Magnum Innominandum

But Ruth was convinced there was something else. Here and there she saw hints of another myth-family, perhaps once widespread, that had been concealed by its adherents and violently repressed by its rivals. She was unable to describe it to me directly, because it had been so thoroughly suppressed that she was unable to find clear accounts of its beliefs and customs. Instead, she said, it was tangible by its very absence, by the voids it left behind. She told me about Egyptian statues of a certain era, their names and faces obliterated to extinguish the memory of some unorthodox cult, and of heretical sects that had been so thoroughly eradicated by the Inquisition that even the nature of their heresy was now forgotten.

She told me of two obscure saints, separated in history by thousands of miles and hundreds of years, whose hagiographies held some peculiar parallels: they came and went without being seen, they wore masks to symbolize the seven deadly sins, they blighted any who dared touch them.

"So you think they're a Christian interpretation of something older?"

"It wouldn't be the first time. Remember Saint Brigid? She was a Celtic fire-goddess, and when the Church couldn't stifle her worship they reinvented her as a Catholic saint."

I trusted her instincts, but both of us knew the world of academia would require something more concrete. She was determined to find proof, and certain that there must still be living remnants of this tradition in some forgotten corner of the world.

During the Christmas break of 1924 I invited her to come stay at my parents' house in Boston. I am sorry to say that it was not altogether a success. Despite Papa's best attempts at hospitality, poor Ruth was so overawed by my parents' social standing that she could barely look them in the eye or speak above a whisper. For her part, Mama — who had once been arrested for bloodying a policeman's nose with a suffrage banner — held Ruth's meekness in disdain. When she spoke to me in private she would refer to Ruth only as "the girl".

If Ruth's introduction to my family was a failure, the rest of her stay in Boston went beyond all expectations. She acquainted herself with the city's libraries and archives; she haunted the Geographical Society. She befriended the curator at the Marine Museum, a retired Irish sea-captain, and by mentioning my family inveigled him into letting her stay there after hours (another cause of annoyance to my parents, who believed in regular dinner-times). One night I found her there long after closing-time. The fire was low and the room was bitterly cold; she seemed not to notice it at all, rapt in a pile of old manuscripts and log-books. Later the same fellow introduced her to the Seamen's Friend Society, where she spent many more hours talking to the old sea-dogs.

She continued these researches after our return to Vesey, and through the year that followed. Most of this she did through the post, although she also made occasional forays to New Haven and Providence. I had to argue forcefully with her to get her to pay adequate attention to her official course of study, and even so she did the bare minimum necessary to achieve a respectable but not remarkable grade.

First and foremost she was seeking travelers' tales, and she must have collected hundreds. Some were related to her directly by grizzled seamen; others she had from the archives and museums, or from old men contacted via the Geographical Societies. Almost all were chaff as far as she was concerned, but here and there she found enough substance to whet her appetite.

An ancient sailor told her of a remote coastal tribe in West Australia, their language and customs abruptly unlike those of the neighboring peoples who shunned and detested them. They celebrated their feast-days according to no solar or lunar calendar, at the bidding of a shaman who concealed his face with leaves and feathers and furred masks.

Elsewhere, in the papers of a Hungarian doctor, she found accounts of a seldom-visited village on a dead-end mountain road. The details of their beliefs were difficult to make out. Hungarian wasn't among Ruth's many languages, so she'd spent a week with an inadequate phrasebook at hand as she labored at translating Dr. Olah's spidery handwriting. Her notes here were full of speculation and blank spots, but it appeared that the locals sacrificed old clothes and dyed them to create a ragged effigy of a saint who watched over shepherds.

There were others like this, each more fragmented than the last. None of them offered a compelling proof for Ruth's thesis, and yet when taken together they formed a suggestive pattern. A veiled oracle, intermediary between humans and some hidden mystery, the recurring emphasis on certain colors and certain constellations — all of it hinted at a relationship that spanned from Patagonia to the Arctic Circle.

