chapter 2 Mountain and Desert
MOUNTAIN AND DESERT
Sir Francis stooped near the fire tapping his pipe against end irons.
I took off my dinner jacket (or I should say, Lord Harris’s dinner jacket) and plopped down in the chair that afforded me the best light.
I was looking for an ashtray for my pencil shavings when Sir Francis started to mutter, almost under his breath.
“The screen is black.”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Silence!” he almost shouted. His eyes were pinched shut as if a movie had begun, and he was watching it projected upon the inner screen of his forehead.
“The screen is black—silence.”
I felt like an idiot. I hadn’t realized the dictation had begun. I hurriedly scribbled down his words in screenplay format. In a moment they would come to life in the theatre of my mind as well . . . like magic.
“A screen caption appears.”
In the name of Initiation—Amen
“Suddenly, we are shocked by the deafening howl of a mighty wind. The blackness dissolves into the blinding whiteness of a blizzard. The camera pans the formless white to reveal a snow-covered mountain peak and other glacial features. We’re in an exterior day-shot of the Himalayas, K2, and the Baltoro glacier.
“New words appear on the screen.”
Chogori (K-2) Baltoro Glacier. China India Border
“Over the howling wind, a narrator speaks in voiceover.”
I had to interrupt. “Wait! Wait, wait, wait!! Dear god, no! Sir Francis. Voiceover? Please sir, I hate voiceovers! Must we? They’re so corny and old-fashioned. I’ve never used voiceovers in my films . . .”
“Calm yourself, boy. I hear you. I dislike voiceovers also. But I have my reasons to use the device here. Please. Humor me. I promise. We’ll use narration very sparingly, and only in these opening scenes. Trust me. They will help the film endure. Where was I? Oh yes . . .”
“Over the howling wind, a narrator speaks in voiceover: ‘In the beginning was initiation.’
“We now see a narrow and fragile-looking bridge of ice that spans a nightmarishly deep crevice. Snow and ice crystals swirl madly down to the blackness of the bottomless abyss. Again, the voiceover:
‘In every age and culture is to be found a system of ordeals and training whereby one is raised from mortality to immortality. Each of us must overcome our own obstacles, expose our own illusions. Yet others may assist us to do both. They can ensure that we are duly tried and tested. But beware brave pilgrim, there are many who think themselves to be masters who are not.’”
“Oh, gee! Sir Francis,” I whined, “this is really corny stuff. I hope this will be the end of the voiceover?”
“Yes. Yes. Milo, please! Let me continue. Join me inside my imagination. You’ll soon enjoy it here. Keep writing.”
Out of the roar of the wind the voice of a man is heard.
“Are you all right? Come on! Hurry! One at a time!”
The bearded face of young Aleister Crowley is covered with frost and ice. His skin is sunburned, his lips blistered. He squints his eyes against the wind. His head is covered by a thick parka hood lined with ice-caked fur. He shouts to his two native Sherpas on the other side of the crevice.
“Come along, lads! One at a time. It held me!”
The Sherpas huddle against the wind and cling to each other to remain upright.
“One at a time! Quickly.”
The first Sherpa cautiously starts to cross. He reaches about a quarter of the way before he needs to rebalance himself. He looks down at the vertigo-inducing sight of the bottomless chasm. As another gust of wind nearly blows him off, he teeters precariously on one leg.
In an attempt to steady his companion, the other Sherpa steps onto the bridge. Crowley shouts, “No! God, no! One at a time, you bloody fools! Get back! Get back!”
A small chunk of ice falls away from far side of the bridge just inches from the Sherpa’s foot. He turns and quickly lunges back toward his side, but manages only to clutch the ledge with his hands. He dangles for an instant as more ice falls away. He screams pitifully, then falls.
The man remaining on the disintegrating bridge now turns toward Crowley and attempts to leap the breach toward Crowley’s side.
Crowley leans forward and extends his pick axe.
The Sherpa succeeds in grasping the head of Crowley’s axe just as the ice beneath him completely collapses.
He falls, but Crowley doesn’t let go and is pulled off his feet by the man’s weight.
Crowley slides face down toward the edge.
The Sherpa desperately holds on to the axe head, and for a moment it appears that Crowley will be able to pull the dangling man to safety.
But the Sherpa panics and wildly flails his legs so violently that Crowley is dragged almost over the edge himself.
“Don’t struggle. Just hold on; I’ve got you!”
