chapter 17 Conjuring a Demon for a Friend
CONJURING A DEMON FOR A FRIEND
“You know, Milo, even in those early years, Crowley had an extensive occult library that was the envy of the other Golden Dawn members. He read every one of those books, even the ones in Greek, Latin, German, and Hebrew.
“Our next scene will first take place in his living room where he and Jones are having tea and quietly studying.”
“I can’t wait, Sir Francis. Please continue.”
Jones sits at the writing desk, turning the pages of The Lesser Key of Solomon.
Crowley is seated in a comfy chair, gazing into a small, round, black mirror that sits on a tea table directly in front of his chair.
He mumbles a few words in the Enochian angelic language.
He’s doing a poor job of it. “Zoda—Care, eca, od—Zodameranu!”
He gives up and sits back in his chair and lights his pipe. “George, we really must do something to help Allan. If he doesn’t get out of this smoke and coal dust, he’ll be dead within the year.”
Jones agrees. “He goes on about that monastery in Ceylon. The warm fresh air would do him wonders. I’ve talked to his doctor. I’ve even offered to pay his fare. I can afford it.”
“I, too. He won’t hear of it. He and his damned pride and magical vows!” Crowley takes a thoughtful puff on his pipe. “Are there any demons in that book who heal stubborn magicians?”
Jones gets up and brings the book over to Crowley and points near the bottom of the page.
“Look at this one. Buer. He appears as a centaur and does all kinds of handy things, including ‘healing all kinds of distempers in man.’”
Crowley takes another puff. “I’ve never conjured a demon before. At least not on purpose.”
“Nor have I, but I assisted Allan once. It really works. Scared me to death, though.”
Crowley takes a particularly long puff on his pipe.
“Milo, before we continue, I think it’s important I describe the next sequence of scenes in some detail. It will help the cinematographer accurately capture the technical details of a real magical operation. You might want to put side notes to what I’m about to dictate in a separate notepad.”
“Certainly, of course, Sir Frances.” By now I was ready for anything the old man threw at me.
“This time, we’re going to cut back and forth between Crowley and Jones conjuring the demon in Crowley’s flat, and the curious behavior of Mrs. H. occurring simultaneously. I hope you’ll be able to follow me. If you have any questions, let me know.”
“I will, sir.”
“There’s a good lad.”
Crowley has arranged his home temple room (by the book) for a Solomonic evocation of a demon.
The door to the room is in the east. West of the door he has drawn the magic triangle upon the floor. A few feet to the west of the triangle is the magic circle. It is about nine feet in diameter and ringed with the traditional symbols and Hebrew letters.
For the evocation itself, Crowley and Jones stand close together in the center of the circle; Jones stands directly behind Crowley.
Both magicians wear white robes, and medallions bearing the seal of the spirit dangle around their necks. Crowley also wears a leopard skin belt and a bright red skullcap. He holds a highly polished wooden wand about two and a half feet long.
Inside the triangle is a round piece of parchment displaying the spirit’s seal. It rests before a low brass tripod supporting a chafing dish of burning charcoal upon which burn heaps of dittany of Crete. The room is thick with swirling smoke.
Crowley aims his wand at the triangle. At first, he assumes an attitude of almost arrogant confidence. He eloquently delivers the text of the conjuration, giving every expectation that he will succeed in conjuring the spirit.
He uses a strange tone of voice, lower and stronger than his natural voice, but giving no hint of artificial accent or affectation.
He smoothly carries the words of the conjuration upon two or three notes.
Whenever the text runs into bizarre, unintelligible names and words, he seamlessly links them together into a sonorous string— almost as if they were one long master word of unspeakable power.
“I invoke and move thee, O thou, Spirit Buer—and being exalted above ye in the power of the most high, I say unto thee, obey . . .”
As Crowley’s conjuration continues, Mrs. Horatio, at home in bed, lies sleeping. It appears she is experiencing an amorous dream. She lies on her back and presses herself up against a dream lover while moaning most deliciously.
Back in Crowley’s temple, he imperiously points his wand at the empty triangle.
“In the names Beralensis, Baldachiensis, Paumachia, and by the Chief Prince of the Seat of Apologia in the Ninth Legion, I do invoke thee and by invoking conjure thee. I say unto thee, OBEY!”
Mrs. H. awakens and sits up, curiously startled.
Crowley continues with the conjuration . . .
“In the name of him who spake and it was! And in these names of God! Tetragrammation, Adonai, El, Elohim, Elohi, Ehyeh Esher Ehyeh, Zabaoth, Elion, Iah, Shaddai, Lord God Most High, I stir thee up; and in our strength I say obey! Obey!”
