"I saw a couple in MacArthur-I mean Hecate Park today," he said. "I overheard them profess undying love for each other. Then they kissed and wept for joy on each other's shoulder."
"Big deal," I said, turning to peruse a rotating rack of plaques. An awful lot of obscure occult books were getting published or reissued these days. At least someone was being rewarded for perseverance. I switched one on to stare at a page without seeing it. All I could see was Ann. Corny, I know, but that's who occupied my thoughts. Endlessly.
"Your assassin's heart should be pleased that the politicians couldn't get anyone to bother voting in the last election."
"Hmm? Oh, right." I put the plaque back. "They're still hanging around Washington uninvited, though." I frowned, reading the cover of another book. This one was about astral travel. Just from the jacket copy I could determine that the author didn't know his elbow from a hole in the ground.
"Give them time," Corbin said. "They can't even stir up a war anymore without God to inspire them or a devil to side with the enemy."
I looked up from my book to stare at the curious man. I'd lost track of our conversation. My only thoughts were of Ann. Her eyes, bright with life, gazed at me from across the chasm between now and never.
I impulsively seized a paperback. Kundalini yoga. And another plaque. On ceremonial Magick.
"Corbin," I said, reaching for a manual for waterscrying, candle magic, and clairvoyance, "you'd know these things. Isn't there a place between dreaming and forgetting that contains all the knowledge of all times and realities?"
He stared at me as if my tie had just caught fire.
"Uh, sure Dell. It's called the Akashic Record. Why?"
"I've got to pop over to another celestial sphere."
I took more books and plaques than I could easily carry to the register. I paid for them and left Corbin watching my dust.
I raced out into the street, into the cold winter air and the bright, clear sky. A couple of street workers watched me with bemused gazes, then returned to erecting a sign that restored the full name of Los Angeles-The City of Our Lady, Queen of the Angels.
I still called it L.A.
My breath roared in my ears. My heart pounded like a caged man trying to burst free. I skidded left onto Western and raced upstairs to my office in less than ten minutes.
Doors slammed and drawers flew open until I'd found what I wanted. Ann's athame. It was all the psychic link I'd need to find her.
I sat down to read, placing the knife before me with loving care. The light from the desk lamp reflected softly on the silvery blade and ebony hilt. I cracked open the first book.
A wind from the North beat at my window, calling.
Acknowledgments
I sit at my Apple][+ computer (high-tech for 1978, when I didn't have it to begin this novel, but now a veritable antique) thinking about Hallowe'en. Appropriately enough, I finished the manuscript's final correction on the Witches' New Year, 1984. This revision was made after the German paperback had been sold to Heyne, so Der Jehova Vertrag is substantially different from the American edition you have here in your computer.
A novel, like a child, is not the work of one person-the ancestors who have each given a little bit of themselves that I may give birth to this book are legion. I cannot thank them all, for I would have to thank-paraphrasing James Baldwin-every human touch that has changed me forever. Here, though, is a partial and regrettably incomplete list.
To Robert A. Heinlein, for all those stories about young people who did what they chose to-you pulled me through the rough times, sir, and you made the future shine gloriously bright. I miss you.
To Ray Bradbury, for his encouragement, endorsement, and beautiful stories.
To Robert Graves, Grand Disciple of the Triple Goddess, for his analeptic vision.
To Merlin Stone, Z. Budapest, and M. Esther Harding, for their research into the Craft.
To Robert Shea, Robert Anton Wilson, Aleister Crowley, L. Neil Smith, Russ Tompkins, Bishop Lon M. DuQuette, Saint Constance of the Well (Our Lady of Perpetual Motion), Reverend Thomas A. Selene, LeRoy Lauer, Shane Shubert, David Wilson, Dewey Warth, John Sandefur, Linda Russel, Doug and Karen James, Galen G., Rick and Lorraine Potter, Jim Nobles, Jim Eshelman, Anna-Kria King, and other past and present members of the Illuminati, for their Knowledge and Conversation.
To my Mother, Father, and Sister, for not getting on my case (too much) and for raising me in an atmosphere of love and hearty good humor. To my grandmother, who paid for the disc drives and monitor. To Will and Justinmay your tribe increase!
To my Illustrious Teachers-Paul Meredith, who told me to read Vonnegut; Don Scott, who introduced me to Captain Marvel serials; Dr. Ellsworth Welch, who taught me to dip my hands in titanium tetrachloride; Joseph Glasner, who taught me to project!; Barnaby Conrad, who introduced me to The Big Guns. And to Avram Davidson, whose telephone call answered the first questions of a young writer.
To Samuel Edward Konkin III, for the constant courses in clear thinking and the adventures in Little Tokyo at 3 A.M.
To J. Neil Schulman, award-winning author and impresario of SoftServ Publishing, through which you are reading these bytes, for the late nights poring over each other's manuscripts and commiserating about damesyou're good conversation, pal. And to Kate O'Neal-singer, composer, associate SysOp-for helping Neil get this crazy concept up and running!
To Brad Linaweaver, F. Paul Wilson, and the other members of the Libertarian Science Fiction Writers' Mafia.
To Joel Gotler, for all his support over the years.
To Wolfgang Jeschke, who risked publishing a foreigner's book when no one in the U.S. dared to touch it. To Charles Platt-a cultured Englishmanwho bought the novel when American editors were still too timid. To Ed Breslin, who fought for it up the corporate ladder. And to John Douglas, who also had to fight to bringto the paperback world.
To Charles Curley, Andy Thornton, Steve Tymon, Sheila Wymer, Ernest Sewell, Chris Schaefer, and all denizens of the AnarchoVillage past and present-thanks for the ambiance!
To Sondra Hendrick, who was the original inspiration for this novel.
To Laurel Blechman, who gave me an air-conditioned dining room in which to write Dell Ammo's acid trip during the Nova of 1978, and most of all for being a friend, loyal and true.
To Cindee Grace, for drawing me to L.A. in 1974. To Teny Zuber, with thanks for the printout and the patient ear. To Bernie Zuber, wherever you are. To Marggy Garron, for the psychic vibes. To Kathleen McGuinness, for the striking image.
To Sandy McIntosh-another patient listener-for her insights into preChristianity and the Art. To George Smith and Wendy McElroy, erstwhile proprietors of Lysander's Books, for George's superb book Atheism-The Case Against God, and for yet another sympathetic writer's ear (Wendy's).
To Estelle and The Weirz, for the music. To Bob Segar and to the Commodores for two seminal (or should that be oval?) tunes-"Still the Same" and "Three Times a Lady".
To James Phillip Nobel, who introduced me to real-life Adventure, screwing up my mind-and conning me into following my dreams.
To Andrew J. Offutt, for letting me write a couple of books that kept the wolves from the door.
To Claire Simler, who dragged me back to work so that I could meet the woman in my dreams. Thank you. Veronica and I are sorry you had to leave us so soon. Vanessa will know your name.
And most important, to Veronica, whom I met and liked and thought I'd never see again and whom I met a second time and fell in love with. And to our beautiful daughter, Vanessa.
Umm, does that cover most everyone?
1 September, 1989 Los Angeles, USA