Episode 2.6

Introduction

Welcome to The Phosphene Catalogue no. # 15026
We see light where others see only darkness.

The Manhattan Room is closed due to an incident last week.
As happens from time to time, an appointment was made by a member of the public, someone who is not familiar with The Guise.
We have a thorough, though subtle, vetting process for those who wish to make a viewing, ensuring that only those who are adequately prepared are admitted.
Our secretary Morwenna has a knack for choosing the right people. (You may trust me on that.)

My own introduction to our society was straight-forward; I had suspected for many years that there was more magic in art than was common knowledge.
So when my friends revealed the great secret to me, I was able to remain calm (outwardly at least).
This is not always the case with outsiders who lack... imagination.
The revelation that there is a thread winding through all history, binding together the great artistic movements to every facet of society, is not always one that can be accepted gracefully.

In this case, strong tea and biscuits were not enough for the troubled man, and so an ambulance was sent for and excuses made.
Thankfully, this was all after Lot No. 412, the lost Raphael, had been returned to the Vaults.
The artwork that so troubled the man has been moved to The Woolf Room, where it remains for viewing this week.

If the Reader so wishes.

Side A: The Garden

Lot No. 18115. "The Garden", Josephine Croft, 1975. Watercolours on cotton paper. 10' x 7', willow frame.

Hanging in The Woolf Room, this grand landscape watercolour is offered for auction by friend of the Catalogue, Josephine Croft.
An impressively large and detailed painting, the subject is a shallow river flowing through woodland, trees bending towards the centre of the frame and white moonlight reflected off the meadow grasses.
The river runs the full breadth of the work, entering through the left side of the frame, bending upwards slightly, and then passing out of sight in the top right.

I have a unique insight into the creation of this lot, Reader, as Miss Croft and I lived in the same house during its painting, as we do again since my return to London.

For reasons that are slowly becoming more and more clear to me.

This large work was painted last year in the artist's studio.
In the courtyard behind Rossetti House, on Flood Street, are purpose-built two-story artists' studios.
These are regularly in use by all who live here: Josephine's partner, David Isaac, my housemates on the 1st floor, Rachel Stephenson and Ola Hawthorne, and until recently, me.
(I now prefer to paint in the workshop above my Mulberry Street Gallery. I feel... more at peace there)

Two of the Rossetti studios are currently locked and empty:

• Studio 5, the subject of Lot No. 0128, "The Lost Journeywoman", depicting the late curator of the Catalogue, Edith MacKinley deep in the throes of manic creation that so often overcame my dear friend, and,
• Studio 6, belonging to Edward Porter, which is empty. I've never seen so much as an easel set up inside, the whitewashed walls and floor are all bare.

Morwenna, I've never properly met Edward, I'm not sure he lives at Rossetti any more.
I did once speak to him, though, when a large wooden box was delivered by specialist courier and required some papers signed before they would could it.
He opened his door a crack and snatched the forms from me. I only saw his hand briefly, covered in jewelled rings of different colours, and with very yellowed long fingernails.
I stood in shock as the door slammed closed in my face and heard the key turn with a snap. But after a moment he said, "Thank you, Jude. I shall not quickly forget this favour." - just like that - before sliding the papers under the door onto the thick red carpet of the hall.
He sounded kind. I wonder where he is now?

Miss Croft worked on "The Garden" for many months, and it shows in the fine features, details, and little secrets hidden in the large painting.
I will start at the bottom-left, as I look at the work here in The Woolf Room.
A small group of river creatures are playing here on the bank, splashing in the water, weaving between the exposed tree roots, and some surveying the games from the grass above. At first glance, they could be otters, and I believe that is the artist's intent, but they're not.
Look at their pointed ears, Reader, their intelligent eyes, and what otter has opposable thumbs?

Looking above the river, in the centre of the composition, there is a meadow of thick summer grasses with pinpricks of light hovering in a hazy constellation just above them. These fireflies are painted with very fine details that you should not miss, Reader, at your appointment.
What secrets could a dot of paint hide? Lean close and see what they really are for yourself.

Go on, you can lean much closer than you might imagine. Put your hand through and touch the cool water, and feel the warm summer breeze on your face. But take care not to fall in, when you visit, The Catalogue cannot guarantee your safety.

