chapter 21 Beelzebub—Lord of the Flies
BEELZEBUB—LORD OF THE FLIES
Working like a man possessed, Mathers arranges his Paris home temple for a special ceremony.
He fills the oil lamp that hangs over the square altar in the center of the room.
He loads the censer with charcoal and frankincense.
Finally, he opens the French doors to the balcony and drags out a fifty-pound bag of fine sand.
He slashes the bag open with a dagger, then pours the sand into a shallow tray just outside the French doors.
He kneels and levels the sand to a perfectly smooth surface.
As he does so, he hears the sound of buzzing flies.
“One moment, Sir Francis. The sound of buzzing flies?”
“Forgive me, Milo. My director’s imagination was outpacing my tongue.
Yes. In the scenes to follow we will again need to cut between the action taking place in several locations at the same time.
At times, we’ll want the audience to hear the sound of buzzing flies.
It will become obvious where. Oh, things were so much simpler before sound came to cinema.
Try to make it clear, dear boy. Do what you can to read my mind.
“Let’s now shift to a wide shot of the facade of the Horniman Museum and zoom in on a sign that announces:”
Horniman Museum
Natural History Wing and Gardens
Grand Opening, December 15.
Having finished giving their statements for the constabulary, Farr, Stoker, Yeats, and Gonne have traveled across town to the Horniman Museum, where Annie is making arrangements for the opening of the new garden. They catch her near the huge main gallery, chatting with the gardener.
Farr speaks first. “Annie, we want you to lead us again.”
Stoker can’t contain himself. “Mathers is barking mad. He dispatched his fairy henchman Crowley to expel us and seize the temple. He almost succeeded, too! The bastard!”
Horniman cannot believe what she’s hearing. “What? Seize the temple? How?”
Yeats tries to recap the whole episode. “We’ve taken care of Crowley. We’ve just left the police station.”
Gonne adds, “Annie, we’ve expelled Crowley—and Mathers, too!”
“Oh! Dear people, I don’t know. Do we have the authority? These things take place on the magical planes and for reasons beyond our imaginations. We’ve not made contact with the Secret Masters. None of us have . . . have we?”
There is no answer to Horniman’s question.
“Very well. Please don’t tell a soul. We’ll meet tomorrow evening at the temple. We’ll open the temple with the Watchtower ritual, then I’ll do what I can to magically petition the gods to allow my inner plane contact. I’ll not lead the group without at least going through the motions.”
Crowley is the last to be released by the constabulary.
He is still in Highland dress (minus his Anubis mask, dirk, and dagger).
He pauses on the steps of the station and gazes up at the grey sky before walking away.
His eyes dejectedly pinned to the sidewalk in front of him, he ignores the stares of others on the street.
A light rain begins to fall. At first he doesn’t care, but then he begins to look for shelter. Redway’s Bookshop is about two blocks ahead.
He opens the door and hears the warm chime of the bell. Just inside, he tries to brush the rain off his coat and kilt. He sneezes. Redway appears from the back room.
“My dear Mr. Crowley. Look at you. Come in. Please come in.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Redway. It seems the rain caught me unprepared.”
Redway pulls a chair to a table near the stove. “Come, sit down. You can use some tea, my friend.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself, Redway.”
Redway disappears behind the counter. “Nonsense, my dear man. The kettle’s on. No trouble at all. Been to a Scottish affair, have we?”
Crowley looks down at his kilt. “In a way, yes. It wasn’t as jolly as I’d expected, I’m sad to say.”
Redway reappears with a tea tray. He sits and hands Crowley a towel. “Tomorrow’s another day, I always say. Sugar?”
“None, thank you.”
“Milk or lemon?”
“Lemon please.”
Redway hands Crowley his tea, then sits down. “Mr. Crowley, may I ask you a question?”
Crowley is caught in mid-sip. He stares down at his cup as if he has just savored an unexpectedly delicious taste. “Of course.”
“If I’m not mistaken, I believe you are striving to attain a certain magical marriage or union with your Holy Guardian Angel. Am I correct?”
Crowley is surprised by the question. “Why, yes. How did . . .”
“Am I also correct to conclude that because you’ve not yet actually made the acquaintance of your angel that your life continues to be a litany of highly dramatic triumphs coupled with dangerous, sometimes humiliating, disasters?”
Crowley laughs and takes another sip of Redway’s remarkable brew. “Mr. Redway, you seem to know a great deal about—”
“What do you think is the nature of this angel, Mr. Crowley? Does it have feathers?”
