chapter 9 Mr. Crowley’s Application
MR. CROWLEY’S APPLICATION
Six weeks later, Crowley stands in the center of the empty guest bedroom of his double flat on Chancery Lane.
He has converted the space into his magical ritual space.
The walls, floor, and ceiling are painted black.
The only furniture in the room is an altar, framed by two black pillars.
Before the altar is spread a colorful Persian rug.
Atop each pillar burns a bowl of flaming oil, providing the room’s only source of illumination.
The altar is a whimsical table characterized by its pedestal: a statue of a Nubian acrobat standing on his hands and wearing a colorful turban. The figure’s upturned feet support a massive slab of polished ebony that serves as the tabletop.
Upon the altar, arranged with meticulous precision, are a scourge, a dagger, and a chain of sharp steel links. The chain is arranged to form a triangle. In the center of the triangle sits a bottle shaped like woman’s breast; it is filled with anointing oil.
Directly behind the altar hangs a full human skeleton. Its hands are attached artfully to the tabletop by wires giving the appearance of a skeleton priest celebrating mass.
Crowley enters the room, turns and locks the door behind him. He is dressed only in oriental pantaloons and Persian slippers such as Aladdin might wear. He walks behind the altar and gently strokes the skull of the skeleton as one would caress the hair of a child.
He takes the dagger from the altar and makes a small cut in his thumb. He opens the skeleton’s hinged jaw and sticks his bleeding thumb inside its mouth. “A sacrifice of thanksgiving, my friend. Tonight, I will be judged.”
He withdraws his thumb. A small trickle of blood runs down the teeth and lower jaw of the skeleton. He sticks his bleeding thumb in his own mouth and delicately sucks it. He moves to the front of the altar and faces the bony priest.
“An angel came to me, my fleshless friend. He even looks like Jesus Christ. He will this night present my application to the adepts of the great order, and I will be judged.”
He picks up the vial of holy oil and dabs his thumb (which has begun to bleed again) with oil. He anoints the top of his head and his forehead.
“I must make myself worthy.” He sets down the vial and picks up the chain of sharp triangular silver links. He wraps it around his head at a level just above the eyes.
“A thousand times I’ve lived and died. But always asleep, dreaming I was a creature of the dust, sleepwalking life after life after life.” He holds the chain in place with one hand at the back of his head. He picks up the wand and slips it through two overlapping links to create a tourniquet.
He rotates the wand a half turn, tightening the chain around his head.
“My mind enchained, my soul imprisoned.” He rotates the wand another half turn.
“Bound to the dust by body and mind . . . by time and space!” He tightens the chain again.
The pain is too great. Crowley screams at the top of his lungs.
“All right, Milo, I want you to listen carefully.”
For the first time, Sir Francis dropped all pretense of warmth. His voice became pinched and his words tumbled from his lips. The old man transformed before my eyes into the ruthless dictator/ director who had bullied and terrorized two generations of actors and production teams.
“I’m carrying this all in my mind, Milo, and you are going to need to keep up.
In the following sequence, we are going to switch back and forth between two locations: Crowley’s home temple and at the Mark Masons Hall where the Golden Dawn is holding its meeting to discuss Crowley’s membership. Are you following me?”
I was too nervous to say much more than, “I’ll get it down, sir.”
“Good. Let’s fade out to black. Then fade back in to an exterior night view of Mark Masons Hall, London. The plaque on the cornerstone reads: Mark Masons Hall 1844.”
The hall is arranged for a business meeting.
The room is abuzz with conversations. Annie Horniman sits in the east as presiding officer.
Her petite figure and almost boyish face belies the serious and powerful resolve of a businesswoman of immense wealth.
Her lightbrown hair is parted in the middle and pulled tight to frame her face. She bangs her gavel.
“The brothers and sisters will come to order!”
There are about fifty men and women in the hall. The men are dressed in business attire, the woman in traditional gowns. Both are adorned with simple red sashes that run from the left shoulder diagonally across the front.
At the sound of the gavel all stand to order and face east. In perfect unison they give the Sign of the Enterer (hands and arms thrust forward), followed by the Sign of Silence (left forefinger pressed to lips). Together they chant:
Holy art Thou, Lord of the Universe,
Holy art Thou, whom Nature has not formed.
Holy art Thou, Vast and Mighty One.
Lord of the Light, and of the Darkness.