But all of these accounts were distorted and incomplete, written by men who viewed foreign customs through the lens of their own customs and beliefs. Even Dr. Olah, a man of letters, had sought to emphasize the 'degeneracy' of the practices he witnessed, and the sailors Ruth interviewed were prone to embellishing with lurid stories of cannibalism and debauchery.

She declared — and I agreed — that the next step must be an expedition, to revisit some of these peoples and observe their traditions with fresh and impartial eyes, searching for better evidence of a common underpinning.

To my parents' displeasure, I spent Christmas with Ruth and her father. She was inordinately delighted when I gave her a saffron-yellow cashmere scarf; in return she gave me a piece of bone, carved by an Irish sailor into a pendant that was half-way between a dragon and an elaborate fish-hook.

Looking back on it, the time we spent there in old Monty's drafty library was perhaps the happiest of my life. We lost hours together, huddled under a moth-eaten blanket against the cold, poring over a great multi-colored atlas and laying our secret plans. What time of year would be best for the Andes or the Alps? What photographic equipment should we bring? Should we employ local guides and armed escorts? What aspects of the myths should we look for, and how should we go about interviewing the locals?

It was a lovely dream of adventure... and in hindsight, never more than a pipe-dream. Ruth could barely afford to have her boots mended to keep out the slush, and I? Well, I was rich enough, but my money wasn't my own; Mama and Papa held it in trust for me. They had suggested that once I completed my studies I might like to travel, and so I wrote to them boldly explaining what we had in mind and what we'd require... silly girl.

Had I been less absorbed in Ruth's grand visions I might have realized how my request would sound to them, might have seen how to recast it in order to secure their approval — what to emphasize and what to omit. But I went in head-first, and by the time I discovered the gravity of my error, the damage was done.

"You would be her assistant? And she wants you to fund the whole enterprise?"

And that was that. It was one thing for Mr and Mrs Hart to endow a scholarship for poor girls of good character; it was quite another to suppose that their own daughter should take direction from this "little church-mouse". I wrote an angry reply, but was forced to back down when Mama intimated that I might jeopardize Ruth's position at Vesey if I pressed the matter further. I didn't know whether she was bluffing but I couldn't take the gamble.

Ruth and I returned to Vesey together; she was in a blue funk and barely said a word the whole way. I did my best to cheer her up: "It's not the end of the world. You could take a position here when you've finished your degree. Why, Ruth, you've enough ideas in this for a doctorate!"

"Oh, r-really? And w-w-who would p-p-pay for a w-w-w..." She gave up trying to finish the sentence and shook her head angrily.

"They can't keep my money in trust forever, Ruth. Sooner or later I'll have access, even if I have to butter them up. And when I do, I promise."

"That's sweet, J-jo. But..." She trailed off and shook her head again, and that was the end of the discussion.

I called by as often as I could. Every time I knocked she was sitting in her room, just thinking, surrounded by a pile of research that looked not to have been touched since our return. I tried my best to cheer her up, and she went along with my suggestions, but the best I got out of her was a dejected smile and sad thank-yous.

Then, three weeks after the beginning of term, I dragged her along to a guest lecture about the discovery of helium. Professor Hildeman talked about how Lockyer and Janssen had discovered a new element in the spectrum of the Sun during the eclipse of 1868, and how it had not been detected on our own planet for another 27 years. "It was always here," he said, "but so unreactive and inert that it was able to hide from us."

Up to that point Ruth had looked morose and distracted — her usual expression at that time — but at that, I saw her frown and adjust her glasses. Then she wrote in her notebook a single cryptic comment: "Don't need to go to the Sun?"

After that lecture she was in good humor once more; somehow, I knew not how, the spark had rekindled. I asked about it and she only said "Not yet, Jo — I need to make sure of a few things first. Then I promise I'll tell you." The only clue I could find was that her reading material had changed. She had tidied away the notes and travelers' journals from Boston, and over the next few months they were gradually replaced by an assortment of more contemporary reading. There were a few works that I recognized from her earlier studies — she still had Frazer, and a couple of works by Crowley with contemptuous remarks pencilled in the margins in Ruth's hand.

