Free The Matrix by Jonathan Aycliffe

now, knowledge I could taste, knowledge with which to accomplish something more than the construction of theories. It was as I had said: I wanted mastery.
    Under Mylne’s tuition, I became proficient in the rudiments of the craft. Once, unwittingly, I spoke of our mutual interest in the ‘black arts’. He grew angry, and corrected me at once.
    ‘They are neither black nor white,’ he said. ‘Leave morality to the church. Magic transcends common dichotomy. It has deeper purposes. A spell may be used to kill a saint or overthrow a tyrant, a charm will protect a murderer as soon as a priest.’
    He took down a medieval grimoire from the top shelf and opened it at a section dealing with ‘Spelles and Incantaytiones for the Procuring Harme to Thyne Enemie.’
    ‘There are spells here,’ he said, ‘which, if correctly recited, will kill or injure a man. They are infallible, I assure you. The most that is needed is a lock of the victim’s hair or an article of his clothing to be his representative. The hat or the glove is nothing. The spell is nothing. What counts is the will of the conjuror, his determination that his victim shall fall ill or die. If his intention is pure, what follows, however evil it might seem in the eyes of the multitude, will also be pure.’
    ‘Even if harm is done to a good man?’
    ‘You cannot judge that until you possess the knowledge of a master.’
    ‘Have you ever used spells like these?’
    He returned the book to its high place.
    ‘I have done all manner of things,’ he said. ‘When you are ready, we will study these spells together. And now, it’s time for supper.’
    One afternoon in spring, I was at home reading when there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find Harriet standing on the landing. She did not ask if she could come in, but pushed past me and headed straight for the living room. I closed the door and followed her.
    ‘Harriet, I don’t know what you think you’re . . .’
    She spun round, facing me.
    ‘I won’t waste your precious time, Andrew, don’t worry. I can see you have plenty of reading to catch up on.’
    The room was cluttered with books, items from the university library, a few from my own small collection, and one or two modern volumes lent me by Duncan.
    ‘The fact is, Iain and I are very worried about you,’ she went on, not giving me a chance to interrupt. ‘We were frightened by what happened to you before Christmas. You were very ill, I don’t think you know how much. Dr McLean told us you were heading for a complete breakdown. He warned you about overworking, but here you are a few months later, pushing yourself harder than ever. You’ve got no time for your friends, you’ve given up on Iain’s seminars, all you seem to do is sit with your nose stuck in books that were consigned to the bin centuries ago. It might not be so bad if you were doing serious academic work; but this . . .’
    She gestured at the books all round her. Her arm seemed weary, her face pitying.
    ‘I understand this better than any academic,’ I retorted. I’m not just scraping the surface now, I’m underneath, I’m learning how to connect with the essence of what I read about. Can Iain or his colleagues say that much? Can you?’
    ‘I doubt we can. But I doubt any of us would want to connect with the world you’re letting yourself get sucked into. Andrew, we are concerned. We want to help you, Iain and I. This man Mylne – for heaven’s sake, Andrew, he has the worst reputation. Iain has asked around – people in the church, people in the law, people at the university. Mylne’s notorious. If he weren’t so damned clever, he’d have been in jail years ago.’
    ‘I’d take care, Harriet. Duncan Mylne is a friend of mine. A good friend. I’ve learned things from him you’d scarcely imagine.’
    ‘He’s a dangerous man, Andrew. Look at you. You’re half in a daze. You can’t do your job, you’re losing weight, you’re heading for another