Séance in July

by Joan Sutcliffe

One summer when I was young I attended a spiritualist séance on a perfectly idyllic July afternoon, and all through the whining and wailings of medium and star-struck devotees I struggled to stifle inopportune explosions of laughter as the memory of my father’s words of earlier that day kept invading the pauses between apparitional visitations. “What!” he had gasped in pure disbelief, “you are going to spend this precious afternoon in a dark closeted room amongst a maudlin crew of white-faced imbeciles!”

As a striking example, it happened that I was sitting next to a pale looking worn out spindly man, who squeaked in excitement at one point, “Look at Reggie, he can walk upright like a normal man when his spirit guide comes to him. The spirits can do wonderful things.” 

At that moment Reggie, the medium ashen in complexion and crippled in body, leaped out of his chair, did a couple of twirls and called out in a hoarse voice, “Bella is here. She wants to talk to Maurice.”

Someone, probably Maurice, gasped, “O, my dear Bella! She was a dancer, you know.” Then followed a spiel of banal advice for Maurice delivered in a high falsetto voice by Reggie, who continued to whirl like a dervish.

I couldn’t help imagining though what my father’s comment might have been. “Perhaps Reggie saves his disability especially for his gullible followers?”

However, being young and gullible myself, I watched in awe as the spirit messages poured in and the afternoon wore on, until Reggie finally collapsed into his wheelchair, exhausted and white as a ghost himself. I was impressed at the time with the seeming magic of the proceedings and with what I then thought was an unworldly atmosphere.

Last summer the recollection suddenly came back to me, the scene replaying with clarity in every detail. Perhaps that was because I met Rodolfo. 

There was a surplus of monarch butterflies that July. No wonder! The milkweed had been plentiful, the last scent lingering into early August. Indeed the vegetation was splurging languid and lush at that time, a superfluous tangle of greenery, pale ferns contrasting with darker tendrils of vine amid vivid emerald grasses. Soaking up the summer fragrances of flowers, trees and murky waters, I was just sitting in a secluded spot when he appeared; young and vibrant, tanned to a copper tone with dark hair reaching his shoulders. Holding out a handful of walnuts he introduced himself as Rodolfo, and immediately I thought of the romantic hero of La Boheme. 

As we shared the walnuts with squirrels, chipmunks and small birds, all of them feeding directly from our hands, Rodolfo spoke about his mystical experiences. He described how he would often feel the hand of his deceased mother stroking his head, of how he would wake in the night and suddenly know what unanticipated disaster was going to happen the next day, and how he could intuitively recognize a soul from a past life. The whole time he exuded a warmth while manifesting a respect for all the little creatures, often stopping in silence for a moment or two between words, as though listening to some soundless voice.  

“There are nature spirits all around,” he said. “I see them and hear them all the time. Listen! Can you catch the tears in the rustling of the leaves? They are lamenting the pain of a dying tree.”

His musings excited a nerve in me, especially when he talked about his inner perceptions of a spiritual contact with great souls from higher realms. 

During the following weeks we met often at the same spot, to share walnuts with the animals and to discuss unusual philosophies. It was when he spoke of his mission to organize a serious program for searching into the unexplained, those mysterious occurrences that arise from time to time, the strange happenings that defy the laws of logic; and particularly his aim to start a group for the purpose of communicating with beings from an unseen world that the memory of Reggie came clear.

Soon now, I will be entering the dark space housing Rodolfo’s first meeting. Another year has passed since the venture was first proposed, and at last the time and place have materialized. Actually it is the back room of a New Age bookshop and is at the bottom of a rather dim narrow alley. Inside, however, it is not nearly as dark as seemed at first. Floral patterned curtains are drawn to keep out the intense heat of the blazing July afternoon. A candle is burning on a small table amidst a circle of chairs and the smoky scent of sandal wood incense adds an exotic quality to the ambience, helped along by the poignantly haunting music of pan pipes playing somewhere in the background. The almost ethereal tones bring strangely to mind the image of an ancient Peruvian rainforest, and an aching sadness suddenly envelopes me.