In the distance, above the low trees of the forest, is an inky, black void. There are stars, real ones this time, hanging up there, but when I let my eyes adjust, there is a deeper darkness in the sky.

Like anyone who has ever sat back on the ground at midnight and watched the heavens knows, the night sky is not black. In "The Garden" something covers the blue foam of the Milky Way with vertical shafts of true blackness. The outlines of huge, twisted trees curling around one another, is visible on the horizon of this painting.

Harriet Mira, the Catalogue's resident astronomer, astrologer and professional stargazer, told me that though the stars were very pretty, they did not match the constellations visible from earth at any point in recorded history, and were a fiction invented by the artist for this work.
I concur, Reader, you will not find such a sky anywhere in the waking world.
But I DO recognise these stars.

I know them because I still visit The Garden in my dreams, Morwenna.
That beautiful world of inspiration, magic, giant twisted trees and honey rain.
I had thought that the only way to visit was to take the dream drug, Somnium - the elixir that Nelson bloody Cartwright gave us. But since returning to Rossetti House, I have strayed into the garden every night in my dreams.
Perhaps this is how Edie's mum talks to her still, through some connection to the Garden?
How terrible and wonderful, if so.

It is an artists' paradise, my work is never better than after waking up from a walk in The Garden. The feeling of limitless potential, Jo has really captured here in this painting, like an echo of my dreams.
There is a detail we should not put in the published Catalogue, Morwenna, though I think you know about it already: There is a gate in the distance, at the top-right of the painting.
I have never found it (but then I've not gone looking), Jo and David explored together far wider than I have.
I am sure that this is the gate Nelson was so insistent that we find, the task set by his employers, the Voyagers, it seems.
He never asked for money from any of us for the dream drug, did I tell you that? Not a penny. He wasn't interested in either its artistic benefits nor for any money. No. He wanted INFORMATION.

Since I returned to Rossetti House, Jo and I often chat over late-night cocoa in the cosy lounge, re-affirming our friendship. She told me something recently that somewhat explains Nelson's insistent attitude that I heard both on the tape of Edie sleeping, and in-person, when I was under the influence of Somnium.
Nelson has aphantasia: He coordinated the dream sessions because he can't dream for himself.

He's the perfect pusher, a dealer who is totally immune to the drug they are peddling. The Voyagers, whoever they are, chose well, it seems.
Jo also told me that though Nelson talked about other groups he was 'guiding' into their dreams, he soon focussed entirely on Rossetti House, and wanted to conduct as many sessions as possible there.
He was OBSESSED with the house, she said.

You left Nelson Cartwright's dream tape on my desk for me to find, Morwenna.
I thought you did that to help me solve Edie's murder, or give me some kind of closure.
But that wasn't why, I see that now.
You and Nelson want the same thing, don't you:

• You hired me to work at The Catalogue because I live at Rossetti House.
• You gave me Nelson's tape to lead me first to him, and then The Garden.
• Then, when I left for Edinburgh, you waited until I was in dire need and brought me back to safety, on YOUR terms.
  You want whatever is beyond the gate in the Rossetti garden, too, don't you?
  For Pete's sake, LOVE, you could have just asked! Why all the trickery?
  I'm bound to Rossetti House by some pact between you and me, I realise that now.

There's more to all this, isn't there? Even after everything, I still trust you.
I've been reading, you know.
Learning about your kind.
About the Fair Folk.

Intermission

Side B: Golden Oracle

Lot No. 7870. "Golden Oracle", Kurbak and Posch. 1958. Linen tapestry with gold, silver, copper, magnetite, and wood.

In The Bell Room this week we have set up a large heavy oak table with 4 brass candelabras positioned at each corner, to better illuminate the installation.
"Golden Oracle" covers 6' x 4' of this viewing table, with a foot or so of clear space around it.
When you sit at the installation, Reader, in the high-backed wooden chair provided for operation, you will first notice, as I did, the beautiful lattice of thread woven into the linen.
This fine network of gold crosses itself in thousands of junctions over the surface of the tapestry, with each crossed line containing a tiny copper coil and a black bead.
The combination of the coils and the magnetic lodestones allow, when attached to a battery, for these to act as electrical relays, switching the beads between on and off with a SNAP. This clever design, I read in the paperwork provided by the artists, makes for a rudimentary adding machine; an embroidered calculator!
When not attached to a battery, however, the piece has an altogether different function.

