The Triforium Read online

  Then a white limousine pulled up. A long-legged woman in a short black dress with large silver polka dots stepped out in the most fashionable high heels. She was slender. Her skin was creamy. Her hair was dark black and long with a high gloss to it. She was alluring. And it was apparent by the angular overstated way that she had stepped onto the street that she knew that she was the sort of woman men wanted.

  Behind her, tumbling out of the limo, came quite a different fashion statement. She too was very conscious of her appearance, but hadn’t a clue as to what kind of image she was trying to project. To any observer, it was obvious that she was a girl in flux between two dissimilar poles. Unlike the elegant woman who had preceded her, her apparel was all about contradiction. She wore a light blue jersey with a red and yellow neckerchief. Her arms were heavy with silver bracelets. Her eyelids and lips had been blackened with makeup. She had colored her hair blue-black, except for her bangs, which were dyed to match the silver of her bangles. A Girl Guide sash covered with badges completed her outfit.

  The elegant woman in the short black silver polka dotted dress moved towards the door to the musicians’ entrance. She didn’t have to fumble for her keys. The door was opened for her. As she entered, her young companion eagerly followed at her heels. The woman, wearing pink Crocs and a brown sweater, was there to greet them.

  “Maeva most of our sisters are here. When shall we start?”

  Maeva Wolusky turned to the woman, who for the purposes of this club was known as Artemisia.

  “Oh Artemisia, just in a minute or two. But first I’d like you to meet a special guest. This is Emma.”

  Artemisia held out her hand, which was shyly received by the teenager. “Always pleased to meet a sister,” she said. Then, turning her attention back to Maeva she added with a slightly puzzled look, “Will she be staying for the meeting?”

  “Oh, no. I would like to give her a brief tour. Just before we begin, she should go upstairs with the other young ladies and start her studies. Her mother says that Emma hasn’t been quite herself lately. So, I suggested that a trip to our ladies club might help her find herself … that is in addition to the wholesome experience of being a Girl Guide.”

  Artemisia couldn’t suppress a grin and was about to say something when Emma chimed in. “We’ve just come back from indoor skydiving.” she announced.

  “There are these big fans underneath you and it gets really windy and you get pushed up above a net. You float up just above the net like you’re really skydiving. Ms. Wolusky took our group of Girl Guides there this morning.”

  “Well, I’m sure that you got proper instruction from Ms. Wolusky. I’m sure you know that she’s a champion skydiver.”

  “Oh yes. When we’re a bit older, she promised to take us up in her plane and watch her jump.”

  “I’m sure that she will. Soon you’ll be jumping out of planes yourself.” Artemisia turned to Maeva. “When you’re done with your little tour give me a shout and I’ll take Emma upstairs and introduce her to the other girls.” Artemisia then left the entryway and walked through a door that led to the old dining area of Tipsy Dolls.

  Maeva was about to follow her in when Emma gushed, “Why it’s you. Look it’s you Ms. Wolusky.”

  In the hallway, hung just above Emma’s head, was a French poster in a golden frame. “La Fée Verte, The Green Fairy,” it read. The poster was a bit washed out and tinged by cigar smoke. “Absinthe,” it proclaimed in a long snaking Art Deco script. Below the script was a nude, a beautiful and seductive green fairy with dark butterfly wings, partaking of the alcoholic distillate from grande wormwood.

  Maeva was pleased that the girl had picked up on the likeness. Many had. And the similarity between her and the green fairy’s looks was the main reason why she had had it hung there.

  “Yes Emma, some have said that. But more importantly, absinthe is the theme of this most private club. And you must start calling me Maeva. Oh and we are all sisters here. Ms. Wolusky is fine when we’re out Girl Guiding. Speaking of which, Emma what is the first rule of a Girl Guide?”

  “Rule one,” she said, a little surprised to be asked such an easy question, “A guide is honest, reliable, and can be trusted.”

