They change their situations, in the Universal Man.
Albion groans, he sees the Elements divide before his face.
And England who is Brittania divided into Jerusalem and Vala
And Urizen assumes the East, Luvah assumes the South
In his dark Spectre ravening from his open Sepulcher.’ ”
Malcolm buried his face in his hand and wished for an opium pipe to blunt the blows of those banal words. “Blake is a bloody disturbance.”
“He was a visionary,” Eleanor explained. “He didn’t experience the world as we do.”
“That’s plain.” Malcolm stared at the blank euphoric faces around him and felt frustration rising. He practically shouted, “You can’t tell me you understood a syllable of that!”
“Of course we did,” Eleanor said with a sly wink at her fellows. “And bellowing is the refuge of a man with no reason. Shall we enlighten you on the Master’s meaning?”
“Pray do,” Malcolm replied in a whisper.
Eleanor now leafed through the book, cleared her throat, and began:
“ ‘Her voice pierc’d Albions clay cold ear. he moved upon the Rock
The Breath Divine went forth upon the morning hills, Albion mov’d
Upon the Rock, he opened his eyelids in pain; in pain he mov’d
His stony members, he saw England. Ah! shall the Dead live again
The Breath Divine went forth over the morning hills Albion rose
In anger: the wrath of God breaking bright flaming on all sides around
His awful limbs: into the Heavens he walked clothed in flames”
She stopped and breathed in, letting the words soak into her. “That was one of Cecilia’s favorite passages. She used it when she ascended.”
The dead live again, Malcolm noted to himself. Cecilia’s favorite passage indeed. However, he remained visibly unimpressed. “Is ascended a Blakesian term for going round the shop?”
“No, you would call it dying, but that isn’t correct at all. She is waiting in Jerusalem.” Eleanor turned to Lilith with disappointment. “Where I thought I would be soon.”
“You will,” the other woman said.
“Perhaps not.” Eleanor gave a tragic sigh. “He has a new one.”
“No, dear. You will be one. He chose you. He doesn’t lie.”
Lilith now stared at Malcolm as if suddenly remembering he was present. He tried to keep his manner unconcerned, studying the five passionate faces shining around him. These women could have been nothing more than intense but harmless enthusiasts, however he felt an odd sense of unease spreading.
He tensed to move quickly if necessary. “Two women from your salon were murdered recently. Cecilia and Madeleine Hawley. You knew this, yes? And their bodies were claimed by Rowan Barnes? Do you know why?”
“Because that’s what you do for family,” Lilith replied serenely. “What would you have him do, let their bodies go to some nameless parish plot? No, sir. They are our sisters. We brought them home.”
“Can you tell me where they’re buried?”
“You needn’t worry about Cecilia or Madeleine,” Eleanor said. “Perhaps you knew them before they came to the Red Orchid, but they are no longer those people. None of us are. They are emanations waiting. In Jerusalem. For Albion.”
Lilith hissed, “Eleanor, shh.”
The young blonde smiled innocently. “I don’t see a problem, Lilith. He’s probably looking for an old friend. He surely didn’t come here because of his knowledge of poetry or art because he has none.” She touched Malcolm on the arm. “I’m sorry, but neither Cecilia nor Madeleine is here any longer. And when they rise, you will not know them.”
Lilith motioned Malcolm toward the door with her pipe. “Will you leave us now?”
Eleanor looked a bit embarrassed, as if this was poor etiquette. “But we are discussing the Master.”
“Eleanor, please.” Lilith narrowed her eyes at the younger woman. The rest of the women exchanged glances and instantly adjusted their postures to become withdrawn.
Lilith regarded the Scotsman. “Sir, if you will, leave us, please.”
Malcolm rose, keeping track of all the women, watching for any sudden movements. He bowed and backed to the door. Before he went out, Eleanor scampered to him.
“I hope you will come back,” she said. “I would enjoy teaching you about poetry. Wait!” She leaned back into the dim room and shuffled through books and pamphlets on a side table. She handed Malcolm a small, cheaply printed volume with a yellow cover. “These are my poems. I wrote them before I came to the Red Orchid, but they’re all I’ve had published. I’m afraid they’re not very good.”
Malcolm glanced at the book. It was truly a published volume of poems by a reputable, if small, London printer. He nodded in appreciation. “I’m sure they’re very good. Thank you, Eleanor.”
“And do reread Jerusalem.”
“If you wish it.”