Horniman bangs the gavel once again. All are seated and immediately begin chatting again. She gavels them silent.
“Brethren, in just a moment I shall have an extremely serious and important matter to discuss with you. But first, let us quickly dispense with routine business. Madame secretary?”
The secretary is Maud Gonne. She is dark and excruciatingly beautiful. Her deep brown eyes are hypnotic, and her darkbrown hair is so thick it strains all attempts to be properly put up. She stands up behind her desk in the southeast and addresses Horniman.
“Greatly Honored, there is no old business on the agenda, and the only new business is an application from one Edward Alexander Crowley. He lives at 67 and 69 Chancery Lane, London. He states in his application he is a gentleman, a mountaineer, and a poet.”
There is quiet laughter from the general membership. Horniman gavels them quiet.
“Greatly Honored!” William Butler Yeats rises to his feet. He looks younger than his thirty-three years; he is tall, extremely thin, and has a mop of sandy hair that is constantly forgetting its place and falling over his round spectacles.
“The Chair recognizes our Honored Brother William Butler Yeats.”
Yeats brushes back the hair from his forehead and announces lightheartedly, “I, for one, say that trouble has never entered these doors in the likeness of an Irish poet.”
Hearty laughter from all present. Yeats sits down looking rather pleased with his amusing contribution.
Horniman smiles and again gavels the room silent.
Secretary Gonne continues. “Mr. Crowley comes recommend by Brothers Baker and Jones. His fees for the Outer Order Degree Initiations are attached.”
Hearing this, Horniman is obliged to confirm the sponsorship. “The Chair calls on Brother Jones to please defend his sponsorship.”
Jones rises and addresses the group. “With pleasure, Greatly Honored. I met Mr. Crowley quite by accident at the shop of a local bookseller. He accompanied me to the British Museum where we talked at length about his life and aspirations.”
As Jones talks, we focus in on a distinguished-looking member sitting on the sidelines.
It is Allan Bennett. He looks old for his thirty-three years and is extremely thin and slightly stoop-shouldered.
His piercing black eyes are locked on something on the other side of the hall.
It is a handsome brown cat, curled comfortably upon the back of chair in the rear row of seats.
He smiles as the cat yawns and stretches.
Jones continues his report. “On the twelfth of this month, Brother Baker and I visited Mr. Crowley at his spacious double flat on Chancery Lane. We learned he comes from a good family of means. His father, now deceased, was the brewer of Crowley Ales.”
As Jones goes on, we focus on another member sitting on the sidelines. It is Bram Stoker. He is solidly built, his dark hair combed straight back, his dark full beard meticulously trimmed. He is obviously irritated and angry at what he is hearing from Jones.
“Mr. Crowley was privately educated—attending Trinity College, Cambridge . . .”
Sitting in the officer’s station in the west is Florence Farr, the fair-haired leading lady of the London stage. Her angelic face cannot conceal her strong will or depth of character. At thirty-six, she is the second highest officer of the group. She listens very intently to Jones’s report.
“Having inherited a small fortune, Mr. Crowley is financially independent and free to pursue many interests. Besides being a published poet of some reputation . . .”
Yeats is obvious pleased with what he hears. He smiles and whispers to a nearby member.
Jones continues, “. . . he holds several world mountain climbing records and is a ranked chess master. Brethren, in a word, Mr. Crowley is a genius.”
Sitting next to Bram Stoker is Constance Wilde. She’s delicately petite and almost boyishly attractive; the tiny features of her face could have come from a porcelain doll. She seems pleased, almost amused, by what she hears about Crowley.
Jones concludes, “In summation, it is my opinion that Mr. Crowley is a most worthy candidate and the most sincere and passionate seeker of occult wisdom I have ever met. Brother Baker was equally impressed, and I do not hesitate to add my name to his on the sponsorship documents.”
“Thank you, Brother Jones.” Horniman is anxious to get on with business of the night. “Is there any further discussion concerning the application of Mr. Edward Alexander Crowley before I call for a motion to accept his application and schedule his initiation?”
She is answered by Bram Stoker who rises to be recognized by the Chair.
“We recognize our illustrious Brother Bram Stoker.”
Stoker clears his throat and adjusts his sash.
