Of the Occult

The Past

The auditorium of the Gilman's institute of arts was quite cold, very dark and definitely large and full of people. The screen behind John Daye showed various projections, most notably of his research on criminal psychology, and as John pranced around the podium, he could feel all eyes on him. John could never understand how so many young adults could be interested in the human condition called criminality.
"I guess you could say," John Daye said into the mic "when we are interested in the criminal psyche, we often have to extend our interests to his desires" - John pointed at the screen as he said this; he was discussing about an old case - "and reasons that brought out his criminal nature. Mr. Reinhardt here made a notable improvement by associating murder with things that he found repulsive. In his case, his past shrouded by the abuse from his father played an important role. When Mr. Reinhardt was made to think from the eyes of the younger him in the eyes of his victims, he showed resistance to his more base desires, choosing not to kill or hurt. It took years of work, but as of today, Mr. Reinhardt is safe in the society and in himself."
"Sir," someone from the top far shadows shouted, "does that mean he is living his life like a normal person now? You know, like in actual society?"
"My final judgment about the matter was that, but the state doesn't look too kindly upon murderers, I am afraid. He is in prison for life, to this day."
John Daye flipped a page, the sound escaping loudly through the mic. Before he could say anything though, a girl from the front row asked an interesting question.
"What if a crime is done by a group of people? Like a gang, or a cult, say. I mean, you said you have to understand their desires and their past, but when multiple people are involved, there would be multiple desires and multiple pasts. Their might or might not be any link between them, and yet they commit a crime together. How does that work?"
John Daye scratched his head on the podium, everyone's eyes on him. Of course all of these smart students had read his books, or at least knew what they were about. It would seem they wanted more personal cases involving what he was famous for. Cults.
"A gang is notably different than, say, a cult.", he said rather pointedly, "but I will try to answer anyway. Before I do, you should understand that criminal psychology is too intricate a science; there is never one answer to any question. So here, I was talking about Mr. Reinhardt..."
"Sir!" the girl shouted in protest. Daye dismissed her with a wave of a hand,
"Let me finish, miss. You want to know how a group can be convinced to commit a crime? Take what I was saying about Mr. Reinhardt, for example. I told you all that I deemed him to be fit to exist in society and therefore the state put him in prison for life. That’s a 45 year sentence. But when he is released, he still would have a chance at a life, would he not? Now bear with me. Imagine if, for some personal reasons, I lied to the state that he was unfit to exist in society, and hence the state would be forced to give him the same life imprisonment in a padded asylum. The only difference here is that, there is no chance for Mr. Reinhardt to come back to society. Life in a padded cell means life in a padded cell. It's not a 45 year tenure, it's till-the-day-you-die. I falsifying my testimony would undoubtedly be a crime, but you believing my testimony without a doubt, and going along with it makes you an accessory in the crime.
And that's just the thing. Cults are based on belief. The entire group believes in something that makes them commit crimes. In this case, their desires, and their pasts do come into the picture, but most importantly, what binds them together is belief."
John Daye looked around the group, then smiled.
"Don't worry, there was a panel of five psychiatrist that gave their testimonies in the case of Mr. Reinhardt."
Some dry laughter was shared among the crowd. Half an hour later, John Daye was packing his things and the students were leaving the hall. He thought the lecture was a success; the students seemed very interactive and interested and that made Daye leave satisfied.
Waving to some of the students as they greeted him a good evening, Daye started his walk outside the building; an unnatural chill hung heavy in the summer air, and the campus was full of students rushing home or to their rooms or to pubs or wherever. Daye himself picked up his pace, not wanting to stay out when it could rain any minute now. The clouds were growing heavier and darker, so it might not come as a surprise when John felt a slight annoyance when krhe was stopped by a girl, her brunette hair tied in a long straight ponytail behind her, swinging left-right in a false sense of enthusiasm.
Hey, sir!
Daye looked at her and recognized her instantly. Why, it was the girl who had asked that peculiar question during his lecture. What could she want?
Hey, sir -
Not giving a lecture anymore. I am John Daye.
And he kept walking, forcing the 19 year old something to fall in step.
"Okay. Hey, John Daye. I wanted to ask you something."
"Sure, sure, can you walk a bit faster though? I hate getting wet." John's attention was solely to the clouds now, and ominous it did look; John could practically feel the drops dislodged from equilibrium, about to fall on his balding head any moment now.
"huh." she smiled, "Okay. I am Claudia Rebecca White."
Odd, John thought to himself. Who gives their full name like that, he thought. Moreover, it had started to drizzle just so slightly, and John rushed the last few yards to his car.
"...and I wanted to ask you about the Lambs."
Rebecca crashed into Daye, for the latter had stopped too abruptly. He had Rebecca's undivided attention now, the rain quite forgotten, then he pointed to the open doors of his car and asked,
"You like pizza?"
***
Jeremy woke up with a start.
Jeremy couldn't move his head, all he could do was blink up at the stark white ceiling of his bedroom. Slowly, his hearing returned to him, and he could hear the soft pitter-patter of rain on the window panes of his room. His throat felt parched. Water? He needed some water. The sound of rain was louder now. His brain was the slowest, in the order of things, to start functioning again.
Jeremy remembered the Lady of the Lake.
Had that really happened? He tried sitting up and to his surprise he felt no exertion at all. His back didn't hurt. In fact, nothing in his body hurt. He felt so perfectly fine. Not at all like he had been thrashed by some elder kids and then almost broken his back about four hours earlier. He checked for his wounds, and there weren't any. What happened? The Lady of the Lake? No, she hated that name, she told him that. Anahasika Misaki.
And then he remembered everything. He remembered talking to her for a long time, talking about the most peculiar things. After Jeremy was done crying into Anahasika's lap, she had asked him odd things like,
"Why does the sun hide itself at night?"