Though quite outside MY field, "Golden Oracle" has much delighted Stephanie Bates, The Catalogue's expert engineer, and she has confirmed the design's genius.

To tell you the truth, Morwenna, I didn't understand much of Steph's explanation to me. She talked about logic gates and registers and even brought up Countess Ada of Lovelace, Lord Byron's daughter, I don't know why.
Of course I've noted the portrait of her, hanging in the Lobby of our building, one of many historical patrons honoured in such a way.
Did you meet her? I bet you did. You must tell me what she was like!

The metallic threads of "Golden Oracle" are woven in delicate leaf-shaped patterns around this stitched circuitry, making it as pretty as it is clever.
The technique of crossed wires flipping a switch was how the earliest computers from 20 years ago were made, Miss Bates told me.
If that is true, I see no reason why they don't make modern computers like this, why not put craft into the wires and circuits - make the machine BEAUTIFUL as well as useful!

When you sit at the table in The Bell Room, Reader, at the bottom of the installation, you will see three groups of 7 woven lodestones. This is how the textile machine is controlled:

• The first and last group allow entering numbers between 1 and 128 (according to the guide supplied by our client)
• And the middle group sets the operation of the machine:
  • The first 4 beads set Addition, subtraction, multiplication or division,
  • the next 2 can be flipped to either clear or repeat the last calculation,
  • and the final bead can be set to start or stop the whole clattering apparatus.

It is EXTREMELY noisy when calculating. Not like an industrial textile mill, where ear protection is required, but far louder than I expected. It's wonderful to watch: Patterns ripple across the surface of the fabric, the flipping of the lodestone beads glinting in the delicate candlelight.

Golden Oracle isn't practically useful, some would say no art should be; the buyer will not find their taxes easier to calculate, nor will it help them convert old prices into new money, a slide rule or conversion table would do you better there.
I thought it nothing more than an artistic novelty, a smart melding of ancient techniques and modern thought.
But that, Reader, was before it spoke to me.

"Golden Oracle" is very delicate, and must be transported flat on the wooden board it was woven on. (I suppose there are many boring, sensible reasons why electronics are built on rigid circuit boards, rather than delicate flowing fabrics, like this.)
After initial appraisal in my office, I had no problem storing it safely in our Vaults. Since my last misadventure, when I discovered Lot No. 412, the lost Raphael, I have found my navigation of the vaults easier, somehow.
The iron black ink on the Map swirls into navigable shapes, the doors stay where they are, and the keys almost always work first time.
After many months, and many trials, it feels like The Catalogue, or whatever spirit haunts the Vaults, has finally accepted me.
It's about bloody time - I just want to do my job!

"Golden Oracle" first spoke to me after I threw a dust sheet over it, on the desk in the basement vault.
The table in this particular room was made of thin metal, the four legs not quite level on the uneven stone of the floor. Dark brown paint flecked off it in a distinctive way that anyone who has ever set foot in a hastily-built post-war primary school would recognise.
I clicked off the room's harsh strip light and had almost closed the door behind me when I heard the chittering clicks of the lodestone beads sewn in to the tapestry.
It would not do, I thought to myself, to have left the thing on, it might burn itself out or even start a fire down here!
I flicked the light switch back on, not waiting for the strip lights to fire and pulled the dust sheet off the top-left corner of the table in search of the battery that I must have forgotten to disconnect. In between the flashes of the neon light struggling to fire I saw that, no: I had disconnected the battery already, but the machine had not stopped.

I pulled the sheet completely off, revealing the entire golden tapestry as the lights above me finally engaged with a ping.
And then the sound stopped.
The thousands of black beads were once again still.
This was as it should be, the battery was disconnected after all. I checked all over it for a second power source, but like the audience at a magician's show, I could find no hidden wires.
I attempted to leave the room again, but as soon as I turned off the light, the noise resumed.

I listened to the machine clacking away in the pitch darkness for what must have been 5 minutes as I waited for it to stop. Patterns occasionally rose up out of the chaos, the sound of lines of beads all turning at the same time making a unison loud CLACK, and then resuming their polyrhythmic chaos.

