chapter 17 Conjuring a Demon for a Friend #2
The smoke swirls violently within the column as if it were painfully trapped inside a triangular glass container.
Crowley panics. “I can’t talk to a damned cloud.
“Spirit Buer. I command you to appear in human form and answer me! Or . . . or . . .”
He whispers frantically over his shoulder to Jones. “Have you found the bottomless pit bits?”
Jones can’t take his eyes off the triangle.
He and Crowley now see a form materializing inside the triangle.
It is the semitransparent image of an armored foot.
Above it waves, in eerily slow motion, a bright red tunic.
Above the tunic gleams a helmet such as those that may have been worn by bronze-age soldiers.
Mrs. H. (envelope in hand) tiptoes down the dark hallway toward the door of Crowley’s flat.
Crowley turns to Jones. “What does the book say this spirit looks like?”
“A centaur, I think.”
“Does that look like a centaur to you?”
“Not really.”
The column of smoke begins to pulsate more violently. What once were the completely straight sides of the three-sided column now bulge out as if ready to burst.
In the hallway outside the door to Crowley’s flat, Mrs. H.
bends to slide her note under the door, but she hesitates.
She looks at the envelope, then nervously fans her face with it.
She smiles mischievously and tries the doorknob.
It is unlocked. She hesitates for just a moment, then quietly enters.
The room is dark except for a small fire burning in the fireplace.
She hears voices from behind the door of the adjacent temple room.
She moves close and puts her ear to the door and hears Crowley and Jones talking.
She kneels and peers through the keyhole.
Through the thick smoke, she sees them in their robes.
She quickly pulls her head away from the keyhole and smiles to herself. “Those boys and their black magic.”
Crowley shakes his wand directly at the triangle and begins to nervously speak. The memorized words pour from his mouth so fast they can barely be understood.
“O thou Spirit Buer, because thou hast diligently answered unto my demands . . .” [He doesn’t mean it. He just wants this all to be done with.] “I do hereby license thee to depart unto thy proper place. Depart. Depart, Depart.”
The triangular column of smoke seems about to explode. The room violently trembles from a low frequency hum that almost drowns Crowley’s words. He is forced to shout.
“Depart without causing harm or danger unto man or beast. Depart then, I say!”
Crowley is now losing his voice.
“I charge thee to withdraw peaceably and quietly, and the peace of God be ever continued between thee and me. Amen!”
Nothing changes. “AMEN!”
The noise continues, and the column of smoke remains. In disgust, Crowley throws his wand to the floor.
“We’ve failed, George.”
At that very instant, Mrs. H. firmly slides her envelope under the door.
It scoots across the temple floor like a shuffleboard puck and passes directly through the triangle causing the smoky column to instantly vanish.
The envelope slides to rest beneath the wand at Crowley’s feet. He picks it up and opens it.
Jones looks over Crowley’s shoulder and tries to see. “What is it, old man?”
Crowley bolts from the circle and throws open the door to the parlor, but Mrs. H. has made her escape.
Jones joins him in the parlor. “What is it?’
“It’s from a friend.” Crowley answers softly. “A friend who misses me. Perhaps we’ve not failed after all.”
Sir Francis pauses for a moment to refill his pipe. “I hope you’re following the simultaneous actions in this sequence. It’s rather important.”
“I believe so, sir. I’m really anxious to learn what comes next.
Are we to change the scene again?”
“Indeed we are, my boy. The time is the next morning. The location is the bright and beautifully appointed parlor of Mrs. H.’s flat. We have a tight shot of Crowley’s face and head as he says . . .”
“I need you to give me a hundred pounds!”
Mrs. H. violently slaps Crowley’s face.
“Please, darling, hear me out. This is your opportunity to do an absolutely unfettered act of kindness.”
She slaps his face again. She is irresistibly beautiful in her French morning robe that conceals (yet at the same time accents) her every physical charm.
Her hair is up most Edwardianly. She turns and steps to the window—her back to Crowley—her hands clinched into tight fists.
She chews her thumbnail in frustration and anger.
“I assure you. It’s not for me. You’ll be doing more than you can possibly imagine. I have very good reasons for not using my own money.”
She doesn’t answer but turns and approaches Crowley face to face. He smiles warmly and adds, “Call it a magical gesture.”
She returns the hint of a smile but then slaps him painfully hard for a third time, storms into her bedroom, and slams the door. Crowley tries to follow but stops to press his ear to the door instead.
“Darling?” There is no answer. He reluctantly turns to leave.
He nearly reaches the front door when he hears the bedroom door swing open.
Mrs. H. stands in the doorway with a thick envelope in her hand.
Crowley returns to her and reaches slowly for the envelope.
He begins to speak but is hushed by her fingers to his lips.
“And now, Mr. Aleister Crowley-the-magician, as I have this day received word that a one-legged Colonel Horatio is arriving home from India on Thursday next, you now have the opportunity to perform an unfettered act for me! Call it a magical gesture.”