chapter 22 The Cabinet of Lamech Ben Abraham
THE CABINET OF LAMECH BEN AbrAHAM
Crowley sits at the writing desk in his parlor. Jones looms over him with a newspaper. He reads the headlines out loud:
TEA HEIRESS ESCAPES DEATH BY GAS
PLAYWRIGHT AND POET PLUNGE FROM WESTMINSTER brIDGE
DRACULA AUTHOR ESCAPES DEATH IN SEWER
Jones throws the newspaper on the desk. “Crowley, you’re a damned dangerous person to be around. Are you and Mathers part of this magical vendetta?”
“George, you can’t believe I’d actually try to hurt these people—magically or otherwise.”
Jones grabs his coat and hat. “I don’t know what I believe anymore. I’m going to visit my sister in Hastings and give all this magic madness a rest—maybe a long rest. I advise you to do the same.” He slams the door on his way out.
Crowley picks up one of the newspapers and folds it. A fly buzzes his face then lands on the desk. Crowley nonchalantly swats it to death.
He gets up and stands before the wall mirror just as he did when he took the first magical oath to himself. He again reverently places his hand on his reflection over his heart, then quickly pulls it away when he hears a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” he shouts through the door.
“Secret Masters,” a muffled voice answers.
“Very funny.” He opens the door. It is Mrs. Horatio and Dinky.
“Oh dear god! You two have linked up! What do you want?”
Dinky is the first to charge through the door uninvited. “We knew you were feeling glum, Alice.”
“A touch of ennui perhaps?” Mrs. H. adds as she sashays into the parlor.
Crowley is genuinely surprised. “And how, pray tell, could you possibly know I’m glum?”
“Because you’re not with us darling.” Mrs. H. touches Crowley’s cheek.
“Yes, and it’s a good thing, too! Where’s your one-legged colonel?”
“Shivering his timber at the Royal Military Infirmary, the dear. He’ll soon be off to Bedlam. It seems he also lost his mind in India.”
Dinky ignores this unpleasantness. “But we are going to a costume ball tonight, and you’re coming with us.”
“That’s right, darling.” Mrs. H. waves an embossed invitation in Crowley’s face. “At Devonshire House.”
“Don’t make me laugh! The last time we went to a ball . . .”
“See? We’ve made you feel better already.” Mrs. H. puckers out the words like she’s comforting a pet poodle.
“I’ll feel better when you two leave.”
Dinky flicks the dead fly off the newspaper and begins flipping through the pages. “Don’t turn away friends, my mountain god. Let two old chums be your magic for a while.”
Crowley returns to his writing table and nervously picks up his pen. “See here! I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m really in no mood to attend a costume ball. Go away, you two. It seems I’m dangerous to be around.”
Mrs. H. moves to the back of Crowley’s chair and starts massaging his shoulders and neck. “All right then, my poet. But at least allow us to pluck you from this gloomy flat for a little while. Come help us pick our costumes. You love dress-up.”
Crowley looks at his friends for a moment, then puts down his pen. Dinky breaks into a very toothy grin.
At the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal in Paris, MacGregor Mathers and Monsieur Babar face each other across the library’s front desk. Mathers’s left hand is bandaged.
“It has been a long time, monsieur.” Babar eyes Mathers’s bandaged hand. “I have been following your career with interest. You now live in Paris, do you not?”
“Monsieur Babar, I would like to look at the book once again, if I may.”
“But why? I have read your translation. It is excellent. I see no need . . .”
Mathers insists. “I need to . . . I just need to look at it, only for an hour or so. Please.”
Babar does not respond but turns and leads Mathers down to the basement and the mystic cabinet. He ceremonially unlocks it with the silver key, opens the mirrored doors, and stands aside to allow Mathers to approach.
Mathers reaches out his hands and tries to seize the book. He cannot make it budge.
Babar moves nearer. He speaks to Mathers in a calm and compassionate voice.
“We had great hopes for you, monsieur. But not all things are clearly seen. Your magical order is a great triumph. It has rung a bell that is heard on many planes and many dimensions. Indeed, you have changed worlds in ways you cannot possibly imagine.”
“We?” Mathers asks.
“It is we who called you to the book. We who called you to the work. But I am afraid, monsieur . . . you no longer stand between the darkness and the light.”
“But, I’m not evil. I’m good!” Mathers chokes out the words.
“But, monsieur, you are evil. We are all evil—each one of us— evil and good. It is what makes us human. It is what makes us divine. You have sadly exhausted all your strength clinging to what you thought was the Light. The Darkness had only wait for you to grow weary.”