The circle is now filling up with a motley assembly of eager participants, several of them dressed in white muslin skirts and tunics, tall gangly young men and frail looking women. Most noticeable, by way of contrast, is a huge swarthy faced man, his ample buttocks taking up two seats. With thick bushy beard and ferocious eyes, hair wrapped in a bandanna, he is dressed totally in black. His companion is equally as thin as he is fat, her gaunt bony features thrusting out from an unkempt tangle of red hair, and something malevolent smoulders in her glaring green eyes. Momentarily a cold wave passes through me.

Immediately the sweet flute-like notes of Zamfir’s recording re-establish the thrilling softness, and Rodolfo introduces himself and the purpose of this gathering. In turn each of us offers a little information about ourselves and our interest in becoming part of this group. In general there seems to be a sincere wish to gain knowledge concerning other dimensions of reality, by sharing our unusual experiences and the results of our reading and study on the subject.

Again, the noticeable exceptions are the eccentric couple, the man with a booming voice introducing himself as The Magus and an initiated disciple of the great masters of the occult. His “little lady” sitting beside him is his medium, and he is “going to importune on her ever generous store of benevolence to lead us in a séance.”

Rodolfo is looking a little alarmed at this, but the consensus among the young people is to go ahead, this being in their opinion the perfect start for our research into the Mysteries. So, with instructions given in a nerve jarring voice by the “little lady” to hold hands and let our minds go completely blank, she commences to breathe heavily with throat gurgling rasps. Suddenly her legs kick out and her body twitches dramatically. Then her head flops back as with a terrible cry she enters a trance. 

For all the world, she appears as lifeless as a corpse, and a repugnant feeling of decadence seems to absorb the whole atmosphere of the room. The lovely music of Zamfir has stopped abruptly, the candle has been blown out by a sudden cold draught, and the scent of incense is smothered by the invasion of some kind of putrid odour.

The course of events is now taken over by the bombastic drawl of The Magus chanting in some unknown language, until he announces triumphantly that “the spirits are here.”

An excruciating pain is building up in my head now, and the scene in front of me is starting to swim. Faces of the sitters are morphing into weird shapes and a cacophony of strident voices is crescendoing, spirit or human I cannot tell. My senses are spinning. I feel deathly sick, my eyes and ears seem paralyzed, and my whole body is shivering. I am totally dizzy. I know I am going to faint.

A lightning streak like an electric shock shoots through me, and then all is still. As if waking up from a dream I suddenly find myself somewhere in the middle of a jungle. Stunned I just lie there looking up at the wild plethora of sprawling liana wrapping itself around hanging branches of immense trees that tower over me. Gradually the silence is broken by a strange dichotomy of bird calls and the encroaching soft thud of footsteps. My senses swiftly become aware now of the stealthy parting of vegetation close by and a naked terror surges up as my gaze focuses on two watchful eyes, green as malachite and deadly as nightshade. There’s a raw savagery in that unflinching concentration before the sleek black body leaps, lethal in its intent to kill, and I prepare to die. Just at the crucial moment there’s a sharp ping, and a blast of moving air passes over my inert form as the tip of an arrow pierces the jaguar’s throat. 

As the beautiful creature falls, its blood staining the humid undergrowth, I find myself surrounded by a fierce tribe of native inhabitants of the forest. Wearing only loincloths their muscular bodies are painted vividly with psychedelic dyes and adorned with beaded jewels, their hair is long and matted. As they gather around the dying animal there is an inexplicable subtlety in their movements, and a flashing spark glints in their eyes. Needless to say, a frantic fear grips and spreads through me, my whole body shaking with ice-cold tremors. 

