The Ceremonial was set for October 31, 1919. It would be held in the hall specially prepared for it at the house in St. John’s Wood. It’s the same hall used today, the one where I myself drew chalk circles, and where I was taught the most exquisite calligraphy to improve my seals. George Mathers promised to be there and went home to his wife Lily, who decorated her hair with gold ribbons and spent hours tending the garden. Lily, who wrote violent and romantic love poems. He embraced her against the iron door and regretted that he couldn’t give her a child, a smiling little one who would keep her company during his absences. Other people, his parents, even the doctors, all believed that Lily was sterile. But he knew the truth, because he had been with many women, not so much because he wanted to, but as a test, and none of them had gotten pregnant. The Mathers were dying out and their only hope was Charles, so young.

He opened the suitcase that held his gifts for Lily: carved masks, the extraordinary cloths from West Africa, the perfumes he’d bought in Paris—she liked bottles of unexpected colors—lithographs by Alphonse Mucha, an illustrator who was already considered somewhat antiquated but whom Lily loved. The suitcase also held the little clay statue someone had left at the door of his house in Ibadan, possibly as a warning. When Lily picked it up, George snatched it from her. The great god Pan also lives so far away, she said. Lily was a disorganized adherent, incapable of naming the constellations or of drawing a seal, but she believed. And she wanted to know if the medium really was powerful. You’ll see her soon, said George, and he showed her a necklace, his last gift, that made her smile. The wind blew one of the windows open and Lily closed it, but couldn’t keep a flurry of dried leaves from entering.

Today, the statue is protected behind several panes of glass in the Order’s library in London. Except for the phallus, it reminds me of San La Muerte. There’s something about its seated position, a pose identical to a particular representation of the skeleton saint that we call the Lord of Patience, because he seems to be waiting. I study in order to find these correspondences and familiarities, but they always make me a little dizzy. The statue seems to follow you with its eyes, and it is repulsive in a way that’s hard to explain.

The Initiates arrived at the appointed time. Many of them chose to wear masks, mostly Venetian, some of animals: they wanted to be known only by the leaders of the Order.

Olanna was waiting on the altar, naked and facedown. The only light came from candles. Everything happened very fast. The chants began and then the women, some with a scream, others with a strangled gasp, felt the blood start to flow from between their legs. Olanna moved like a snake on the table, and the smell of semen and blood made her nostrils flare. Soon she threw herself to the floor. The Serpent was out of their control. They couldn’t touch her when the black light shone, and they didn’t.