Khepera Redeemed

darkness.

Foreword to the First Edition

It was quite by accident that this book came about. I’d thought my journey with Jamie had reached its conclusion at the end of Khepera Rising but I was wrong. He can be quite insistent in reminding me that all manner of misadventures still lie ahead of him. Sometimes, when faced with odd circumstances, I often sit back with a silly grin plastering my face when I ask myself, What would Jamie do?

Although I don’t guarantee an entire series of misadventures, I’m leaving Jamie’s tales open-ended, in case he should come knocking, a bottle of pinotage in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other.

Foreword to the Revised Edition

Well, here you have it. The Books of Khepera might not have universal appeal but they won’t go away either. If you’re holding this in your hand, be it on your tablet device or a dead-tree version of the book, thank you for giving me a chance to sink you into my somewhat twisted vision.

Though this vision is imperfect, it remains a snapshot of my writing at a point in my life, and I’m not afraid of sharing it with you, though I myself have changed much as an author over the intervening years.

Included in this offering is a short story at the end, A Covenant with Darkness told from Gabby’s point of view. I wrote it a few years after book two’s release, and I feel it goes some way to explaining the current situation and why things turned out the way they did.

Welcome to Jamie’s world.

Chapter 1

South Africa’s Wickedest Man Speaks Out

Love him or hate him, South Africa’s infamous occultist James Edward Guillaume is here to stay, giving us his first interview with the media since the unfortunate events that took place at the beginning of this year. On March 23, his house in Clovelly, Fish Hoek burnt down due to mysterious circumstances, claiming the lives of two unknown assailants. James is now ready to continue with his work, hoping to debunk some of the misconceptions surrounding the occult.

These opening words of a magazine article make me laugh. Stupid journos, clamouring over me like flies drawn to a carcass now I’m edging my way back into the public eye. I suppose it sells more of their silly little publications and, in any case, who am I to say no to more publicity? I have to start my business again. Even black magicians need to eat.

The photograph of me is flattering, however. They sent their photographer to shoot a picture of me out at Clovelly Station, seated on the crumbling ruin of the old staircase leading down from Main Road. At my request, they’ve kept it black and white. I’m looking off into the distance, my skin suitably pale and a small smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. The ever-present wind has tugged pieces of hair loose from where I’ve knotted it behind my head. Yeah, I’d fuck me, moody bastard that I am.

I drop the magazine on the coffee table of the little café in which I’d agreed to meet the journalist. For the life of me, I cannot remember her name. There has been quite a rash of the silly little snips of late, all acting half their age when they meet me in person. A flash of smile, a shift in posture, I’ve lost none of my charm, though my hair is shorter and I’ve discarded my penchant for eyeliner, velvets and top hats. The guys tend to hide their opinions better but it’s quite clear I make them uncomfortable, though they don’t want to show it.

The journo’s late. It’s already half-past ten in the morning and I need to get going, need to pick up a consignment from some old duck in Constantia who’s throwing out her deceased husband’s collection of occult books.

Instead I flex my fingers and allow my gaze to wander over the incrustations of pottery mosaics on the walls turning the interior into some Gaudi-esque dream. Maryna’s busy in the kitchen, singing along to the schmaltzy Loreena McKennitt albums she favours at the moment. Could be worse—she could be listening to Pavarotti or that other dreadful chap, Michael Bublé.

Waiting in The Pantry is better than meeting the journo on her turf, however. Here I’ll be able to gain her measure. If she reacts positively to the bohemian vibe in Maryna’s little spot, then I know she’ll be cool. If she frowns or appears the least bit on edge, she’s fair game. I’m in the mood to poke sticks, get some of my old notoriety on the up, though sans drama. Bad press works in my favour. People like to talk.

I’ve had a chance to look in on my old bookshop, before sitting here at The Pantry, and it’s not without a small twinge of sadness as I think back to the events that took place last year. At present I’m letting out the premises to a woman who’s running a small clothing boutique. My old spot looks weird painted out in white, with pastel-shaded beachwear on rails instead of those glorious tomes I’d taken so many years to collect. What will be, will be. Perhaps when the lease expires, I’ll consider setting up shop again. I halt these thoughts lest they make me maudlin.

The beaded curtain across the doorway parts, admitting a woman in her late forties. Her plum-coloured hair is boyishly short and her glasses give her an air of 1960s retro. All she lacks is a beehive hairdo. As for the rest, she’s chosen an olive-green Aran sweater over dark blue jeans in order to appear casual yet formal.

She blinks in the dim interior, her eyes obviously needing to adjust to the flickering candlelight before she fixes her gaze on me.

Ever the gentleman, I rise as she approaches my table and extend a hand.