In the momentary panic that follows I suddenly recognize the scary spark that lurks in the faces around me is the torment of desperation; the desperation of hunted fugitives; a desperation which consumes me too like a fire. Then with amazement I seem to remember that I am one of them. These are my people. I belong with these saddened members of a shattered race, which has been threatened, tortured and killed in the hundreds by a blood hungry army. 

Remnants of a once thriving civilization, the strong shoulders of this doomed band of heartbroken exiles sag now under the heavy burden of defeat. The avaricious cruelty of an enemy has cheated and crushed their spirit, violated the sanctity of their temples and driven them from the mountains to the forest, and will not rest until every one of them is wiped from the earth’s memory. Like only too many among these miserable survivors I too am starving, weary with running, nauseatingly sick with a foreign illness and rapidly dying. 

Falling back now in utter exhaustion I know my journey is at an end. With an aching soul I look at the luscious foliage, at the ecstatic wonder of the scarlet macaw, ablaze in magnificent plumage. Through an escaping teardrop I see the immaculate blooms of jungle flowers, and I wait for death. As the burning fever closes my eyes I hear the incredible music of the wind sweeping through the reeds where the great river flows, caught in the wistful breath of the Inca pipes.

But it is not the wind. It is Zamfir again. I am helped to my feet by the gentle arm of Rodolfo from the floor where it seems I had fallen. Faces stricken by some kind of unease are looking at me intently.

“Are you feeling better now?” asks one of the ladies in white, as a young man offers me a bottle of water. 

“You gave us quite a scare! We thought something terrible must have happened to you. You fell off your chair with such a thump,” another voice comments.

“Nonsense!” barks the big man in black. “It was the will of the spirits. Perhaps you don’t really believe in them.” He gives me a glowering scowl.

“You missed a fantastic display of amazing phenomena,” simpers a small dumpy middle-aged woman. Then giggling coyly she adds, “I felt spirit hands tickling me, and I think they were male.” More silly titters follow.

“O yes! The spirits were in superlative form,” roars The Magus. “The aristocracy of the spirit world visited us this afternoon. Too bad you flaked out!” 

“It wasn’t on purpose,” I stammer. “I am sorry too to have missed it all, but a frightening wave of faintness came over me.”

“You see! You are an unbeliever. You mock the powers of the great ones. The spirits feel your antipathy, your arrogant opposition, your confrontational attitude.” He is almost shouting at me now.

“Peace! Peace! Calm down,” urges Rodolfo firmly. “This has certainly been an experience, but we will take a very different approach next time.”

Checked, but not humbled, the bulky figure swells out his chest, and boasts. “My very own special master was here among us today, none other than the great Aleister Crowley himself.”

At mention of that name, I feel monstrously perplexed and sorry for Rodolfo with his well-intentioned plans.

Truly an adept, but of very questionable motive, skilled in the occult arts (many would say in the “black arts”) the name of that guru resonates still today with magic of the worst kind. So perhaps, I was unconsciously antagonistic after all.

The dumpy matron, revitalized again, joins in with gusto. “Yes, he introduced to us the exciting spirit of a Spanish conquistador who conquered a nation of primitive pagans and captured immense riches for the glory of Spain.”

“Ah, a noble spirit indeed!” The Magus is taking over again. “My little lady outdid herself today.”

As if in answer to the cue, a curious snorting sound comes from the “little lady” still stretched out stiff on the chair, whiter now than freshly fallen snow. Suddenly her body thrashes wildly, and standing up straight as a steel rod she hysterically clutches at her throat, emitting half-strangled gasps and sobs as though fighting furiously and frantically for breath. Her horror-stricken eyes reflect an inner turmoil. 

Then with a sudden released scream, she falls back, cold and dead.


Bio


Originally from Yorkshire, growing up in the untamed countryside of the Bronte's where she enjoyed the romantic literature of that period, particularly that which gave voice to the restless spirit seeking the mysteries of its own source. This led her into the field of eastern philosophy and mysticism, and for many years she has been a keen student of Theosophy, as introduced to the West by H.P. Blavatsky.