by J H Brennan
The conspirators then fell to discussing luck pennies, which were supposed to reproduce themselves when the relevant ceremony was performed over them. Was there, they wondered, a chance that the spirit might exchange luck pennies for ordinary pennies if they brought a few along? They decided it would be worth a try despite the fact that, according to Weber’s grimoires, each participant had to have a specific number of coins, carried in a bag of a particular material, purchased at a given price. Heichler agreed to make the bags, which he gave to his wife who, in turn, sold them back to him and his three colleagues at the specified price.
In the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Gessner and Weber called to collect Zenner. But now that the ordeal was close at hand, Zenner was beginning to take fright. He urged his companions to change the venue to somewhere less isolated and suggested using an empty house of which he was the caretaker. The three men went off to inspect the premises, but quickly discovered it unsuitable. There were no shutters on the windows; besides which, Zenner had mislaid his key. Consequently, armed with lanterns and protective amulets, they set out for the vineyard hut. Before entering, Weber penciled the word Tetragrammaton on the door.
The three men went inside to discover that Heichler had left them some coals for their brazier and a tallow candle. The brazier itself was makeshift: they used a flowerpot and the fire gave off so much fumes that they were forced to open the door. Weber drew a magical circle on the ceiling, then began to read the conjuration from The Key to Faust’s Threefold Harrowing of Hell. After a time he began to feel dizzy, then fell unconscious across the table. His last memory was of his two companions regarding him curiously.
The following day, Christmas, the tailor Heichler made his way to the hut to find out what the other three were doing. Gessner and Zenner were both dead. Weber was alive, but apparently insane. He could not speak. When aroused from his torpor, the best he could produce was grunts and gibbering. Heichler called in the authorities, who stationed three watchmen at the hut to guard the corpses until they could be fully examined. The next morning, one of the watchmen was dead and the other two were unconscious.
The judicial inquiry from which this account is drawn centered on the fate of Weber and his associates, so there is little information about the death of the watchman. But the record had a great deal to say about the would-be magicians. The body of the unconscious Weber was covered with marks and bruises. Zenner’s corpse was in an even more appalling state: it was covered in huge weals and scratches. His tongue protruded horribly and there were many individual burns on his face and neck. No instrument was found in or near the hut that could have explained such injuries. The only source of fire was the flowerpot brazier, but this was undisturbed and the corpse nowhere near it.
Accounts like these raise the question of how conjurations are actually carried out, a problematic investigation since, while instructive grimoires abound, there are very few detailed first-person accounts of what really happens when the instructions are put into practice. Nonetheless, the record of one such operation has come down to us, made especially interesting since it was written by a Victorian magician whose works remain required reading for Western occultists to the present day. More interesting still, Alphonse Louis Constant, the French author better known by his pseudonym Eliphas Lévi, was, for most of his life, a theoretical magician only. His account of the evocation of Apollonius of Tyana is the only recorded instance of his ever having undertaken a practical magical experiment:
In the spring of the year 1854 I had undertaken a journey to London, that I might escape from internal disquietude and devote myself, without interruption, to science. I had letters of introduction to persons of eminence who were anxious for revelations from the supernatural world. I made the acquaintance of several and discovered in them, amidst much that was courteous, a depth of indifference or trifling. They asked me forthwith to work wonders, as if I were a charlatan, and I was somewhat discouraged, for, to speak frankly, far from being inclined to initiate others into the mysteries of Ceremonial Magic, I had shrunk all along from its illusions and weariness. Moreover, such ceremonies necessitated an equipment which would be expensive and hard to collect. I buried myself therefore in the study of the transcendent Kabalah, and troubled no further about English adepts, when, returning one day to my hotel, I found a note awaiting me. This note contained half of a card, divided transversely, on which I recognized at once the seal of Solomon. It was accompanied by a small sheet of paper, on which these words were penciled: “Tomorrow, at three o’clock, in front of Westminster Abbey, the second half of this card will be given you.” I kept this curious assignation. At the appointed spot I found a carriage drawn up, and as I held unaffectedly the fragment of card in my hand, a footman approached, making a sign as he did so, and then opened the door of the equipage. It contained a lady in black, wearing a thick veil; she motioned to me to take a seat beside her, showing me at the same time the other half of the card. The door closed, the carriage drove off, and the lady raising her veil I saw that my appointment was with an elderly person, having grey eyebrows and black eyes of unusual brilliance, strangely fixed in expression. “Sir,” she began, with a strongly marked English accent, “I am aware that the law of secrecy is rigorous amongst adepts; a friend of Sir B—L—4 who has seen you, knows that you have been asked for phenomena, and that you have refused to gratify such curiosity. You are possibly without the materials; I should like to show you a complete magical cabinet, but I must exact beforehand the most inviolable silence. If you will not give me this pledge upon your honour, I shall give orders for you to be driven to your hotel.” I made the required promise and keep it faithfully by not divulging the name, position or abode of this lady, whom I soon recognized as an initiate, not exactly of the first order, but still of a most exalted grade. We had a number of long conversations, in the course of which she insisted always upon the necessity of practical experience to complete initiation. She showed me a collection of magical vestments and instruments, lent me some rare books which I needed; in short, she determined me to attempt at her house the experiment of a complete evocation, for which I prepared during a period of twenty-one days, scrupulously observing the rules laid down in the thirteenth chapter of the “Ritual.”