“Greatly Honored, it is my understanding this Crowley fellow—he calls himself Aleister, I believe—has somewhat of a tawdry reputation. His poetry, while having received some critical praise from a few bohemian periodicals, I find to be obscene, offensive, and inappropriate. Furthermore, I’ve learned that recently, while in Paris, Mr. Crowley vandalized the tomb of Oscar Wilde, the deceased husband of our dear sister Mrs. Constance Mary Wilde.
He then returned to London and publicly committed an act of lewd exhibitionism at the Hotel Café Royal. ”
The members react with gasps and grumbles. Stoker continues, “Brethren, I think we can agree this is hardly the behavior of a moral gentleman of character and is certainly not indicative of someone to be trusted with the powerful keys of magic.”
In Crowley’s home temple, he twists the torturous chain tighter and tighter around his head. He begins to chant:
“Bound by pleasure! Bound by pain! Bound by hunger. Bound by lust. Bound by fear. Bound by desire! Bound to a dream! Dream no more! No more!”
The links of the chain cut deep into his forehead and scalp. Blood and sweat run down his face and neck. Dropping his hands, he leans forward and violently slams his forehead upon the altar top. “Wake up! Wake up!”
He pulls the spiked links from his flesh and allows the chain to fall upon the altar. It slides noisily to the floor.
Partially blinded by blood, he reels for a moment then leans across the altar to squarely face the skull of the skeleton. Nose to (missing) nose, Crowley’s snarl reveals almost as many bloody teeth as his bony friend. Crowley breaks deliriously into poetic verse:
“So did the neophyte that would gaze into dead pharaoh’s awful eyes clutch the initiates place and prize.”
He staggers back onto the carpet and falls hard on his rear end. He tries to cross his legs like a yogi, then takes the scourge from the floor and repeatedly thrashes his own bare back while madly shouting, “By his stripes ye shall know him! By his stripes ye shall know him!”
With a climactic scream, he flings the instrument against the wall, then falls face down upon the now-bloodied carpet . . .
Constance Wilde stands and quietly asks to be recognized. “Greatly Honored, if I may?”
“The Chair recognizes our sister Constance Mary Wilde.”
Wilde gestures toward Stoker with both hands. “I’m afraid our brother is gravely mistaken.”
The room explodes with laughter over the play on words. Yeats stands and announces, “The gentle widow is a greater wit than her immortal husband!”
Humiliated, Stoker sits. Horniman gavels for silence.
Constance Wilde continues. “Mr. Crowley did not vandalize my husband’s tomb, as Brother Stoker has suggested.
It was a committee of troglodytic Parisian bigots who forced the cemetery to deface his memorial by attaching a grotesque plaque to cover parts of the magnificent sculpted angel that guards dear Oscar’s tomb.
“Like many of us, Mr. Crowley was outraged—and rightly so! He traveled to Paris at his own expense, and with no small danger to himself, and personally removed that shameful plaque. Upon his return, he personally presented it to Mr. Epstein, the sculptor, as a souvenir.
“It was a brave and witty act. Very sweet. Truly magical in my eyes. I’m sure my Oscar is applauding from wherever he has chosen to be.
“I for one shall be honored to support Mr. Crowley’s application and look forward to calling him my ‘Brother in Magic.’ Thank you, Greatly Honored.”
Horniman scans the room to see if there are others who wish to speak. There being none, she proceeds. “Right then. Do I hear a motion on this matter?”
Several members prepare to stand, but Constance Wilde is the first to jump back to her feet.
“Greatly Honored, I move that we accept the application of Mr. Edward Alexander Crowley.”
Yeats immediately stands. “I second the motion. Sounds like an interesting fellow.”
Crowley’s bloody face is still pressed to the carpet.
“Lord of all magic. Let me not go down again to the dust. Allow me to earn my share of the rite. I swear. This time . . . I will endure to the end.” He drifts into unconsciousness.
Annie Horniman grabs her gavel and announces, “It has been regularly moved and seconded that we accept the application of Mr. Edward Alexander Crowley. All in favor say ‘aye.’”
Most of the membership responds with an unenthusiastic “aye.”
“All opposed?”
Several members, including Bram Stoker mumble “nay!”
Horniman, looking mildly irritated, announces, “The ayes have it. Madame Secretary, it is so ordered. Please schedule Mr. Crowley’s neophyte initiation.”
She bangs her gavel once.
At the same moment, Crowley’s unconscious body jerks violently. The flaming bowls go out, plunging his tiny temple into darkness.