But to my surprise most of it was fiction. Volumes of stories by Chambers and Machen, two novels by Huysmans, Wilde's "Salomé", all sorts of things; Ruth had never shown an interest in this sort of work before. I chaffed her about it but she deflected my jokes with good humor and some cryptic remarks. "You think it's all gas, Jo? Well, maybe, but that's where they find helium!"

That was all I could get out of her, so I had to content myself with the knowledge that she was happy again. Since she had no need of my assistance I took the time to catch up on my own studies, for I'd fallen a little behind while I was trying to divert Ruth from her disappointments.

Soon after that my mother was taken ill. I was occupied with writing to her and Papa, so that I didn't keep up with Ruth as much as I had been. In May Mama's condition worsened, and at the end of my junior year I traveled down to Boston for an extended visit. Papa told us she would recover, with rest and time, and I did what I could to comfort her.

A few weeks into my stay I had a telegram from Ruth asking if she might visit, for she had business to attend to in Boston. To my surprise, Mama and Papa made no objection; I suppose they had other things to worry about, and were satisfied that Ruth's expedition had long since been knocked on the head. For her part Ruth showed great consideration for my mother, volunteering to push her around in her chair and attending to her comforts, and Mama began to treat her with a little more grace.

When not attending to Mama, Ruth was frequently away from the house. She told us she was down on family business — something to do with her own late mother's estate — but I found that difficult to believe, for she was cagey about the details. When I pressed her she said "Not yet, Jo. Soon, I promise!" I confess I was a little hurt that Ruth should keep me out of her confidences, even for a little while, and I wondered if our friendship had run its course. But I put my trust in her and did my best not to notice her comings and goings.

After a couple of weeks my patience was rewarded. She took me aside one morning and said, "Jo, I need your help. I'm going somewhere a little queer tonight, and I'd feel better if I had a friend along to watch out for me."

I touched her hand, and the look she gave me melted away all the resentment I'd been feeling about her secretive behavior. "Of course I'll come. But Ruth, where are we going?"

"It's a little place on Causeway Street. Better if we take a cab, I think the Pierce-Arrow would draw quite the wrong sort of attention. I'm told Causeway can be rough."

"That it can." I was familiar with the district; before falling in with Ruth, I'd spent a good deal of time in the company of earlier friends who had broadened my education through an introduction to Boston's speakeasies.

We dressed down to make ourselves inconspicuous among the crowds. Ruth had on the scarf I'd given her, "in case you should need to spot me"; meanwhile, I stowed a little pearl-handled revolver in my purse, a present from an uncle for my eighteenth birthday.

As the cab slipped away from our house, Ruth's tongue loosened at last. "I suppose you won't be surprised if I tell you this isn't about Mother's estate."

I squeezed her hand. "I'm not quite that stupid."

"I'm sorry for holding out on you, Jo. I just thought it'd be harder for you if I told you and then you had to keep it back from your mother. I know it's a difficult time."

"Well. I think I might forgive you, if you tell me about this new bee in your bonnet."

She laughed. "It's the same old bee, but in different clothes. You remember Hildeman's lecture about helium? About how we detected it in the sun, and then found out it was right here on earth with us, keeping a low profile?"

I nodded, and she leant over, close to my ear. "That got me thinking, maybe we don't have to go to darkest Peru to find what I'm looking for. The early Christians didn't run to the edge of the Roman Empire, they concealed their churches among the pagans; well, what if some of the people we're looking for did the same?"

"For two thousand years? Without detection?"

"Not always. We know some of them were stamped out... after that, I daresay the rest got careful. Wouldn't expect them to advertise in the newspapers! But I realized there might be another way to find them."

"Hm?"

"Every religion expresses itself through art. Usually it's overt stuff, requiems and icons. But for a religion that couldn't show itself overtly... I thought perhaps it might show through in other forms of art. So I talked to some of the English faculty about symbolism, said I was interested in fiction with certain themes. They gave me some recommendations, and I found a few that seemed suggestive. Then I made enquiries about those authors and that got me a few more names. Most weren't in the library, so I wrote to half a dozen booksellers to make enquiries... one fellow here in Boston sent me quite a peculiar reply."

"Oh?"

