chapter 4 The Book of the Sacred Magic
THE BOOK OF THE SACRED MAGIC
In the shadows, a man and a woman ascend the steps of the main entrance of the library. They are MacGregor Mathers and his wife, Moina Mathers.
He is tall, angular, and extremely pale. He is clean-shaven except for a thick moustache. She is dark, shapely, and coldly beautiful. She is dressed in black, her blouse buttoned high up the neck, her skirt belted and cinched neatly at her corseted waist.
Inside, they approach the huge front desk. Moina hands the library clerk a card. The conversation takes place in French with subtitles. Moina speaks first.
“I am Moina Mathers; this is my husband, MacGregor Mathers, of London. We have arranged with Monsieur Babar to translate one of your books.”
The clerk does not look up from his paperwork. “And what book would that be madam?”
“Catalogue Number 1717; Folio 93; Manuscript Number 4638. The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage.”
The clerk stops writing. Puts down his pen and looks up. “Pardon me, madame. What book did you say?”
Her husband impatiently pushes forward and snaps at the clerk in English, “See here, young man, we have an appointment with Monsieur Babar, and I don’t see—”
A new voice enters the conversation. “Thank you, Claude. You may go.” It is Maurice Babar, a portly gentleman in his early sixties who looks every inch a Parisian bureaucrat.
A white bib is still tucked under his collar as if his supper has been interrupted.
Dabbing his lips with his napkin, he continues the conversation in English.
“Monsieur Mathers, you are late.” His words are firm but pleasant. He eyes Moina and smiles at her as only a Frenchman can. “Monsieur Mathers, perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce me to . . .”
Mathers doesn’t hide his impatience or his irritation. “Monsieur Babar, allow me to introduce my wife, madame Moina Mathers. She is intimately familiar with this project.”
“A singular pleasure madame.” Babar gently pulls Moina’s outstretched hand near to his lips. There is something imperceptibly repulsive about her hand. Babar’s expression shows a subtle revulsion, and he allows her hand to slip from his grasp.
“You will show us to the book now?” Moina’s tone is cold and businesslike.
Babar drops all pretense of charm. “You both will follow me. Please remain silent and watch your step. Your descent will be somewhat dark.”
Babar leads the two quietly to a nearby stairwell. As they descend, the damp air becomes progressively colder. At the lowest level, the three enter a chamber that appears to be dedicated to a single writing desk and reading lamp—and one extraordinarily large piece of furniture.
It is a wooden cabinet about eight feet high and eight feet wide.
Its double doors are trimmed with magical hieroglyphics.
The left door displays an elaborately engraved silver escutcheon with a tiny keyhole.
The cabinet is crowned by a huge double-headed eagle; its wings spread to encompass the entire width of the cabinet.
Babar reaches into the watch pocket of his vest and removes a plain silver chain, which he swings like a censer in front of his body as he approaches the cabinet. As the chain swings he whispers:
“At the ending of the light—at the limits of the night—we stand before the unborn ones of time.”
As Babar chants the words, a glittering key materializes at the end of the chain.
It is wondrously reflective, as if it were made of quicksilver.
He inserts the key and solemnly unlocks then opens the double doors, revealing two polished mirrors that completely cover the inside surface of the doors.
Once opened, the mirrored doors lock into place so that the mirrors face each other perfectly, giving the cabinet the appearance of a magical shrine.
Babar stands aside to let Mathers and Moina see the contents of the cabinet.
At first, they see nothing but darkness.
Then, from deep within the blackness, four tiny flames materialize and grow brighter.
It now appears there are four lighted candles inside the cabinet.
They flank a brown leather volume not unlike a thousand others of its provenance.
On closer inspection, this scene is revealed to be an illusion created by a full mirror toward the back of the cabinet.
There are really only two candles and their reflections.
Also, it becomes clear that we are only seeing the lower half of the actual book.
Its reflection gives the illusion of an entire book.
If an upper half to the book exists it is on the other side of the mirror.
Babar stands back and gazes upon the book with reverence, then finishes his chant:
“For between the darkness and the light rests The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage.”
He then turns to Mathers and orders him, “Remove the book, monsieur, if you can.”
Mathers approaches the cabinet and hesitantly reaches his hands forward toward the book. As he does so, he is distracted by the “barber-shop infinity effect” of hundreds of pairs of hands reaching toward the book.
