Best of all, from a writer’s point of view, popular occult books never went out of print. Tracts from the Dark Ages were still earning money for canny publishers. He relied on the public’s insatiable appetite for the supernatural to keep him solvent, figuring that by the time he was an old man, he’d have sold enough of the things to finance his senility. Did the authors of innumerable volumes on UFOs, ancient astronauts, and oceanic triangles really believe what they promoted? That was a mystery worthy of several more volumes. In the end, these authors were wealthy enough to believe whatever they chose. An audience of believers could bring anything to life… but especially, he hoped, his flagging, fledgling career.
Derek’s first book took scarcely a month to write, and with the income thus gained he was able to spend more time researching and writing the next two. He believed that the general occult readers liked their nonsense embedded in a historical foundation, to support them in arguments with non-believers. (Derek had sustained relatively few such attacks himself; first because his books were rarely taken seriously enough to be reviewed by any major publications, but also because he avoided the occult as a topic of casual conversation. It wasn’t something he thought about when he wasn’t working.) He therefore intended to make his third book especially scholarly. He read nothing but history for three months before getting to work on Remembering Your Past Lives. And once he was working on that, he continually sought topics for his fourth book, while plotting a way into the upper reaches of occult publishing—out of the cheesy lower depths that Phantom Press had come to represent to him. He had seen the slick New Age volumes, glossy and presentable, with covers you weren’t embarrassed to be seen toting about in public, perfect for those businessfolk who were concerned about their image as much as their spiritual development. He knew money when he smelled it.
That was when he received Elias Mooney’s letter. With his keen eye for obscure resources, he saw a new source of material falling into his hands. Suddenly his writing plans extended ahead to books four, five, and six. He might not necessarily wish to pen the old man’s autobiography per se, but books based on Mooney’s eccentric knowledge could easily interest the right publisher. He’d heard that the highly respected Veritas was starting a line of New Age writings; this might be his entree to that house. And the old man had said he was a collector, which meant he undoubtedly owned rare volumes that Derek might borrow and scour in search of even more ideas for his own books.
And Mooney did not disappoint him. He was indeed a fertile source of imaginings….
18
Eli did not trust people readily, so it seemed odd to Derek that he had warmed to him so quickly, as if they were predestined soul-friends. His paranoia level fluctuated wildly according to his mood and medication. One day he sang songs and spun out amusing tales of his psychic exploits; the next, he ranted darkly for hours of how his life was a cage and of how his captors were dragging him closer to the hour of execution. They had taken his wives, scattered his children across the globe, and sabotaged his lines of communication with many of his correspondents.
Derek took to visiting twice weekly, and it was not long before he realized that what the old man wanted, more than a ghostwriter, was a sympathetic ear, someone who would not object immediately to his extraordinary worldview. Derek was eager to play this role. Eli embraced a far more interesting, complex cosmology than any he had encountered before, in or out of popular occultism or the world’s religions. He felt certain that whatever book emerged from these conversations, it would be unique and compelling. He began to scope out possible publishers, leaning more and more toward the budding Veritas line.
Yet Eli was maddeningly vague when it came to spelling out the basic tenets of his beliefs. He would discourse for hours on the minutiae of various esoteric sects but never name any particular gods he believed in or any specific devils he feared, as if naming them would draw their unwelcome attention. With the same scrupulous paranoia, he refused to discuss certain subjects over the telephone, stating that government pawns of these powers monitored the lines constantly, and that the mention of key words or phrases would instantly set off alarms in dark fortresses, both of this world and out of it.
In other words, he exhibited swatches of his philosophy but never the whole tapestry. Whenever Derek tried to piece the fabric together, he was left with gaping holes. Part of the reason for this was that Eli presumed Derek already possessed an Initiate’s knowledge, and Derek had to be careful never to reveal his ignorance.
One evening, hoping to loosen the old man’s tongue, he brought along a bottle of wine. Eli accepted the bottle gratefully but put it aside unopened.
“I was hoping we could toast our partnership,” Derek said hopefully.
“Oh, no, I never touch alcohol except in ritual.”
“Ah, well, of course. I should have realized. And when do you think you’ll know me well enough, Elias, so that we might perform a ritual together?”
The old man’s tufted eyebrows hovered above his eyeglass frames. “Together?”
“Well, a sorcerer’s ritual style is a key to his whole character, wouldn’t you say? It would mean a great deal to me in trying to capture your essence for the book.”
“No doubt it would, no doubt… but I’m afraid that’s almost impossible. Not to slight your own abilities, but… it would be far too dangerous unless great precautions were taken.”
“Well, certainly, we would take all the precautions.”
“Alone, I am capable of defending against the things that flock around when I cast a circle. But I’m not used to working with others. I couldn’t be sure of safeguarding you.”
“I think I can take care of myself,” Derek assured him.
“Actually…” Eli bowed his head. “The truth is, after Evangeline died, I swore never to work with anyone, ever again. I learned a terrible lesson then.”
It was late in the evening, Eli a shadow in his chair. It took Derek several moments to realize that the old man was weeping.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to stir up painful memories.”
Eli shook his head, gathered himself upright, and sighed, as if shrugging off his pain. “Why don’t you turn on a light?”
Derek switched on a lamp, filling the room with a glare that was anything but reassuring; too stark, too bright, it caused his eyes to water.
“I have spoken very little of Evangeline,” Eli said.
“The memories are still… too sad,” Derek said.
“There’s another reason, though. What happened to us was the single most important event of my life. I cannot explain my life, or make sense of my philosophy, without referring to those days; yet I find it almost impossible to speak of them. They involve too many things that must never be published.”
Derek checked the cassette to make sure it was nowhere near the end of a reel. “Yes?” he said helpfully.
“Maybe you can advise me, Derek. There must be a way to speak secretly about these things… to make myself understood without being explicit or too grim. As I’ve said before, I don’t want people to lose heart. I want to improve lives, not fill them with fear. But for me, knowing what I know, it is impossible not to feel fear every moment. Resistance is a constant battle-it takes all my will not to give in. The same knowledge might overcome weaker souls. Evangeline never really understood, for which I give thanks every day; but it was through her—damn the corruptors—through her that I learned the truth.”