The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)

Meditations

"The Threshold" 

Mediation.

Not their personalities, or their self-appointed mission, or even their prodigies, but meditation that defines who and what someone like Kali Valentine is.

Everyone has a star.

That was the first lesson drilled into her by her own first teacher. Everyone has a star, and some have more. Just bide their light, and you'll no aft go wrong.

Kathleen MacLeod was a dour woman by nature, and it had been darkened into a kind of permanent melancholia by the early death of her betrothed. But she was also patient and kindly, and even within her sorrowful aspect there glowed an undimmed point of peace and contentment. In time, Kali realized that Kathleen repeated it for herself as much as for Kali.

Meditation for her and those like her is not a method of retreating from the world, or finding balance within one's self. To meditate is to reach outside, to grasp as an anchor something much firmer and stronger than one's self. It is, in a sense, to make one's self the beam of light that Kathleen urged her students to "bide within."

Kali meditates often and almost unconsciously, a fact which unnerves you as you prepare for bed. She knows her ousiarchs—the intelligences associated with each of the planets—as well as they can be comprehended by one as weak and limited as she. Do they know her? If you meditate, will they sense the imposture? But if you don't, will that weaken your imposture, loosening your ability to command her gifts?

You consider your reflection thoughtfully as you are removing what little makeup you are wearing. Kali is closer to seventy than to sixty, though in face and form she could pass at a distance for half her age, and anyone looking at her up close would be astonished to learn that she is more then fifty. Her skin is smooth and firm with only a few soft lines near her eyes, and streaks of gray (that she darkens slightly) at her temples. Partially it is good genes and exercise; mostly it is her orientation toward Perelandra. All adepts of that planet (Venus) retain a beauty long past its usual expiration date.

Will I wither into a crone overnight if I don't meditate? you sardonically wonder. It seems unlikely, but you never know with these things. Even the Stellae themselves are mystified by much about themselves.

And so you rake up your courage as you wash your face and brush your teeth and hair. You temporize by fiddling with the lights and turning down the bed and changing out of one dressing gown into another. Do it on the floor? The bed? Standing? At last, when you feel made foolish by your procrastination, you settle erectly on the foot of the bed and close your eyes. Taking a deep breath, you murmur the short incantation that Kathleen taught her, and which Kali frequently uses, not because it is necessary but because it is habitual. Yon starn abune the hill, guide me hame.

Starlight soft as dust falls about you.

* * * * *

"A zero? No credit?" Vidya writhes without outrage as she clenches the previous night's classwork in a tight fist. "That's not fair!"

"And where was fairness in your lark last night?" you riposte. "You abused my trust, child."

It is the next morning—a Saturday—and you are preparing breakfast for your charges. Although on weekdays you typically prepare them a traditional American breakfast of eggs, muffins or cereal, on weekends you indulge them by making something more familiar. This morning it is yogurt served with aloo paratha—a pan-fried flatbread stuffed with herbed mashed potatoes. You have been working on it since seven o'clock; the girls are late rising; and Vidya, the first to come into the kitchen, found her graded homework at her place on the breakfast table.

"Well, you're the one who gave me the chance to," she retorts.

"And is that your lesson for me? That I should not give you a chance?"

You have turned your back to her as you work at the stove, but you can imagine the look she's giving you.

"It's still not fair! All my answers are right! And you didn't give Punthali a zero! You're just punishing me for—"

"You are being punished fairly for your faulty answers. You are quick, child, but too quick. Examine the first problem more closely."

"What am I supposed to see?"

"Count the number of left-hand parentheses in the equation."

"Okay."

"Now count the number of right-hand parentheses."

There's a pause. Then an angry, "What?"

"You'll find the same in all the problems. The correct answer in each case is 'I don't know' because the expressions you were set to solve are faulty."

"But I know what you meant!"

"Did you notice the fault in the expressions? No. The test wasn't of your mathematical knowledge, but of your ability to read and reason carefully. And that you failed."

"Euuauugghhh!"

You glance over your shoulder: Vidya has buried her face in the table and thrown her arms over her head.

Then her head shoots up and she snatches up Punthali's paper.

"I got these all right!" she cries. "I should get credit for them!"

"So the burglar would post bond with the cash box she stole." But you don't hide a smile when you add, "Don't be pert. Fetch your sister, breakfast is almost ready."