To which he had replied, "it doesn't. Its called revolution. The earth revolves around the sun, and at night, technically, the earth moves beyond the reach of, you know, the light of the sun. Which is why it's night. I mean. I don't know how to explain."
And she nodded with big eyes and a ready enthusiasm to learn.
They had sat there on the grass for a very long time. For some reason, except for the whole Jeremy breaking down and crying in front of her, they shared no personal moments. Only questions such as this, which Jeremy tried to answer as accurately as possible.
As for the questions Jeremy asked, well. It wasn't hard to tell he was attached to the girl in only the few moments they shared; leave the fact that Anahasika was mysterious and pretty and intriguing and definitely something bordering supernatural, but moreover and more importantly no other person had given their full attention to Jeremy in his life and he was in a desperate need of a friend. So, yes, he was attached, and yes, the questions he asked were personal beyond a doubt. But the answers he got were vague, or no answers at all.
"What does it mean, what is Lady of the Lake?"
"I don't know, that’s what they call me."
"Who are they?"
"I don't know, everyone, I guess. That is to say, everyone who seeks help."
"Can I call you Ana? Your name is kind of long."
"I don't know, people call me many different things. Call me whatever you like."
"What do you like?"
"A lot of things. Sunflowers. Butterflies. The color of the sun..."
"No, I meant..."
"...and I like the name Ana. It's so simple. I hate being called the Lady of the Lake. Call me Ana."
And then she flashed the prettiest smile Jeremy had seen.
"Then Ana it is." Jeremy blushed.
"So where do you live, Ana?" Jeremy started again.
"Beyond the forest? I don't know, I think I am lost. But I found you, so maybe not. Hm?"
"What do you mean?"
And she looked at him, the smile vanished in such a way that Jeremy wondered if he had dreamt it.
"You don't know what I mean?"
But Jeremy did. At times, when Jeremy was alone he could feel the ripples his thought left in his brain, the speed with which they flew too great. They would whizz inside his head, swirling in a centrifuge of his brain, like arrows drifting in wind. It was all too easy for Jeremy to get lost, so lost, in these thoughts of his.
It was only when he sat there with Ana that he realized how hard it was to put his thoughts into words, how hard it was to actually project his thoughts beyond his brain, to give them a shape in the form of communication.
And yet, he did communicate, he did project, and he did think. If being lost can be explained simply as 'having an infinite space to explore', then can we not say that to have a friend was akin to finding your way? If thoughts materialize from a labyrinth inside your brain, then the words you speak in the company of a friend are the embodiment of those thoughts that found their way out.
So, Jeremy thought, staring into the white ceiling, listening to the music of condensed water on his bedroom window, only people who live alone, live lost.
There was a seemingly loud noise (louder than the rain in the very least) at the door. Someone was fumbling to open the lock of the front door. Jeremy hopped off his bed, and walked slowly to the hall, where he stood at the corner of the end of the stairs, waiting for his father to open the door.
It took him some time, and possibly many attempts, but Jeremy Dupitt's father finally entered, drenched in rain and alcohol. The rain flashed blue inside the dark room, and it flashed brighter through the gaps as Mr. Dupitt closed the door behind him.
"hey, Jeremy, I am home", he shouted to no one in particular, dropped his drenched coat onto the floor. Without bothering to switch on the lights, he stumbled to the coffee table and plopped down on the couch with an exaggerrated, drunken sigh.
After some time of massaging his head, Mr. Dupitt looked around and through strained eyes he spotted Jeremy standing near the doorway.
"Oh, Jeremy, I don't think I can make dinner. You mind ordering from out?"
His speech was slurred, slow.
Jeremy shook his head to show his approval. And that was dinner in the Dupitt household. The light from the digital clock on the coffee table was all the light that shone in the room, excluding of course, the bright line formed by the gap under the door. The sound of rain was now so very dim, maybe because of the harsh raspy uneven breathing of Jeremy's father. Jeremy saw his father curl up on the sofa, and he felt that strange heavy feeling in his chest he had felt earlier when Ana kept her hand there.
It had become a custom in the Dupitt household for Jeremy to call a Chinese place and order some hygienic-unhygienic food. Then, Jeremy would wait, looking at his sorry state of a father sleeping in the living room. Then, the food would arrive seemingly in no time, and Jeremy would tear his eyes from his father and go answer the door. The money would be in his father's wallet and he would have to approach him for that. This was always the scariest part for Jeremy. He kept expecting his father to leap up during that instance one day and announce he was all better now and hug him. But that never happened, and it scared Jeremy that that might never actually happen. Then of course, embracing reality once more, Jeremy would pay the man, and then eat in silence. He hated eating in the dark where his father slept, so he would take the food upstairs to his room. Once done, he would throw the cartons and find the spare blanket to drape it around his father lest he catch a cold. Then he would watch the digital clock change numbers.
And that was so tonight as well. Was this routine sad? No, it was just a routine for Jeremy now. But something had changed tonight. Something was different. That heavy sensation on his heart grew and grew, and Jeremy felt he would burst under the pressure any minute now. So when he watched the digital clock change numbers tonight, he watched it with apprehension and hurt. He needed to say something, Jeremy realized. So he knelt near his father and whispered the first thought that came to his head.
"I love you, dad."
Had Mr. Dupitt heard his son's words that night, maybe he would realize that the loss of his wife wasn't the only tragedy he was going through. But alas, he was deaf from booze, and the only response he could come up with was a snore.
But for some reason, the sensation of Ana's hand disappeared. Jeremy felt better having said something he hadn't said in years. He didn't understand what the Lady of the Lake done to him, but he understood she had done something to him. And that was alright. I wonder if I would see her again, Jeremy thought.