The preliminaries terminated on 2nd July; it was proposed to evoke the phantom of the divine Apollonius and interrogate it upon two secrets, one which concerned myself and one which interested the lady. She had counted on taking part in the evocation with a trustworthy person, who, however, proved nervous at the last moment, and, as the triad or unity is indispensable for Magical Rites, I was left to my own resources. The cabinet prepared for the evocation was situated in a turret; it contained four concave mirrors and a species of altar having a white marble top, encircled by a chain of magnetized iron. The Sign of the Pentagram, as given in the fifth chapter of this work, was graven and gilded on the white marble surface; it was inscribed also in various colours upon a new white lambskin stretched beneath the altar. In the middle of the marble table there was a small copper chafing-dish, containing charcoal of alder and laurel wood; another chafing-dish was set before me on a tripod. I was clothed in a white garment, very similar to the alb of our catholic priests, but longer and wider, and I wore upon my head a crown of vervain leaves, intertwined with a golden chain. I held a new sword in one hand, and in the other the “Ritual.” I kindled two fires with the requisite prepared substances, and began reading the evocations of the “Ritual” in a voice at first low, but rising by degrees. The smoke spread, the flame caused the objects upon which it fell to waver, then it went out, the smoke still floating white and slow about the marble altar; I seemed to feel a quaking of the earth, my ears tingled, my heart beat quickly. I heaped more twigs and perfumes on the chafing-dishes, and as the flame again burst up, I beheld distinctly, before the altar, the figure of a man of more than normal size, which dissolved and vanished away. I recommenced the evocations and placed myself within a circle which I had
drawn previously between the tripod and the altar. Thereupon the mirror which was behind the altar seemed to brighten in its depth, a wan form was outlined therein, which increased and seemed to approach by degrees. Three times, and with closed eyes, I invoked Apollonius. When I again looked forth there was a man in front of me, wrapped from head to foot in a species of shroud, which seemed more grey than white. He was lean, melancholy and beardless, and did not altogether correspond to my preconceived notion of Apollonius. I experienced an abnormally cold sensation, and when I endeavoured to question the phantom I could not articulate a syllable. I therefore placed my hand upon the Sign of the Pentagram, and pointed the sword at the figure, commanding it mentally to obey and not alarm me, in virtue of the said sign. The form thereupon became vague, and suddenly disappeared. I directed it to return, and presently felt, as it were, a breath close by me; something touched my hand which was holding the sword, and the arm became immediately benumbed as far as the elbow. I divined that the sword displeased the spirit, and I therefore placed it point downwards, close by me, within the circle. The human figure reappeared immediately, but I experienced such an intense weakness in all my limbs, and a swooning sensation came so quickly over me, that I made two steps to sit down, whereupon I fell into a profound lethargy, accompanied by dreams, of which I had only a confused recollection when I came again to myself. For several subsequent days my arm remained benumbed and painful. The apparition did not speak to me, but it seemed that the questions I had designed to ask answered themselves in my mind. To that of the lady an interior voice replied—Death!—it was concerning a man about whom she desired information. As for myself, I sought to know whether reconciliation and forgiveness were possible between two persons who occupied my thoughts, and the same inexorable echo within me answered—Dead!
I am stating facts as they occurred, but I would impose faith on no one. The consequence of this experience on myself must be called inexplicable. I was no longer the same man; something of another world had passed into me; I was no longer either sad or cheerful, but I felt a singular attraction towards death, unaccompanied, however, by any suicidal tendency. I analysed my experience carefully, and, notwithstanding a lively nervous repugnance, I repeated the same experiment on two further occasions, allowing some days to elapse between each. There was not, however, sufficient difference between the phenomena to warrant me in protracting a narrative which is perhaps already too long. But the net result of these two additional evocations was for me the revelation of two kabalistic secrets which might change, in a short space of time, the foundations and laws of society at large, if they came to be known generally.5
Cellini’s story of the Coliseum conjuration was not written for publication, nor for any form of personal aggrandizement. It formed a part of his private papers and was only discovered after his death. The tragedy at Jena was recorded in a judicial inquiry that had no agenda other than to establish the truth behind some bizarre deaths. Dr. E. M. Butler, formerly Schröder Professor of German at the University of Cambridge, went on record with the statement that:
The circumstantial evidence is so realistic, even including a diagram of the scene; the account is so sober; the admissions of the one remaining witness ring so true; the judicial procedure was so meticulous; the strict adherence to known facts so close; that, together with the absence of torture, they positively command belief.6
Although Lévi did publish an account of his experiences, there seems little indication of self-aggrandizement here either. By that time, his reputation was already well-established, as was his extreme reluctance to involve himself in demonstrations of the magical arts. He once said, “To practice magic is to be a quack; to know magic is to be a sage.” On this occasion, he seems to have been persuaded to “quackery” by the mysteriously romantic circumstances of the unnamed lady’s invitation.