"He said he could get them for me — all of them, even some that had been out of print for many years. And then he asked in a roundabout sort of way if I had any reason for my interest in those particular books, and if I happened to be a member of his extended family."

"His family — oh. You mean to say —"

"I do! I wrote back and said I was interested in some of the motifs that were common to those books, and while I wasn't a member of his family, I thought I might have come across them in the course of some research. He invited me to come visit and discuss matters at his shop. So I stopped by last Tuesday."

"Ruth, if these people are trying to keep themselves secret that could be really dangerous."

"Oh, I thought about that, but — well, I couldn't pass it up, could I now?"

"You lived to tell the tale, I see."

She nodded emphatically. "I met him in his shop, and I made sure I could run for the door if need be. He wasn't menacing at all, just a quiet little Dutch fellow. Oh, his beliefs may well be dangerous in their way, but he didn't seem like the sort to go around throttling girls in a shop. No, he was quite polite. He wouldn't tell me much, just gave me hints — some of it matched what I already knew — and he said if I wanted to see more, I should come here tonight."

It was an unobtrusive sort of place, a side door in an alleyway, shielded from view by a staircase. Ruth knocked, the door opened, and a large fellow with a sturdy walking-stick beckoned us into what looked like a small store-room.

"Who are you? I don't know you."

"The b-bookseller sent m-me," Ruth replied. "I'm Ruth. He s-said to come tonight."

"Didn't say there'd be two of you."

"This is my f-friend Jane." I wondered why she'd given a false name for me but not herself, then realized she would have given away her real name when she first wrote to the bookseller. "You can trust her as you trust me."

"As you like. But you go in blind, and you go in alone." He turned to one of the shelves, and when he turned back he held two thick strips of cloth. Blindfolds.

I started to reach for my purse and what it held. Ruth shook her head at me. "I'll go. You can go back and wait for me, if you don't want to do this. I'll be all right."

"I said I'd come with you. I meant it."

We let the man blindfold us, and then I heard Ruth being led away. It wasn't long before he came back. He told me to hang on to his arm for guidance. We took a confusing route, climbing wooden stairs that squeaked underfoot and then after a series of turns descending stone steps so steep that I would have toppled without my guide's assistance. I suspected he was leading me in circles, but it was hard to be sure, and by the time we came to a halt I was well and truly disoriented.

"Who are you?" A no-nonsense female voice in front of me, as my guide's hand on my shoulders indicated that I should stand where I was.

"Jane. Jane... Miller."

"Jane." I couldn't tell whether she believed me. "Why are you here?"

"For my friend. To look out for her."

"You had better look out for yourself first." I heard her move beside me, and then her finger tapped at my mouth. Her voice was soft in my ear. "Say after me." And she whispered, and I repeated her words, and although I only spoke them once they are stamped indelibly in my memory.

"In this place I swear to the god who is not a god and the goddess who is not a goddess, the Pale Lady who may not be worshipped and the Silent King who may not be named. May their secrets lie caged within me forever, may my tongue wither and shrivel in my mouth before I speak them to any man. May my fingers rot from my hands, may my ribs crush my heart before I betray them. May I eat only salt and drink only dust should I waver in my duties. Silence is my promise and secrecy is my oath."

Soft footsteps behind me. Unseen hands took my wrists and drew them back, bound them at my back with something soft, even as other hands tied my ankles and my knees. Then they released me. I stood unsteadily, and there was a glassy clatter in front of me as if somebody had tipped a hundredweight of broken bottles on the floorboards.

She whispered in my ear again. "Fall forwards." A light pressure between my shoulders, and instinctive fear called on me to resist. Instead, I allowed myself to topple, face-first and unprotected. Just as I felt sure of hitting the floor I was caught by a dozen strong hands and set back on my feet.

"Drink this." A cup was pressed against my lips, and I obeyed. It tasted bitter-sweet, like honey and herbs. The cup was only removed when I had drained it completely. By then I could feel my lips and tongue tingling.

"You have crossed the first threshold. The next you must find for yourself."

Then the hands released me. Blindfolded and bound, I tottered and almost fell again, but managed to stay upright.