Babar leads Mathers away from the open cabinet and to a chair.
“A lesson in balance, monsieur. To save yourself from imagined evil, you must also save yourself from imagined good.” Babar’s face becomes subtly more radiant and beautiful.
A third eye forms in the center of his forehead.
It opens and captures Mathers in its gaze.
“Someone else must now shoulder the burden of knocking the world off balance.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Babar.” The voice is that of Moina Mathers.
Babar smiles, but he does not immediately turn around. His third eye fades from his forehead. “Bonjour, madame. I’ve been expecting you.”
He turns and notices that Moina’s left hand is also bandaged. “Madame has injured herself. Please allow me to fetch you a fresh dressing.”
“That will not be necessary, Babar. You are correct. I have come to look at the book.”
At the same moment in London, Crowley, Dinky, and Mrs. H. casually stroll past the shops near Charing Cross Road. Crowley seems to be enjoying the lighthearted companionship.
As they round the corner, Dinky announces, “First stop . . . Cummings Costume Boutique. Oh look! It’s next door to that bookshop that sells your poetry.”
Crowley mumbles something under his breath and quickens his pace as he tries to pass by without Redway seeing him.
But Redway does see him and steps out onto the sidewalk. “Oh, Mr. Crowley?”
The three stop. Redway smiles pleasantly at Dinky and Mrs. H., then turns to Crowley. “Excuse me, Mr. Crowley, but might I have a word with you? It’s rather important. I’m sure your friends won’t mind if I borrow you for a moment or two.”
Mrs. H. smiles and gives Crowley mock permission to leave them. “Go on, darling. We’ll be next door. Meet us there when you’re finished. After all, Mr. Redway is kind enough to peddle your books.” Dinky and Mrs. H. continue on to Cumming’s.
“Mr. Redway, you once told me my life was in danger. Just what did you mean by that?”
“Mr. Crowley, first there is a book I would like to show you.”
Inside, Redway leads Crowley behind the counter and into a surprisingly large storage area.
Boxes are stacked against the left wall.
In the center of the room is a long work table supporting book binding equipment.
The far wall is covered by a large Indian tapestry depicting Shiva and Shakti locked in coitus.
Redway gently tugs at the right edge of the tapestry. It swings forward revealing a large cabinet—the exact duplicate of the magic cabinet in the basement of the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal.
Redway smiles proudly. “A beautiful piece of craftsmanship, is it not?”
Crowley lightly runs his fingers over the magical symbols and images. “Magnificent. It’s huge. How on earth did you get it in here?”
“I had help.”
“But you said you wanted to show me a book.”
“You’re looking at it, Mr. Crowley. The cabinet is the book: The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage.”
“Redway, I don’t understand.”
“In 1403, in the desert sands of Egypt, Abraham the Jew was taught the sacred magic by Abramelin, the greatest magician on earth.
Some say he was then over six hundred years old.
Abraham became his most talented pupil and went on to master the art so perfectly that eventually his powers transcended even those of his master.
“Knowing that only a small number magicians in the future would ever be bold enough—wise enough to safely use the magic, he devised a wondrous plan . . .
Monsieur Babar smiles at Moina and calmly waves his hand toward the cabinet. “There has been much interest in the book today. More, I think, than you might imagine.”
Mathers stands up. “Moina, don’t! Babar is right, this is all more—”
“Oh, shut up or get out! I’m sick of your whining!”
He sits.
Babar sweeps his hand toward the cabinet again. “Madame is welcome to remove the book herself. The doors are open.”
“Why must you keep it in that grotesque box? Really, Babar, the magical dramatics have become a bit childish, don’t you think?”
She moves directly to the cabinet and seizes the book with both hands. As she touches the cover, the wound on her bandaged left hand sears with pain.
Babar orders her, “Remove the book, if you can!”
In London, Mr. Redway continues to relate the tale of Abraham the Jew. “Abraham wrote the secrets of the sacred magic in a book.”
Crowley interrupts Redway. “Yes, yes, I know! Please, Mr. Redway, I’ve read the Mathers translation cover to cover. See here, man! I don’t see what all this is about.”
“As I said, the cabinet is the book, Mr. Crowley. At least the most vital part of the book. The original manuscript contained instructions for creation of this cabinet, something that was omitted from the French fragment Mathers translated.
“Upon his death, Abraham bequeathed the text to his second son, Lamech, an alchemist and master architect, who constructed the cabinet for the sole purpose of magically preserving and protecting the book. Upon its completion, he destroyed the drawings and instructions for its activation and use, trusting to the powers of the book to attract its future guardians.”