Mr. Guillaume. Her grip is firm, her skin cool and dry. She’s not nervous. That’s a start.

I’m reminded of a latter-day Fraulein Rottenmeier and have to stifle a small giggle that tries to escape. I, erm—

She quirks a brow at my mumblings. Sanette van Vuuren, Elements magazine.

Oh, aye. Sorry, it’s been a crazy few weeks. I gesture for her to take a seat.

Once she’s settled on the comfy leather armchair opposite mine, she unpacks the contents of her bag. Right down to business, then. Unlike the majority of journos I’ve dealt with, she’s armed only with a notebook, and a quick glance reveals she’s proficient in shorthand. How terribly old school. She doesn’t give any indication that my staring at her while she fishes out a pen disquiets her. Sanette switches off her cellphone, and her burgundy-lacquered nails click on the yellow wood tabletop when she puts the device down.

Only then does she meet my gaze squarely, her eyes shockingly green behind the thick lenses. Her tongue flicks out to wet her oh-so-fuchsia lips. How are you?

I can’t help it. I start, and it’s impossible disguising the twitch. I’m fine. Cruddy old bitch thinks she’s adept at playing mind games, does she? Perhaps it is because she so uncannily resembles a school governess in her manner that places me slightly off centre. I’m surprised she hasn’t taken a willow switch out of that voluminous handbag of hers as well.

So, James, how have you dealt with the trauma of that night of the fire?

Jump right in, will you? I’ve had my ups and downs. I honestly can’t remember much from that night. I was badly injured and on the verge of crossing over. Let’s use terms to make the spiritualists proud, shall we?

Her pen dances across virgin paper, leaving squiggles and doodles far more arcane than any of the Goetic symbols I’m used to. How do you explain that you didn’t suffer any burn wounds?

Okie-dokie. She’s taking a slant with her frigging questions the others haven’t. I draw a deep breath. I can’t. The firemen suggested part of the house collapsed on top of me, somehow shielding me from the brunt of the inferno.

She doesn’t look up—just continues scratching at the paper, all businesslike. What challenges have you faced since then?

This time I allow a full laugh to escape, to show some bravado in the face of this unflappable crow. I had to recuperate first. I finished my physiotherapy last month. It hasn’t been easy, and of course I’ve lost my source of income.

A pause. She looks up, pins me with those eyes. You don’t feel any guilt over those men who died in your house?

Natch. Bitch’s got it in for me. Probably one of those holy rollers who considers herself educated and liberal enough to face me down when all the rest would scream, Oh no, Sanette, don’t do it! He’s the Devil!

That’s a strange question to ask. It’s my belief they tried to kill me. They brought their fate on themselves. If you’re trying to insinuate I should feel some sort of guilt because of their demise, you are sorely mistaken. I lost most of my assets before the fire, which was just the cherry on the cake, so to speak, since I’d just started pulling myself together after being in a bad headspace.

If you could call nearly ODing on Bolivian marching powder a bad headspace, that is. I sure as hell won’t tell her that. There’s bad publicity then there’s really bad publicity. Don’t do drugs, kiddies, not like Uncle James here.

No reaction. She continues marking the arcane symbols on her notepad, her head bowed. Then she fixes me with her basilisk glare again. Do you have plans to reopen your bookshop?

Yes, although it’s going to take me a while to build up the right kind of stock again. I lost some very valuable titles. I don’t really want to think about it too much. At the moment, I’m trading at the Hout Bay craft market on Sundays and share a spot with a bookseller at St. George’s Mall. I’m not there every day though. It’s not busy enough to warrant that kind of dedication this time of the year. As you can well imagine, it’s a lot of PT hefting boxes of books when you’re not one hundred percent healthy. That’s it, let’s play up the I’m really just a doddering old queer angle.

A small frown creases the skin between her eyes. You’ve decided to start hosting lectures. Why, and what topics do you plan on discussing?

Good. Safer ground. People have always been interested in the occult, but there’s so much shit out there that often they don’t have access to reputable—

Her frown deepens, tipping her expression into full-blown distaste.

"Yes, I’m reputable! Don’t look at me like that. They don’t speak to the right people, who will offer them the right advice or direct them toward the right source material.

Say, for instance, you want information on how to unblock your drain. You’re not going to ask a chef. Sure, he happens to also work in the kitchen and hell, he may have some handy tips, but he may well be responsible for blocking that drain more often than not. Another round of laughter builds and I’m heartened to see a small smile in response. Damn, so the kooky old broad does possess a small sense of humour.