  “That’s right. I will emphasize the reliable and trusted aspect of that sentence. Today you are going to see and hear about things that few people know about. Most of those who do are your sisters. The reason you are here is that you have much in common with the women beyond these doors. You’ve been hearing things in your head haven’t you?”

  “Uh huh,” Emma sounded embarrassed. “I hear things … whispers.”

  “How often do you hear whispering?”

  “Not often,” she apologized.

  “Well, as you get older you will hear the whispering more and more and it won’t be just whispering after a while. It can get pretty loud inside our heads. I don’t mean to scare you but you must know that someday those voices will try to tell you what to do and try and take hold of your life. That’s what this club is mostly about, controlling those voices … or learning to live with them. Emma what’s the third rule of being a Girl Guide?”

  “A Girl Guide faces challenges and learns from her experiences.”

  “That’s right. Today you are going to see the challenges that you face and you must learn from these experience.”

  With that, Maeva threw open the French doors that opened up into Tipsy Dolls main dining room.

  The old dining area of Tipsy Dolls was divided into two halves. Several rows of silver satin brocade wing chairs faced one way, behind them, several rows of emerald green satin brocade wing chairs faced in the opposite direction. The women seated in the chairs had a variety of appearance and came from assorted backgrounds. One woman wore a long pink dress made of flamingo feathers. She also sported an enormous beehive hairdo, which her beautician had dyed platinum. But her look was rather tame compared to the woman sitting next to her. She had wired and glued her hair to resemble an enormous black claw, seemingly reaching out to pounce on the head of the woman who was seated directly in front of her. Who was rather ordinary in appearance — looking like somebody’s granny — except that she was puffing on a meerschaum pipe that was carved into the likeness of a skull with horns. Still, there were many who had been able to look fairly normal despite the jumble of bizarre ideas that coursed through their heads. Seated in the front row of the green chairs were members of the coven who had managed to fit comfortably into a variety of walks of life. Some of them had their work attire on — a stewardess in a British Airways uniform who had oversized her mouth with deep red lipstick, a dental hygienist who was reluctant to take off her blood splattered smock, an auto mechanic who felt the most comfortable in greasy coveralls, and a game warden who would dress in oak leaf camouflage only when visiting London.

  One difference between the two groups segregated by colored chairs was that the women in the silver satin chairs sat erect and rigid and chanted in incomprehensible tongues, while the women seated in the green satin chairs preferred to drink and become incomprehensibly drunk.

  The green-chair women were always seated facing a fancy mirrored bar with several very large and ornate glass-and-silver absinthe water fountains, cradled by silver-plated nymphs. In the center of the bar was a silver statue of Diana the Huntress with a drawn bow. Below Diana’s statue were bottles labeled Lucifer’s Delight, Green Man’s Own, Escobas de Brujas, Hexenkessel and Before Morning Imperial Absinthe. Whereas, the silver-chaired women were always seated facing a large yellow sandstone carving of the Wedjat eye, the left eye of the Egyptian sun god Ra.

  As she entered the room, Maeva spun about with her arms in the air. Then, facing a very bewildered looking Emma, she said, “This is all my creation. It’s called WITCH. It’s a feminist support group. Do you know what a feminist support group is?”

  Emma was
having a hard time focusing on what Maeva was saying, the chanting in the background was so loud. But she ventured a guess, “Something that helps feminines?”

  “Yes, exactly! WITCH is an acronym … a bunch of letters that stands for something.” She hoped that she was getting through to the teenager.

  “As I was saying, it’s an acronym and it stands for Women In Therapeutic Chemical Healing. Of course it is true that the group wanted our organization to be called WITCHes before we came up with the name Women In Therapeutic Chemical Healing. Fortunately, it all fits marvelously together. You see Emma, everybody in this room suffers from a condition that psychiatrists would call schizophrenia, but they would be wrong. We Witches preferred to call our condition by an earlier term: ‘precocious madness.’ Now, I know this may come as a bit of a surprise to you — and maybe a bit scary too — but you are a witch. And before I tell you more, remember that we are all here for one another. We are sisters.”