“I don’t—”
“Does it play the harp and live on a far-away cloud? Or perhaps, is it something close . . . something right under your nose perhaps?”
Redway’s suggestion causes Crowley to squirm uncomfortably. He nervously takes a sip of his tea. As he does, he catches a glimpse of his own eyes reflected in the teacup. At a loss as to how to answer, he looks up at Redway.
Redway plows on. “Are you trying to find your angel in books? Do you expect to find it in that magical club you belong to? In great teachers? In Secret Masters, perhaps?”
“Mr. Redway, please, I’ve had a terrible day. These are things I’m not permitted to discuss.”
Redway sets his cup down and refills it. “Of course. Please forgive me, Mr. Crowley. I ask only because, if I may speak frankly, I’ve observed something very special about you. And I fancy myself a good judge of these matters.”
Redway smiles with such a curious twinkle in his eye that Crowley becomes uncomfortable with the intimacy of the conversation.
He puts his cup down, folds the towel, and starts to get up.
“Mr. Redway, I thank you for the tea and the warmth of your shop, but I see it has almost stopped raining, and I really must be going.”
Redway rises with him. “Of course. Please take one of my umbrellas with you. Sub umbra alarum . . . under the shadow of the wings, as we say.”
Crowley doesn’t respond. He goes to the door and pokes the umbrella outside before opening it. “Good evening, Mr. Redway. I very much appreciate your hospitality.”
“Mr. Crowley, one more thing. When you and your team were in that predicament on the Baltoro glacier, who gave you the idea to tell your Sherpas that you were the mountain god?”
“What? How on earth . . . ? Mr. Redway, no one gave me the idea. The idea just came to me. I lied to the murderous buggers to save our lives. Redway . . . why are you asking me these things?”
“Because, Mr. Crowley, I believe your life . . . and perhaps even more than your life . . . is once again in danger, and perhaps . . . perhaps you need to be the mountain god.”
Crowley doesn’t know what to make of Redway’s strange suggestion and bids him a terse “Good evening.”
Redway watches as Crowley hurries down the sidewalk past Cummings Costume Boutique.
“Good luck, Mr. Crowley.”
In Paris, Mathers, dressed in black-and-red magical regalia, enters his home temple room. He approaches the small altar in the center of the magic circle. Upon it burns a candle and a smoking pot of incense.
Directly in front of the circle, the open French doors give an unobstructed view of the balcony and sand tray of evocation.
In one hand he holds a long wooden wand about four feet long. His other hand clutches his translation of The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage. He sets the book and wand down on the tiny altar top and kneels before it.
He mumbles a prayer of barbarous words that is at first inaudible but then rises to a crescendo at the end.
“Hear me, and make all spirits subject unto me; so that every spirit of the firmament and of the ether; upon the earth and under the earth; on dry land and in the water; of whirling air and of rushing fire; and every spell and scourge of God may be obedient unto me!”
He rises, opens the book, and tears out a magic square. He then steps forward through the French doors and onto the balcony. He kneels before the tray, carefully places the magic square in the center of the smooth sand, and draws a dagger from his robe.
“In the name of the True and Living God Most High, who created the world and all things in heaven and hell, I do now summon from the pit thou great Prince Beelzebub.”
At the word “Beelzebub,” he slashes the palm of his left hand and holds it over the sand, allowing the dripping blood to completely soak the magic square. The temple room and balcony shudder violently, then stop.
Beneath the sand there is movement. The surface begins to swell up from the center, forming a cone that rises like a miniature volcano.
The sound of a million buzzing flies grows louder.
Mathers rises to his feet and steps backward through the French doors and back to the safety of the temple’s protective circle.
An enormous black fly now breaks the bloody surface of the sand.
It grows to the size of a wild boar and stares threateningly at the magician with its huge segmented eyes.
The buzzing is deafening. Mathers screams at the creature.
“Come not in that form! I command you, Prince Beelzebub! Put on comely human visage! Or else back to the pit! Human form! Now! I command!”
Instantly the monster fly transforms into the body of an avuncular vicar of the Anglican church. Mathers tries to compose himself to speak, but nothing is coming out.
The vicar Beelzebub, however, seems anxious to talk. It speaks in a calm, sweet voice. “You look surprised to see me.”
“You came so quickly. I thought a Supreme Prince of Hell would be more reluctant.”
“Not at all, my son. The greater the devil, the more pleased to be invited.”