Mrs. H. sits half-dressed at her writing desk and hurriedly scribbles a note. She quickly folds the note. In doing so, she receives a paper cut. She gasps, then sucks the blood away. She stuffs the folded note into an envelope, leaving traces of blood on the outside.
Back in Crowley’s temple, he and Jones stare intently at the empty triangle. Nothing is happening. The only thing moving is the smoke that continues to rise in thick clouds from the charcoal.
Jones peeks around Crowley to see the triangle. “Do you see anything?”
“No. Do you?”
“No. Repeat the conjuration.”
Crowley clears his throat and begins to repeat the conjuration from memory.
Meanwhile, Mrs. H. (now dressed, somewhat untidily) stands outside her building and prepares to step into a Hansom cab.
Once seated, she holds the envelope between her teeth as she clumsily attempts to tuck her hair up beneath yet another large hat.
As she struggles with the hat pin, she accidentally pricks her finger. “Ouch!” It bleeds a little.
Back in the magic circle, Crowley appears decidedly less confident. “I don’t see a damned thing, George. Do you?”
“No, old man. Just smoke. Try the stronger conjuration.”
“I don’t have the stronger conjuration memorized. Didn’t think I’d need it!”
“Read it then! Here.”
Jones picks up a sheet of paper from among many scattered on the floor. Crowley looks at it and starts to read. His delivery is now very shaky.
“Right! . . . er . . .
I do conjure thee, O thou Spirit Buer, by all the glorious names of the Lord God of Hosts, that thou comest quickly and without delay . . . Come . . . without delay!”
Mrs. H.’s cab is drawn through the darkened streets at a leisurely clip. The coachman slips a bottle of gin from his coat pocket and takes a long swallow. He puts the bottle back in his pocket and smiles most contentedly.
To his amazement, he sees that the horse’s head has transformed into the head, shoulders and arms of a bearded man—a centaur!
Terrified, he tries to use his whip on the animal in an attempt to make the vision vanish but succeeds only in making the centaur furious. It gallops full speed down the near-empty street. Finally, the centaur brings the cab to a stop at directly in front of Crowley’s flat.
Crowley nervously continues the conjuration:
“Comest quickly and without delay! Come and bring relief and healing to our beloved Brother Allan Bennett. In the names Beralensis, Baldachiensis. Obey! In the names Paumachia, and Apologiae Sedes. Obey!”
Crowley is exhausted and stops the conjuration. He whispers over his shoulder to Jones. “See anything yet?”
Jones sees nothing.
Crowley continues:
“I conjure and constrain thee, o thou obstinate Spirit Buer . . .”
The smoke is now so thick Crowley starts to cough. Soon Jones is coughing also. Still, like a trouper, Crowley continues:
“ . . . constrain thee by all the names aforesaid, and in addition [cough] these names wherewith Solomon . . . [cough] . . . Solomon bound thee in a [cough] vessel of brass—Ado . . . [cough] Adonai, Anaphazeton, Inessenfatoal, [cough] and Pathtumon. appearest here before this circle and swear unto us thine obedience. [cough]”
Jones has an idea. “Threaten him with the bottomless pit.”
“How in bloody hell do I threaten him with the bottomless pit?”
Jones falls to his knees and starts shuffling through the papers on the floor. “I’ve got the bottomless pit bits here somewhere.”
He does not see what Crowley now sees in the triangle. The vision causes Crowley’s countenance to change from frustration to horror.
Out front, Mrs. H., somewhat shaken from her wild ride, gets out of the cab and steps in centaur droppings.
“Damn me to hell!”
She tells the coachman to wait, but he doesn’t acknowledge her. He stares blankly at his horse that was just a moment ago an enraged centaur.
She scraps the manure off her shoe on the curb, then climbs the steps and enters Crowley’s building.
Crowley is now aware of a “thing” in the triangle and begins to address the demon. “Welcome, Spirit Buer.”
Jones looks up and gasps. All the smoke in the room has concentrated as a thick cloud that hovers like a three-sided column above the triangle. The red glow from the charcoal illuminates the cloud from within, giving it the appearance of a huge throbbing heart.
“It’s manifesting! You’ve done it, Crowley!” Jones is terrified but quivering with excitement. “Show it the medallion. Say the words!”
Crowley reaches for the medallion around his neck and shows it to the pulsating cloud in the triangle. He tries to sound calm.
“By the Pentacle of Solomon have I called thee! Welcome, Spirit Buer. Hear me now, and confess I am your master! Confess it is so.”
Nothing happens, but Crowley proceeds anyway.
“You are to bring relief and healing to our Brother Allan Bennett. Do you understand? Confess that you understand.”