Crowley digs the toes of his boots into the snow to anchor himself, but he continues to slide over the edge. Neither man will let go. Crowley tries to jam his boots deeper into the snow, but it is no use. He is pulled completely over the edge, and both men fall into the abyss.
Clouds of snow and ice crystals have been kicked up in the struggle; so much so that we cannot see the details of their fall.
We hear only the Sherpa’s fading screams, then the sickening thud of a body slamming against solid ice.
It is Crowley’s. He has landed hard upon a narrow ice shelf that juts out from the chasm wall about ten feet down.
He is semiconscious. Blood trickles from his mouth and nose. His eyes are partially open as he watches the swirling snow and ice flakes. He begins to hallucinate that the snow is a cloud of dust and sand. The dream cloud turns into a miniature tornado, a small desert “dust devil.”
He furrows his eyebrows in confusion as he hears the soft rhythmic tinkling of tiny bells such as are worn by camels. He closes his eyes.
A new screen caption now fades in:
Egyptian Sahara—1505 AD
“What? Sir Francis, what’s going on here?” I’m a bit confused by the sudden change in locations and times.
“It’s an important flashback scene, my boy.
We’re traveling back in time, perhaps even hinting that Crowley is reliving an important magical moment in a previous incarnation.
Do I have to draw you a picture here? You don’t always have to know what’s happening in a movie!
Please, allow me to continue. Do you need to sharpen your pencil? ”
“No,” I sheepishly mumbled. “Please continue.”
Crowley has, for the moment, assumed the character of Abraham the Jew, a young German mystic.
He is dressed as an Arab native and rides his camel between two enormous sand dunes.
The sun is setting behind the largest of the dunes.
The sky beyond explodes with crimson and red.
The hypnotic rhythm of the camel’s gate has nearly put Abraham to sleep.
He is startled awake when the beast suddenly stops and grunts.
In the fading light, four figures materialize on the crest of the dune. Even in shimmering silhouette they appear grotesque and terrifying. Their heads and limbs are those of beasts and insects. One of the figures radiates heat waves as if it were on fire.
“Jinn! Ifrits!” Abraham whispers to himself. He quickly dismounts and pulls what appears to be a walking stick out of a long leather quiver. He thrusts the rod into the smooth sand; he looks up at the approaching monsters and shouts at the top of his lungs.
“Apo pantos kakodaimonos!”
He drags the wand to his left and continues around until he has drawn a large circle about himself. While he is creating this circle, he continues to shout magic words . . .
“Apo pantos kakodaimonos! Ol sonf vors g, goho iad balt!”
The demons now surround him. He positions himself in the center of the circle, lifts his wand above his head, and shouts, “Ah-tay!”
With the wand he touches his feet. “Malkuth!”
A brilliant blue beam of light descends from the sky above and penetrates him from head to toe. He touches his right shoulder with the tip of his wand and speaks very clearly, “Ve-gay-boo-rah!” He touches his left shoulder with the tip of his wand, and says, “Ve-gay-doo-lah!”
A second beam of light flashes horizontally from his right side and pierces completely through his upper body. He is now completely crucified by a blazing blue cross of light. He clasps both hands around the wand and holds it to his breast and says in most reverent tones, “Lay-oh-lam. Amen.”
He points his wand at the bat-faced demon standing directly in front of him and draws a large pentagram of flaming blue light which remains suspended in the air between him and the demon. He thrusts his wand into the center of the star and shouts, “Ah mah sha oh!”
The demon shrieks and freezes in mid-motion.
Keeping his wand pointed forward, Abraham turns to his right and shakes it in the beetle-face of the second demon. He draws another pentagram which also remains suspended in the air. He shouts, “Ah doe nah eee!”
This demon laughs and ignores the magic of the pentagram.
The devil opens its insect mandibles to reveal a tongue of fire which flashes from its mouth and momentarily sets the tip of Abraham’s wand on fire.
Keeping his now-flaming wand at eye level, Abraham rotates around to face the single-eyed horn-toad monster.
He draws another star. This time he shouts, “Ah heh yah!”
The fiend giggles obscenely. It waves its slimy webbed claws to deflect Abraham’s magic.
Abraham curses under his breath and turns to face the fourth and most hideous spirit. Its head is that of a prehistoric bull atop the body of a giant millipede. Abraham struggles to draw a pentagram in its face. His voice cracks as he shouts, “Ahg la!”