  “You mean I’m a witch … like because of the whispering and all? You don’t mean like ride a broomstick?” Emma’s face conveyed her growing uneasiness.

  Maeva began looking about the room wondering where Artemisia might have gone to.

  “Here dear, sit down for a moment.” Maeva motioned to one of the satin chairs. “You are with the green chair sisters today. I’m a member of the green chairs.”

  Emma started to sit in the chair but then became very distracted by the chanting from the women in the silver chairs.

  “Ra, god of light, decided to punish mankind.

  He gave his daughter Sekhmet, the woman lioness, his left eye.

  The Wedjat eye.

  Lady of Slaughter. Lady of the Flame!

  Robed in scarlet she took the left eye of Ra

  And burned mankind with it

  Till Ra begged her to stop

  Lady of Slaughter. Lady of the Flame!”

  Maeva had to take her right hand and beat the seat of the chair to regain Emma’s attention. Emma sat down compliantly.

  “Now don’t be alarmed dear. I’ll explain all of that. It is a bit unnerving at times, even to me, but you’ll get used to it.”

  But not only did Emma regain her composure, she became exuberant. “No. No. I’m fine … this is so cool Ms. Wolusky … I mean Maeva! I know those words! I know what they’re saying. I’ve heard those words whispered in my head.”

  “You have? You’re not just saying that to please me and then plan to go running out of here the first opportunity you get?”

  Emma smiled, “Never. Never. I’m at home here.”

  Maeva appeared relieved to hear this. Though this was the way things normally went. An inductee seemed to become at ease with the place within minutes upon entering it. Maeva had a theory that this was because their ghosts were helping to steady them. Her past experiences had taught Maeva that it would be smooth sailing now. Emma would fit in well.

  Though just to be on the safe side, Maeva wasn’t going to go into too much detail with Emma as to what being a WITCH meant. There would be plenty of time for her to learn about such things upstairs with the other girls. It was sort of a Sunday school for the younger witches. Emma would be in an environment with other young women who would be exploring this newfound truth about their peculiar state together. There they would learn about the mishmash in their heads … how a witch’s brain is all scrambled up with neurons that misfire into unworldly ether. Over time, the girls would be educated on how witches and their larval ghosts often become a dysfunctional schizophrenic mess, in a constant flux between the human and the nonhuman.

  It was a pathetic state that had cursed their people long before there were even words for witch, sorcery, or magic. So many of their sisters had been doomed to be drowned, hanged, pressed to death under rocks, or set on fire just because their ghost’s influence had taken too strong a hold upon their personalities. It wasn’t till the medicinal beverage absinthe was discovered in Switzerland by Dr. Pierre Ordinaire, in the late seventeenth century, that they had any hope of concealing their bewildering state. It was more than coincidence that the execution of witches ended at the same time.

  “Emma, you see all the bottles about?”

  Emma nodded enthusiastically.

  “That’s absinthe. The French named it La Fée Verte, The Green Fairy, green for the color of the liquor. It’s made from the plant grande wormwood, Artemisia absinthium.”

  “Green fairy like the poster in the hallway … and Artemisia like the lady you introduced me to?”

  “Yes. The one is distillate and the other a great drinker of the distillate,” Maeva chuckled. “You see, wormwood is an herb. It has psychoactive properties that come from the chemical thujone. I mean it sharpens your wits.”

  “Can I have some?” Emma asked hopefully.

  “No … not now. You are too young. But bear in mind that as the voices get louder it will be available here to help you. You’ll be able to keep them quiet. However, it will be several years more before you are old enough to join the green chair ladies at the absinthe fountains. We’ll have a big coming out party for you then. Witches from all over Britain will be here for the event. However, till then, you must apply yourself to your studies.”