"Okay, that analogy’s fucked but you get my drift, eh? Things of the occult, if in the hands of an idiot are as dangerous as a gun in the hands of a five-year-old. Yet, if applied with the right intent, these things can also enrich your life, offering unimaginable tools to change the user, if you approach it the right way; if you find the right teacher.

Getting back to the question, I’m going to kick off my lectures with some very basic topics, such as talismans and the history of magic. I’ll chat about Aleister Crowley, the Golden Dawn, Satanism, Wicca, Egyptian magic, ghosts, crypto-zoology, cults… You name it, I’ll think about discussing it. Obviously insert a big disclaimer here. This will constitute my opinion on the subjects, based on years of study, so feel free to take it as such.

Are you going to charge a lot of money? There’s that magic school up in Johannesburg that is offering courses amounting to what some people pay for a tertiary qualification, she asks.

I don’t believe these subjects can or should be charged for, but look, a man’s gotta eat. Let’s just say the lectures are free but I welcome donations, be they in the form of a book I may sell or twenty bucks to buy some coffee, a pack of smokes and a loaf of bread. Gods be damned. I sound like I’m begging but at the same time I don’t want to come off sounding like I’m some afterlife salesperson either.

She looks at me pointedly. So, what makes the occult dangerous?

Talk about trying to catch me off centre. Any number of things, really. The minute you begin to mess around with your perceptions of reality, you can affect the way you continue to interact with your environment. Many people leap into the concept of wielding magic without first looking at why they want to. So often I encounter folks who feel disenfranchised in some way and they turn to magic as a last-ditch effort to solve their problems.

She nods and I continue. It doesn’t work that way. The first thing magic changes is the magician. It’s about knowing yourself, your strengths, your weaknesses, and about finding the best way to bring about change in the world around you.

Sanette gives a small chuckle and adjusts her glasses. That sounds awfully like life-coaching.

I have to laugh at that statement. "Ja, it amounts to the same thing but it looks a lot cooler when you put on a fancy robe and evoke some demons. The danger exists when you, the magician, start getting delusions of grandeur. I’ve seen a few fellows wig out. Hell, I’m the first to admit that I have an ego the size of a small planet and the first step is admitting you are your own worst enemy. Not the Devil, not the colleague at your office who’s trying to schnaai you. The buck stops with you."

She coughs into her hand and tries to hide a smile. Good, so I’ve cracked her tough-as-nuts exterior. Is there a message you’d like to share with the rest of South Africa?

The evil little proselytiser inside me jumps to the fore, and the words tumble past my lips. "Inform yourself when you encounter something you don’t understand. Read up on what people say both for and against a subject. What are the results? Will they benefit you in the long run? Make up your own mind. Don’t allow popular opinion to cloud your judgment. Goodness. I sound like a schoolteacher. But, ja, I’m sure you get my drift."

Sanette nods then checks her watch. Her face has gained a bored look which tells me she’s picked up enough material, especially with me frothing like this. We talk about a few inconsequentialities for about ten minutes, Maryna unsuccessfully trying to get the woman to order something to drink. Then my intrepid journalist leaves and I follow shortly just as the first sheets of rain sift in from the northwest. I can’t help but feel slightly deflated, a small worry nagging at me, making me wonder just exactly how Ms Sanette van Vuuren will twist my words. Not that I should care, but I was supposed to have learnt my lesson the last time.

Chapter 2

The House on Glynnville Terrace

We’d looked at five houses in Gardens, the last such a dismal dump I’d told the estate agent to drive on without bothering to stop. But the double-storey house on Glynnville Terrace catches my fancy the moment the car halts outside.

Firstly, the placement, within spitting distance of the Gardens Centre, appeals to me. I can already envision myself strolling up the road for an early morning espresso.

Secondly, the street—the entire block opposite the row of double-storey Victorian houses—is taken up by a seminary school for girls. Call me a pervert, if you will. I couldn’t give a flying fuck. I like my cheap thrills, especially since the balcony faces row upon row of classroom windows.

Thirdly, the place only has one door fronting the street—a definite plus for safety reasons—and sports heavy burglar bars and a security gate on the ground-floor door and window. No one will be paying me any unexpected visits and, if someone does, I’d hear said individual a lot sooner than that person would be able to reach me.

Lastly, the place has presence. It’s old. Yes, the red paint is peeling and the white ornamental ironwork needs a smidge of attention, but it oozes character.

My estate agent, Muffin-top—for the life of me I can’t remember her name—pulls up the handbrake. I didn’t want to waste your time with this one, James, but we’ve looked at all the others falling within your price range. We’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel with this one, I’m afraid. After this, you’ll have to start looking in other areas, like University Estate or Woodstock. Both neighbourhoods are on the up, you know?

