy to achieve what we want.
The trip over land and sea was exhausting for the girl, who was also on the receiving end of stares and pointing fingers. George Mathers realized then that her weakness was not just the result of the ritual; Olanna was also ill. She often lost consciousness. The rolling of the ship made her so sick she couldn’t get out of bed. But as she lay in the bunk in darkness—necessary to relieve her constant headaches—she learned English with frightening speed. He told her about London, about his wife Lily who was waiting for him though he had been gone for over a year. He told her about the cold sea and the snow. Olanna listened seriously: George noticed how she learned, but at the same time did not consider anything he said to be wondrous. It was simply different from what she knew. She spoke too, and when she couldn’t make herself understood, she drew in the air with her hands. She told George about a forest where thousands of demons lived, but there was one that reigned; it would hang from the trees and its feet were on backward, so its footprints never gave away where it was going. She told him about the wood carvings her uncle made and about her father’s riches and honor. She missed her jewels. She told him about forests of bones, about skulls that rolled between the trees. One night, while the ship swayed gently, she told him that certain beings were happy with wine and flowers, but real gods demanded blood.
By the time they reached London—her, skinny and hollow-eyed; him, hale and hardy as if the trip hadn’t lasted for months—Olanna of Nri spoke English and George Mathers loved her, but forbade himself from touching her. The members of the Order were waiting for them in London, and they seemed disappointed when they saw Olanna disembark from the Vauxhall. They had imagined, George would say later, a tall, thin woman, more like the ones in photographs from East Africa, with their long necks; they didn’t expect this slight girl with her round head and a face marked by scars. But they treated her with reverence. She seemed astonished at the city, but in no way overwhelmed. I want to see the train that goes under the ground, she told George. And he went with her to ride the Underground, to walk through Hyde Park, to admire Kensington. Olanna was very tired when she reached the Palace, and she was cold; he covered her with his jacket and had the urge to carry her to his father’s house in St. John’s Wood.
Christopher Mathers—George’s father and the leader of the Order at the time—and the cult’s senior members were all waiting in the main hall of the house, on the red sofas under the chandelier. Olanna blinked as she looked at the decorations, and George studied his mother’s rigid demeanor, and the envy in all the women’s eyes and in his younger brother’s. He realized he was not going to be able to save Olanna, and he understood: the Order comes first. They had endured years of frustration, and although their practices had made them rich and powerful, they needed something more. My father always believed that the Order and its rituals aid in maintaining riches, but that one must help them along with inheritance or good business. He’s right. I’ve read Ramon Llull, and he says exactly the same thing about alchemy: to make gold, you must first have gold. You can’t make something from nothing. Riches, in those years, were no longer enough for them. They wanted to evade death, and they thought the Darkness was going to grant them that gift. It’s the same thing we believe now, of course. Christopher Mathers knew that in order to build a faith, an incalculable promise was required.
George’s mother decided to hold the Ceremonial. She was a bitter woman, he wrote, who spent hours in front of the fireplace crying with rage because she had lost her favorite son, her eldest, in that Great War she considered stupid and unnecessary. Her beautiful son who had died in a trench from typhus, and who had gone to that massacre voluntarily, in defiance of her and of the Order. He was the only one in the family, as well, who had the gift. Not a considerable one, but more than the nullity possessed by George and Charles—young, ambitious Charles, who studied eight hours a day and could spend ages explaining the meaning of the Sefirot, but was incapable of the smallest glimmer of natural magic. More than the incapacity of George, who preferred to travel and take notes, but always ended up as the captivated recipient of the magic of others.
The Ceremonial was set for October 31, 1919. It would be held in the hall specially prepared for it at the house in St. John’s Wood. It’s the same hall used today, the one where I myself drew chalk circles, and where I was taught the most exquisite calligraphy to improve my seals. George Mathers promised to be there and went home to his wife Lily, who decorated her hair with gold ribbons and spent hours tending the garden. Lily, who wrote violent and romantic love poems. He embraced her against the iron door and regretted that he couldn’t give her a child, a smiling little one who would keep her company during his absences. Other people, his parents, even the doctors, all believed that Lily was sterile. But he knew the truth, because he had been with many women, not so much because he wanted to, but as a test, and none of them had gotten pregnant. The Mathers were dying out and their only hope was Charles, so young.
He opened the suitcase that held his gifts for Lily: carved masks, the extraordinary cloths from West Africa, the perfumes he’d bought in Paris—she liked bottles of unexpected colors—lithographs by Alphonse Mucha, an illustrator who was already considered somewhat antiquated but whom Lily loved. The suitcase also held the little clay statue someone had left at the door of his house in Ibadan, possibly as a warning. When Lily picked it up, George snatched it from her. The great god Pan also lives so far away, she said. Lily was a disorganized adherent, incapable of naming the constellations or of drawing a seal, but she believed. And she wanted to know if the medium really was powerful. You’ll see her soon, said George, and he showed her a necklace, his last gift, that made her smile. The wind blew one of the windows open and Lily closed it, but couldn’t keep a flurry of dried leaves from entering.
Today, the statue is protected behind several panes of glass in the Order’s library in London. Except for the phallus, it reminds me of San La Muerte. There’s something about its seated position, a pose identical to a particular representation of the skeleton saint that we call the Lord of Patience, because he seems to be waiting. I study in order to find these correspondences and familiarities, but they always make me a little dizzy. The statue seems to follow you with its eyes, and it is repulsive in a way that’s hard to explain.