chapter 21 Beelzebub—Lord of the Flies #2
Mathers, remembering his proper role in this operation, barks roughly. “Behold! I am a great and terrible magician!”
“Verily. You are a great and terrible magician,” the devil somewhat sarcastically parrots back the statement.
“I am armed with the authority of the Most High God, and mine Holy Guardian Angel.”
“Verily. You are armed with the authority of the Most High God, and . . .” The spirit looks to the left and to the right. Seeing that Mathers is alone in the circle, the demon smiles most pleasantly. “Did you say, your Holy Guardian Angel?”
Mathers doesn’t respond. Rather, he extends his wand through the French doors and aims it at the face of the demon vicar. “I am your master, swear it is so. Swear it is so!
The spirit drops to its knees and bows its head. “Verily. Thou art my master.”
“And in token of your loyalty, you will humbly lay your hands upon my scepter of power and swear obedience unto me.”
The spirit rises and drags one foot back and forth in the sand.
Mathers repeats his orders. “And in token of your loyalty, you will humbly lay your hands upon my scepter of power and swear obedience unto me.”
“And where does it say I must do that?”
“In The Book of the Sacred Magic!”
Vicar Beelzebub smiles warmly and respectfully lays hold of the wand with both hands. “I see.”
Beelzebub then violently grabs the wand and yanks Mathers out of the circle, through the French doors, and onto the balcony.
Mathers is again deafened by the thunderous sound of the buzzing flies.
Vicar Beelzebub’s head reverts to that of the monstrous fly.
It slams its hideous head against Mathers’s face and penetrates his mouth with its slimy proboscis.
“I think you mean in your translation of the book!”
Mathers is terrified. The thought had never occurred to him that something very important might have been lost in his translation. He stands petrified for what seems like an eternity before Beelzebub releases the wand and returns to human form.
Mathers stumbles back into his temple circle. Wiping his mouth with the sleave of his magic robe, he does his best to compose himself. “I have a job for you.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” the spirit sneers. “Speak!”
“I have enemies . . .”
“Of course you do. Speak! . . . master.”
From a spy-hole in wall of the adjacent parlor, Moina has witnessed the entire drama.
Central London is unseasonably warm. Florence Farr is being driven to the theatre to prepare for late morning rehearsal. She shares her Hackney carriage with Yeats and Maude Gonne. In preparation for the evening’s ritual, they’ve all been fasting.
Farr complains to her companions. “Fasting before a magical operation? Really, I don’t know how I’ll make it through this morning’s readthrough without something in my stomach.”
“We’ll stuff ourselves after tonight’s ceremony.” Gonne tries to sound encouraging. “Poor Annie’s not only fasting, but she’s spending the entire day alone banishing and purifying the temple.”
“This is the most serious magical operation she’s ever performed,” Yeats adds. “Directly contacting the Secret Masters is no light matter. It might prove dangerous.”
“What we won’t do for magic,” Farr observes.
“We’ll collect you immediately after your rehearsal, Flo,” Yeats remind her. “We’ll go over together.”
“You two will be attending my play’s opening on Saturday, won’t you? I’ve sunk my fortune into this production. We’ve been informed the Prince of Wales will be there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Flo,” Yeats assures her.
The conversation is interrupted by the alarm bells of a fire brigade’s pump wagon. The coachman pulls to the curb to let it pass. Yeats strains to see what is happening. He calls up to the coachman. “What is it?”
“Looks like the Avenue Theatre, sir. From the looks of the smoke, she’s a gonner.”
Farr stands up in the cab to see. “Oh, dear god! I’m ruined!” She slaps her neck as if bitten by an insect.
Not far away, in Hyde Park, Bram Stoker is walking Lucy, his Irish Wolfhound.
He allows her to run free while he sits on a bench near the Serpentine Lake.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins to meditate.
He is disturbed when hears Lucy barking in the distance.
She’s nowhere in sight, so he gets up to follow the sound.
He soon spots her snarling at a hare sheltering under a pile of boards covering a drainage ditch near some irrigation equipment.
“Lucy! Come!” The dog ignores him. “Lucy! Come, girl!” Still, she ignores him and continues to bark. “You silly bitch!”
He steps on one of the planks while reaching for the dog’s collar.
The board breaks under his weight, and he plunges into the sludge-filled pit.
He is unhurt, but the pit is completely dark except for a thin beam of dusty light streaming in from the planks above.