Not knowing what to do, I left the light on, stopping the noise, and followed the Map back to the iron spiral staircase, then through the Lobby and up to the first floor of The Catalogue Building. I found Miss Bates in her workshop (I caught her whistling into a dismantled telephone, of all things), and asked her, "Do you want to see something weird?"
"ALWAYS!" she replied, shoving the telephone parts into her oily overalls and following me down to the vault containing "Golden Oracle".
She was as perplexed as I.

After she fetched some tools, I watched her for an hour, shivering slightly in the frigid air deep underground, as she examined the tapestry by candlelight - the only light that didn't stop its process.
Miss Bates said that there was no earthly way it could be working, no power was supplied, and all the magnetic coils of copper needed quite a bit to work in the first place.
She showed me her clipboard of notes on this new operation of the calculator, the output beads of the machine now always seem to read between 0 and 78, higher numbers never being used.
"I guess, leave the battery connected?" Miss Bates said with a shrug, after putting her electrical testing equipment back in her bag, "at least it'll stop the noise!"

Morwenna, neither Steph nor I knew how to interpret these strange numbers "Golden Oracle" was showing us, but a chance encounter with a mutual acquaintance afforded an insight.
As soon as I had set up The Bell Room with the installation of "Golden Oracle", Lord Aldwick knocked on the door and let himself in.
Did he schedule an appointment with you, Morwenna? I didn't see him on the list for today, and how would he know about it before the Catalogue goes out for the week?
He was VERY curious about the working of the calculation mechanism, even after I explained that, though it was a masterpiece of textile design, it was just a toy calculator.
"Then why are YOU selling it?" He asked, pointedly. A very good observation, the Catalogue does not deal in mundane items, we leave that to our valued colleagues over at Sotheby's or Christie's.

I showed him what happens when you disconnect the battery - I don't quite know why: Aldwick has a way of getting under my skin when he talks to me.
He was not surprised, it seems, when the beads of "Golden Oracle" clattered of their own accord, seemingly without power.
He gestured at the three output rows of 7 beads and asked, "Have you found the pattern yet?"
"No," I told him, "only that the numbers have always been between 0 and 78."
Aldwick met my gaze (he has such striking green eyes) and said, "Isn't it obvious? It's the tarot, major then minor, have you asked it any questions?"
"Questions?" I repeated, suddenly out of my depth.
He did not respond to me, but addressed the loud lattice on the table, "Will it rain today, Golden Oracle?". My laugh was cut short by the sudden silence in the room.

For the first time under candlelight and without power, the clacking calculations ceased.
"What does it say?" Aldwick asked. I leaned over the table and read the three numbers at the bottom of the tapestry, according to the folded paper that Stephanie Bates made to look up the number represented by the ferrous beads.
"19, 72, 21," I read aloud, feeling a little like a bingo caller!
"The Sun, 9 of Cups, and The World, if I'm not mistaken?" Aldwick said, without hesitation, "Perhaps I shall not need my coat!" he laughed.
I had no time to process this before he spoke again:
"Now," he said, placing one hand on the table and the other on my shoulder, and leaning close. "Golden Oracle, what do you know about ME?"
I jumped as the clattering of beads suddenly started. It was the same as before, mostly random but with occasional patterns of movement happening all at once.
After just a few seconds, the noise stopped, and after I translated the numbers, Aldwick read out his tarot: "5, 16, 15, eh? The Hierophant, The Tower, and The Devil. Well, well, well!"
He stood up straight and turned to the door, writing in a black pocket notebook, seemingly having lost interest. Over his shoulder, as he left, he said, "Why not ask it about your... secretary too. Morwenna, I think she is called."
And the door clicked shut behind him.

I didn't ask about you, Morwenna, curious though I am.
I'm not sure I WANT to know. But, after all, I'm not sure I NEED to know.

I asked Golden Oracle about the only person I truly wish to understand, the one who has been in my thoughts day and night since I last saw her. Since I drove her away.
"Sarah." I whispered into the empty room, my voice so quiet I almost couldn't hear myself, but something did.

The ripple of calculations was over almost instantly, faster, even, than with Aldwick's question about the weather.
I tallied the positions of the output beads with Steph's paper table, and got 12, 6, and 20.

The Hanged Man.
The Lovers, and,
Judgement.

CREDITS