Let’s go in, anyway, shall we? I beam at her and she turns away from me hastily. She doesn’t like me. I unsettle her. She may have read the article in You magazine where some silly DTP operator comped my eyes red and tinged my skin green. Blond and podgy, she’s trying to look sexy in clothing that would look better on a woman half her age. Low-slung hipster jeans do not go with muffin tops.

Number seventeen’s windows are shuttered upstairs, some of the slats skew. The bottom windowpane on the ground-floor sash window is cracked. Muffin-top struggles with the key to the security gate and she jerks when I tap her on the shoulder then take the bunch of keys from her.

It’s not just me. The house gives her the creeps because she keeps looking at the door then turning away. I’d love to know why. It’ll be dark inside, and the fact the sky’s filled with low, bruise-coloured clouds won’t help the light situation and the brooding mood this day holds.

The lock is tricky but I get the gate to swing open with a rusty squeal. The front door is stuck in the frame and I have to give it a good shove with my shoulder to get it to budge. However, I give too much muscle and the door flies into the wall, ricocheting back at me.

Careful! Muffin-top squeals.

I ignore her and step inside. A shit-load of mail litters the floor. No one has come in for a long time. Most of the letters are addressed to a Mr D Ward. How appropriate. Mr Howard Phillips Lovecraft would approve.

The electricity isn’t working and I look askance of the estate agent when I flip the switch and nothing happens.

We’ll get that sorted. No worries. She frowns, and her gaze keeps darting hither and thither.

The place is huge. A long passage from the front door terminates in a workroom which opens onto a small courtyard overrun by Port Jackson and dead vegetation. Number seventeen will suit my needs; I know this already. On the ground floor, two large rooms lead off on my right from the passage. One is suitable as an intimate lecture room because its double doors open onto the courtyard, which would be perfect for a late-summer barbeque. If I bothered inviting anyone around. The other, the first as I enter from the street, will make a good office and be an excellent place to store books.

Oregon pine floors, Muffin-top says when we ascend the creaking staircase. Another long corridor upstairs runs the length of the building. On one side is a bedroom and a bathroom. For some reason the kitchen is upstairs, but Muffin-top assures me I can convert the work room if need be. Then there’s another two bedrooms before we reach the door leading from the last room to the balcony. This house offers more space than I need and will most likely cost more than I can afford. Why the hell is she even showing this to me?

What’s the rent? I ask.

Three thousand rand a month.

You’re joking, right? It’s a steal. Why didn’t you show me this place sooner? You could have saved us a lot of bother.

She can’t look me in the eye. Take it or leave it.

Let me take another walk through. I’ve already made up my mind.

I’ll wait in the car. She hurries downstairs. Gods, she is jumpy. She can’t get out of the place fast enough.

Without Muffin-top’s twittering and the crackle-fizz of her agitation, it’s easier for me to gain a real sense of number seventeen’s atmosphere. I like it enough to commit to a year-long lease on the spot. High ceilings have been decorated with ornamental floral mouldings. The floors are heavily pitted and scarred by the passage of many feet, the wood a uniform red-gold sheen under the thick layer of dust.

Beneath the physical aspects lies the house’s aura, a hundred papery voices whispering simultaneously. People have lived here. They’ve died here. If I narrow my eyes, I can almost see shadows slipping at the edge of my vision. Some would be tempted to call this haunted, but for me, it’s just right. This might be a contributing factor to why the place has been empty for so long.

Their loss, my gain.

Synchronicity strikes when least expected it. That’s what happens when one messes with the threads of one’s Wyrd. I discover a newspaper in the kitchen, a community paper for the area, and it’s open on the socials page, dated to about a month ago, June. Ordinarily I’d not pay the papers any heed unless there’s an article concerning my interests, but two familiar faces catch my eye. My heart lurches and I’m short of breath. Gabby and Bodhan smile back at me from the yellowing paper. It’s dated three months ago.

Gabrielle Hart and Mikhail Bodhan are pleased to announce their engagement. The couple has recently bought and restored a historical Tamboerskloof home. They are expecting their child in…

I’ve read enough and sweep the newspaper onto the floor, a bitter taste in the back of my throat. Why does this upset me so much? It’s not as if I didn’t know they were involved.

"You knew it was over," The Burning One tells me in a dry, disembodied whisper.

I didn’t know about the child. It takes me a few minutes to get my breathing under control.

"You’re the one who pushed Gabby into Bodhan’s arms. It’s your fault."

If she’d really wanted me, she would have stayed. Why hadn’t Bodhan said anything when he’d discovered her pregnancy? Gods… I last spoke to him a month ago. No wonder he’s been so distant.

Then another thought occurs to me and it’s not one I’d like to dwell