In all three cases, there is no reason to conclude the reports are anything other than accurate accounts of unusual human experiences, although how we should interpret these experiences remains for the moment an open question. Crowley’s demon in the desert, Cellini’s frightening encounter, and the Jena tragedy all raise the question of whether infernal experiences are still possible in the modern era, again with essentially the same answer. The reports of America’s Ed and Lorraine Warren, whose investigations of more than three thousand paranormal disturbances included the case that subsequently became famous as the Amityville Horror, are only some among many that attest to demonic experiences up to the present day.7 Crowley was not above producing fiction designed to inflate his reputation as a magician, but we must remember that the description of what happened in the Egyptian desert was penned by Victor Neuburg, an altogether more modest and more reliable character.
We need also to examine our own preconceptions of what spirits can and cannot do, preconceptions that can be alive and well even in those who do not actually believe in spirits. They arise from a consensus picture formed by the particular emphases given by the authors of various contact reports. But the consensus is not the whole of the picture. Sometimes spirits prove capable of things seldom mentioned in the literature that has accrued around them. They may, for example, do more than make contact; they may elect to share, more or less permanently, the same mind-space of those they wish to speak to. More peculiar still, they may actually be donated by one contact to another.
22. SPIRIT TRANSFERS, SPIRIT POWERS
DOLORES ASHCROFT-NOWICKI WAS BORN IN JERSEY, ONE OF BRITAIN’S Channel Islands, into a family with a marked interest in Spiritualism and the occult. She had early ambitions to become an actress and took RADA (Royal Academy of Dramatic Art) training, but her professional career was destined to follow a very different course. The turning point came when she joined an esoteric organization called the Society of the Inner Light and there became acquainted with the man who was to be her spiritual mentor, Walter Ernest Butler.
Butler was elderly when Dolores met him, but a career in the Far East had presented him with the opportunity of studying Oriental occultism, which he combined with training in the Western Esoteric Tradition, a body of doctrines and techniques rooted in Alexandrian hermeticism and the Jewish Qabalah.
In the mid-1960s internal disagreements in the Society of the Inner Light led to the resignation of several members, some of whom went on to establish organizations of their own. Among them was a couple named John and Mary Hall who ran a secondhand book service in Toddington, near Cheltenham, England. In tandem with the author Gareth Knight, another member of the Inner Light, the Halls launched a mail-order course in psychospiritual and magical training that they distributed as part of their business. With the exception of the first six lessons written by Gareth Knight, the course was penned by Butler, who eventually took over the course administration when it became so popular that it was interfering with the Halls’ other business. In the early 1970s, copyright was reassigned to him and he gradually began to transform it into a loosely knit esoteric school. The designation was changed from Helios, named originally for the Halls’ book service, to Servants of the Light. In later life Butler went on to write several books1 on magic and psychism, some of which became classics of their genre. One of these works was dedicated to his own teacher. He gave no clue to his readers that the teacher was not human.
It was some time into their relationship before Dolores learned this either. Butler was cautious about discussing something that, as the general mind-set of the day, would likely mark him as a lunatic. But the time came when he told Dolores that the Helios course had been dictated to him by someone he called the Opener. He repeated that the Opener was a spirit contact, but declined further information. Butler believed the Opener to be ancient Egypt’s Opener of the Ways, the deity Upuaut. Although some scholars describe Upuaut as a wolf-god, others believe him to be identical to Anubis, the jackal-headed Egyptian god of the dead. Butler was among the latter. He used the names Opener, Upuaut, and Anubis interchangeably.
Ernest Butler was
diabetic—a surprisingly common condition among psychics—and in later life the condition worsened to such an extent that he lost circulation in one leg and had to have an amputation.2 But even before then he worried about who was going to take over his developing school when he was gone. He asked his spirit contact about it and was told that a successor would be brought to him. He would know it was the right person because he or she would give Butler the secret name of his spirit contact—which Butler knew—and also that he or she would tell Butler they would take over his work when he died.
By what must seem a long-odds coincidence, around the time this was happening, Dolores Ashcroft-Nowicki found herself bombarded by references to the Egyptian god Anubis. She would open a book at random and there would be a picture or a reference. She would see his image as a decorative motif. She even began to dream about him. It happened so often, she began to wonder what on earth was going on and determined to ask her spiritual mentor about it at the first available opportunity.
Dolores and her husband, Michael, flew to Southampton where they collected Butler and took him to London for a meeting of the Inner Light Society. All three of them lunched together in an Indian restaurant at the top of Haverstock Hill. It was a fine day and afterward they sat outside on a bench. The two men were engaged in conversation when Dolores—who had had experiences of psychism since childhood—became aware she had been joined by an Anubis figure. At first it was no more than a feeling and she tried to ignore it, but the feeling intensified, then became a vivid inner vision, almost a waking dream. Eventually she broke into the conversation and asked Butler if he knew anything about Anubis. He was so startled that he dropped his pipe, which shattered on the pavement.