Moina is impatient and stamps her foot. “Damn it, MacGregor! Pick it up! Pull it through!”
Mathers is frozen. Moina pushes him aside and seizes the book herself.
The book slips through the mirror to her side, leaving no trace of an opening in the mirror.
She gasps sharply in awe and for a moment sensuously strokes the book’s spine with her hand.
She starts to open it, but, instead, she reluctantly hands it to her husband. There is a moment of complete silence.
Mathers nervously clears his throat and mutters, “Right! To work.” Book in hand, he turns to Moina and smiles apprehensively. He starts to move toward the empty work table where there is a lamp and writing materials, but Babar stops him.
“Wait! Monsieur, before you start your translation, there is something you must know.” Babar gently plucks the book from Mathers’s hands. Mathers is visibly reluctant to let go of it. Moina is livid and sinks her fingernails into Babar’s wrists.
“Give it . . .” she hisses through gritted teeth.
Babar freezes in shock, but then, despite the obvious pain in his wrists, simply glowers at Moina. She releases her grip. Babar gives Mathers a reproachful look.
Mathers starts to apologize, “You must please excuse my wife’s enthusiasm. We are very anxious to begin the translation.”
“Precisely why you must hear what I have to say.” Babar places the book on the work table and moves the lamp close. He opens the book.
“This is perhaps the most dangerous book ever written, monsieur. The first section is wise, sacred, holy. It is filled with much wisdom. It instructs the magician how to become pure and holy . . . holy enough to wed the angel.”
He flips large sections of pages until he reaches the midway through the book. We see images of magical squares of various sizes filled with Hebrew letters.
“Equally, the second section is evil and potentially very dangerous. It is filled with magic squares—the seals of all the Princes of Hell and directions for using the squares to force the devils to do anything! Anything you want. Anything!”
The seriousness of Babar’s attitude makes Mathers uncomfortable. Moina is unmoved. Babar continues.
“No one must use the squares until they’ve succeeded in wedding the angel. We fear it may be unsafe for you to even copy them.”
Moina dismisses such talk with a wave of her hand. “Don’t be absurd!”
Babar rises nose to nose with Moina. “You don’t understand, Madame. Until you and the angel are one, you won’t know what is or is not in your best interests! You will hold omnipotent power but be unable to distinguish good from evil!”
Moina reaches past Babar and slams the book shut.
“This is nonsense, monsieur. Good and evil are self-evident to those of our level of initiation. Your fears are unfounded and superstitious.”
“Indeed?” Babar seems almost amused.
Mathers steps between the two. “Monsieur Babar, if you harbor such dire misgivings, why are you allowing us access to the text?”
Babar stands erect and tugs the bottom of his vest. “The decision was not mine alone. You hold great promise, Monsieur Mathers. How I know this I cannot say.”
Moina breaks the silence that followed Babar’s curious words. “Very well, as you have already agreed, my husband has ten days to complete his translation.”
Babar looks each of them square in the eye then withdraws to the stairs. “Then begin. The book must not leave this room. My staff is at your service. But remember my words. The book has been in my care since the death of my predecessor . . . and his family.”
“Let’s end the scene there, Milo . . . with a closeup on MacGregor Mathers’s face. But we’re not through with Mr. and Mrs. Mathers yet. I think you’re going to enjoy the next scene. Let’s first have a quick cup of tea before we continue, shall we?”
Sir Francis must have been reading my mind.
It was nearly midnight, and the thought of a sip of hot tea was just what I needed.
Old Archie must have been reading our minds also, because a quiet knock at the library door announced his entrance with a tray of hot tea and ginger snaps. Doesn’t this old guy sleep? I thought.
As Archie turned to leave, I noticed something green on the back of his shirt collar.
It was a live chameleon. What a curious fashion accessory, I thought.
For some reason it made me smile just looking at it.
“Archie, I can’t help but notice you have a chameleon clinging to your collar. Is it your friend?”
“Yes, sir, a dear friend.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Yes, sir. ‘Spinoza.’ Will there be anything else?”
Sir Francis answered. “Thank you, Archie. No, thank you. That will be all for tonight.”
Refreshed by our two cups of hot tea, we got back to business.
Sir Francis resumed his dictation. “Let’s start with an exterior night shot of the British Museum, shall we? New words appear on the screen:”
British Museum, London—six months later