I asked – as many others have asked before me -- “Madame Blavatsky, is that real magic you do, or jiggery-pokery?”
HPB does not easily take offense, and this made her laugh. “Mostly the second. But never question, Miss Guthrie, that I can do the first. Shall I show you?”
When I hesitated, she turned those brilliant azure eyes upon me, and said, “Listen then, and learn. This is magic. This is the music of life. And have no doubt that it is real.”
And from somewhere there came a ghostly music, faint and distant at first, so that I strained to hear; then growing louder till it filled that snug, close, lamplit room. It was high and sweet as the sound of a flute, but unlike any instrument I could name. With that intense and piercing sweetness came a scent of herbs – wild thyme, or rosemary – so that I thought of the Pipes of Pan, of their dangerous music, beckoning and enticing.
And now I could hear voices singing – a melody without words that made my heart catch in my throat. The voices, languorous and seductive, twined themselves around me. I could not move, could scarcely draw my breath. More than anything in the world I wanted to yield to that music, let it wash over me and transport me. My gaze drifted to the photo of the Tibetan Master. His eyes, dark and wise and beautiful, seemed to say, “Leave this world behind. I will lead you over the high lonely passes.” And I was filled with a terrible foreboding. I remembered Alexandra’s story of the painting, with its haunted landscape, and her words -- : “Be careful. You could be pulled in.”
But pulled into what? I knew only that I must step back from a nameless peril.
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