  “Oh I will … I will.”

  “Emma, you are going to fit in so well. Do you like to draw or put on little plays?”

  “No … no I don’t do that.”

  “Oh, well, many in our membership are of an artistic persuasion. I’m sure you’ll find them to be so interesting. We have many, many illustrators and painters, writers and poets, potters and glass blowers. But don’t feel you have to be an artsy sort. We have all types, a taxi cab driver here and a welder, a crossing guard, and a physical education teacher and many other occupations as well. But there are a lot of artists. Did you know that Vincent Van Gogh drank absinthe?”

  “No, is he a member?”

  “No. We are exclusively a woman’s organization. Men who are in our condition must fend for themselves. Mr. Van Gogh is long dead but he was a very famous artist. He painted a still life of a bottle of absinthe with a glass.”

  Emma didn’t seem to be very impressed.

  “Well there are other famous absinthe drinkers. Have you heard of Pablo Picasso, Ernest Hemingway, Edgar Allen Poe, Mark Twain, Alfred Jarry, Henri Toulouse Lautrec, Paul Verlaine, Jack London, Oscar Wilde, and Arthur Rimbaud, Charles Baudelaire, Amedeo Modigliani, and Aleister Crowley?”

  Emma shook her head.

  “Hmm, I see your point. Why should you know about them? Just another long list of men. Whenever anyone speaks of the past all it ever is men … men … men. There would have been lots of famous women who partook of the brew but frightened men no doubt burned them all. That’s what happens when women dare to show their superior intelligence. But let me see… How about Mata Hari, she was a famous exotic dancer and a spy and a sister in the pursuit of our beverage? Certainly you know of her?”

  “I’m sorry Ms. Wolusky … I mean Maeva. Should I know of them?”

  “Well, apparently not if you attended our local grammar schools. Anyhow, Mata Hari didn’t live long enough to be truly memorable.”

  Maeva then grimaced. “Men took her out and shot her… But don’t worry. That’s not going to happen to you. You’re a member of WITCH now. Though we’ve been oppressed for centuries we’ve come together here. Nobody is ever going to mess with us again. And I’ll tell you Emma that it won’t be long before every Girl Guide will be able to recite a list of names of prestigious women absinthe drinkers.”

  Artemisia now came back to join them. Looking down at Emma she inquired, “So have you been learning from our president about our little group?”

  “Oh… I didn’t know she was the president. Yes, she told me so much. I know about your name too. Are you going to be my teacher?”<
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  “No, but I certainly can answer any questions that you might have.”

  “Oh then … why are the ladies in the silver chairs chanting and have such odd voices?”

  Artemisia glanced at Maeva as if to say, “What am I supposed to do?”

  Maeva shook her head almost imperceptibly.

  Artemisia picked up on her signal. “Oh that’s a complicated question. I’d best take you up to meet Zoraida. She’s going to be your teacher. I’m sure she’ll fill you in on all the things that are important to know.”

  As Emma and Artemisia walked off to meet Zoraida, Maeva breathed a sigh of relief. It was too soon for Emma to hear about the silver chair ladies. Nor did she want Emma to know very much about the green chair ladies. She just wanted to touch lightly on the subject of the green chair ladies’ consumption of absinthe. She didn’t want to tell Emma that Van Gogh drank too much of the stuff for so long that it produced a state of temporal lobe epilepsy in his brain. And that this was why the green chair witches drank it. Her ladies club treasured this convulsive out-of-body experience. It was cathartic and put things right for them for a little while. Their heads were almost normal for a short time after a seizure. Maeva and many of her sisters at WITCH tried to stay just under the influence of absinthe. It never dulled their attention but gave them the necessary focus to control their constantly chattering ghosts. It gave them human dominance. As long as they drank it, they were fine. Their troubles began when they stopped drinking it. Then, their ghosts pushed forward and the witches were driven by their ghostly hybrid personalities into the occult.