"She's not my sister," Vidya objects, but she swings onto her feet and dashes from the room. You have their meal on the table when they both return.

"I try meditate," Punthali says. She stares down at her food even as Vidya wolfs hers down. "I couldn't."

"Tried meditating," Vidya says with an full mouth.

"Swallow, then correct her grammar," you instruct her. "Better still, swallow and keep silent. You could not?" you address Punthali. "That is interesting. We shall try again after you and your sister have cleaned up the kitchen."

"More punishment," Vidya mutters.

"It's your turn to do the dishes," you retort.

* * * * *

You have chores of your own—light daily vacuuming and dusting—while the girls do the kitchen and clean their bedroom. Then as the hour hand of the clock is creeping toward nine, you gather your charges in the living room.

"Onto the floor," you order. They sit cross-legged, as do you, in a tight circle on a thick and comfortable rug.

"Are you going to teach us anything new?" Vidya asks hopefully.

"When you are ready." You can tell she is fighting to keep from rolling her eyes.

But Punthali hesitates. When you ask her what is wrong, she says something to Vidya. "She's worried she won't be able to do it," she translates.

"Then she won't be able to do it. And we will want to learn why." Vidya starts to translate for Punthali, but you interrupt by leaning in close to gently cradle Punthali under the chin. "Do not fear," you assure her.

Then you straighten up.

"Now. I will give you a countdown." You hold up your hand and splay your fingers. Eyes shut on five," you say. "Center on four. Salute your }ousiarch on three, genuflect on two, and depart on one. Ready?"

Vidya straightens up eagerly; Punthali shrinks a little inside herself.

"Five, four, three, two, one."

By two, Vidya's chin is resting atop her breastbone. But Punthali's head is still up, and her expression is troubled. As you study her face, her eyes pop open. There are tears in them.

"Hush," you tell her. "You cannot?" She shakes her head.

"Your classwork. Last night. You did wrong," you say, with a gentle sternness.

Her face twists up, and she nods violently.

"You must apologize. To me. Apologize."

Her face lengthens, and tears pour from her eyes. "I am sorry, Kali," she murmurs, and she bends all the way forward, almost touching the floor with her forehead. Her body quietly heaves and shudders.

You cup her chin again, and lift her unresisting until she is looking at you again. There is pain in her eyes, but also peace.

"Good," you say. "I forgive you." You brush your fingertips across her forehead. "You are now clean. But."

You press a clenched hand over your heart.

"It hurts here. Yes?" Punthali's eyes widen, and she nods. "Clutch it. The hurt. Grab it," you urge her, and grasp her wrist to move her hand over her heart. Her eyes widen with understanding, and she clenches her hand tightly. "Good. Squeeze the hurt." You clench your own hand, to show her. "Pull it out. Lift it up." You raise your own hand over your head, and with a wondering look she mirrors your motion.

"It is here." You point to your upraised hand. "Hurt. Apology. Sadness. All here. Give it to your ousiarch. Give it to Lurga."

The child looks puzzled, but then her expression clears. She closes here eyes and begins to breath deeply. You don't even have to give her a countdown: Inside of five seconds her chin has dropped to her chest, and she is sleeping as soundly as her sister. Her clenched fist hovers in the air, then flies open and drops slowly to rest in her lap.

You sit with them, very still, watching carefully, for a half hour, until they both return. Vidya bounds up and rushes about the room, laughing. But Punthali is very still and very serene, and drops back onto her back to stare with a faint smile at the ceiling.

* * * * *

By mid-afternoon you have released them to play while you retire to your study to do some necessary business work. But your mind is elsewhere.

The ease you felt at guiding them through their studies—the naturalness of your performance—leaves you reassured about the impersonation, so that you allow yourself to speculate on cautious (if not immediate) expansions.

The most obvious but cautious expansion would be to complete the infiltration with Vidya and Punthali. Yet you could go much bolder than that. Malaika Mbulu also lives in Los Angeles. It would be easy to get her out to your apartment.

Then you could move one of your colleagues into Kali, while you usurped Malaika's place.

Then you would be no mere teacher, but head of the Stellae Errantes.

Next: "What Are Little Girls Made Of?" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 5)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)"