At first, he is not alarmed, but, as he tries to move, he realizes his feet are stuck ankle-deep in soft sludge, and he is rapidly sinking. He starts to panic.
“Hello! I say? Can anyone hear me?”
Lucy is barking so loudly his cries for help cannot be heard. He tries to pull his legs free but only succeeds in sinking faster. He is now up to his waist and clawing the slimy sides of the pit to slow his descent. He screams at the top of his lungs. “Help me! Please! Someone!”
He is up to his chin in the filthy black water. He cocks his head back to keep his mouth and nose from going under.
Two workmen, attracted by Lucy’s barking, arrive and slide the planks to see what’s happening. All they can see is the surface of the sludge with Stoker’s right arm waving from side-to-side.
One workman lies down while the other holds his legs. The prone workman reaches down and snatches Stoker’s wrist. He tugs desperately and manages to pull Stoker far enough up so that his head is above the water.
Stoker is whimpering in terror. A large black fly crawls back and forth on his filth-covered face. Stoker is too hysterical to notice.
Yeats and Gonne have dropped Farr off at what remains of the Avenue Theatre. They direct the coachmen to take them over the Westminster Bridge to Gonne’s flat.
Yeats is visibly upset. “Poor Flo. This may be more than just bad luck. It’s almost like we’re being magically attacked. Do you think Crowley and Mathers have a hand in this?”
“Oh, Bill, theatres burn down all the time. We, of all people, should know that after what happened in Dublin.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Flo will be all right,” Gonne adds. “There’s not much more she can do at the theatre this morning. Let’s you and I get to my flat, perform a banishing ritual, and then perhaps take a nice bath together. I’ll scrub your back. Would you like that?”
The pair giggle and snuggle closer as the carriage reaches the bridge. There is little traffic, and the coachman takes a deep breath, enjoying his view of the Thames.
A large fly torments the ear of one of the carriage horses. The coachman sees it and brushes it away with the tip of his whip. It lands again and this time disappears straight into the ear of the poor animal.
The horse violently jerks its head, which panics its partner who rears up on its hind legs.
They bolt, and the carriage is dragged to the opposite side of the deck and over the walkway.
The coachman is thrown completely off the rig as the carriage careens madly on.
Both side wheels jump the curb and splinter into pieces, causing the crippled carriage to spin violently.
Yeats and Gonne are hurled high over the railing and into the river below. Amazingly, they were not injured.
Yeats cannot swim. Gonne manages to grab him as he sinks. A constable walking near the bridge blows his whistle and watches as Gonne, Yeats in tow, slowly makes her way toward the Westminster side.
Annie Horniman has been alone all day in the Golden Dawn temple preparing for what might be the most important magical operation of her life: the formal ritual to make direct contact with the spiritual intelligences who guide the destiny of the universe.
Since 5:00 p.m., she has been seated in a small side chamber, immersed in deep meditation.
It is now 11:00 p.m. The others will arrive soon to assist her in the midnight ceremony.
She has composed a solitary invocation. She quits her meditation chamber and dons her Hierophantic robe. Her hands shake as she opens the double doors to the main temple; she enters then locks the doors behind her.
The room is arranged elaborately as for a neophyte initiation ceremony. It is lit by three gas lamps mounted to the walls, one very large lamp over the Hierophant’s throne on the eastern wall and two smaller lamps centered on the north and south walls.
She extinguishes the two small lamps and turns down the large one over her throne to plunge the room into a soft mystical ambiance. She goes to the altar in the center of the room and kneels, placing her hands upon the sacred cross and triangle.
Her concentration is broken by the buzzing of large fly that circles her face. She waves it away and begins her prayer.
“Oh, thou Secret Masters who direct the evolution of our race; keepers of the flame of wisdom; guiding hands of our sacred order; appear before me now as once you did to our fallen brother. I offer myself to your service and the service of all mankind. Anoint me. Sanctify me. Bless me, if it be the will of the gods. Place now upon my shoulders the terrible yoke of service that our fallen brother has shaken from his, so that I might be the perfect conduit of your Power, your Mercy, and your Wisdom.”
She lays her forehead upon her hands and weeps. She opens her eyes when a soft, wondrous light brightens the room. She hears a voice. It is soft and pleasant.
“It is good to be serious about your Great Work, Annie. But really, my child. The secret is not to make magic your life but to make your life magic.”