“Help me!”
Theodor Gärtner turns and beckons me to follow him.
It is only now that my senses wake to the scene around me. We are in a chamber in a tower. In the corner is a massive fireplace and in front of it the large stove usual in alchymical laboratories. All round the room are shelves on which, in neat order, stand the tools and vessels of that high art.
Is it John Dee’s laboratory? Slowly understanding dawns upon me: I am “on the other side”, in the realm of first causes. This chamber is so like the earthly one and at the same time unlike it – in the same way as the face of the child resembles the old man’s. Fearfully I ask:
“Tell me true, my friend – am I dead?”
Theodor Gärtner hesitates a moment, gives a sly smile and an ambiguous answer:
“On the contrary! Now you are really alive!” He is about to pass out of the room and motions me to accompany him.
He holds the door open, and as I go past him I have the same experience as before when the room seemed both familiar and new: I feel as if I have seen his face – long, long before this life. But the scene outside prevents me from musing on this impression. We cross the castle courtyard. There is no sign of decay, no sign at all of the ruin I knew. Nor, however carefully I look, can I find any signs of hot springs and the stone well-head over them. In my surprise I cannot restrain a questioning glance at my guide. He smiles, nods and explains:
“Elsbethstein is one of earth’s ancient stigmata, a place where the springs of earthly fate well up. But the springs that you saw were only a sign that we have returned to take possession once more of what has always been ours by right. The hot springs, which men wanted to tame to serve their greed, have already dried up. All this around us is invisible to men; they have eyes – and cannot see.”
I look about me in astonishment. The walls of the great hall, formerly open to the sky, are covered with a high hipped roof; towers and look-outs are crowned with fine slates. And it does not look at all new or restored; it is all covered with the patina of gentle ageing.
“Your place will be here if ... if we stay together.” Theodor Gärtner gives a brief wave of the hand and turns away. In spite of his unconcerned manner a dark cloud of fear settles on my breast.
Then my friend leads me to the old garden between the keep and the outer ring of walls.
In the far distance I can see a sunlit river and broad, fruitful fields and meadows spread out between gentle slopes, as quiet and peaceful as if it had never known change. But within me the garden and the distant view stirs up uneasy memories of primordial elemental forces behind the visible world. I have a keen, almost painful sense of having seen them before. I stop abruptly and clutch Theodor Gärtner by the hand:
“But this is Mortlake Castle, as I saw it in the coal scrying glass! And yet ... it is not the same; it is a shimmering image contained within Elsbethstein, within the ruin above the river of which you are Lord. – And you are not just Theodor Gärtner, you are also ...”
With a happy laugh he puts his hand to my lips and leads me back into the tower.
Then I am alone. For how long? I cannot say. When I look back to this period of solitary peace I feel as if, in some way I cannot comprehend, I had taken root in my native soil after an absence of centuries.
As I look back I have no sense of the passage of time. Later I do distinguish night and day, for I remember the sun once shining down on the magic circle of our conversation, and once it was dark and scented candles cast huge shadows onto high, strangely shifting walls. – –
It was probably the third time that evening fell on Elsbethstein when Theodor Gärtner interrupted our quiet conversation. Casually, as if it were some trifling matter, he remarks:
“Now it is time for you to hold yourself ready.”
I start. A vague fear rises from the pit of my stomach.
“You mean ... that is ...?” I stammer.
“Three such days would have been enough for Samson to let his hair grow again! Look within yourself. Your strength is renewed!” Theodor Gärtner’s open and completely unworried look immediately transmits a marvellous calm to my nerves. Without understanding what I am doing, I follow his instructions and close my eyes for meditation. Scarcely have I done so than my inner eye sees the Baphomet above me, and the white cold light of the crystal blinds me.
From that point on I am calm and ready to accept my fate, whether it lead me to victory or cast me down before the eyes of the steadfast.
Quietly I ask:
“What must I do?”
“Do? – Do what you must.”
“How can I?”
“In the realm where your destiny is decided you do not ask to know. You must act without knowing.”
“Act without knowing what I must do? That ...”
“That is the most difficult part.” Theodor Gärtner stands up, shakes me by the hand and says, as if his mind is on other things:
“The moon is above the horizon. – Take the dagger that you have won back. Go down into the park. There you will meet with one who would drive you away from Elsbethstein. If you step through the outer ring of walls you will never find your way back to Elsbethstein and we will never see each other again. – But I hope it will not end in that way. Go now. That is all I have to say to you.” He turns from me and does not look back as he strides off into the darkness and disappears behind the flickering candles. I think I hear a door close in the distance. Then it is deathly quiet around me; I can hear my heart beating wildly.
The moon has just risen above the castle roof, opposite the great window.
I am in the garden, clutching the dagger tight in my hand, although I do not know what use I am to put it to. I gaze at the stars. They hover in the still air with a clear light, not flickering at all, and I can physically sense this imperturbable calm of the cosmos settling on me. My mind is empty, relaxed – unquestioning.
“Magic is to act without knowing.” The significance of these words of my friend flows through me and brings an immense calm.
How long I stood there I do not know; the meadow seemed spellbound by the moonlight. In the distance – or nearby, it is difficult to tell in the emerald half-light – is the dense, black mass of a group of huge trees.
Suddenly a wavering glow approaches from the trees.
It is like a thin mist rendered translucent by the fluctuating moonlight. My eyes fix on the apparition. It is a figure stepping lightly through the bushes, now pausing a moment, now moving more rapidly – it is the same figure I once glimpsed far off through the shimmering midday heat haze: regal, mysterious, majestic – it is the long awaited Mistress of Elsbethstein, the enigmatic Queen Elizabeth.
And as if drawn by my burning desire, the apparition approaches; all remembrance of the purpose of my presence here in the nocturnal meadow has been erased from my mind in an instant. Inwardly rejoicing, and with a heart-splitting intensity which I am only half conscious of, I hurry towards her, then hesitate for fear the fair apparition might withdraw at my approach, evaporate into the air, turn out to be a hallucination.
But she does not disappear.
She hesitates when I hesitate, hurries on when I hurry, and at last she stands before me in all her majesty – the Mother, John Dee’s goddess, destined for me from beyond the bonds of blood. Her smile promises the fulfilment of primordial longings.
She spreads out her arms and smiles and beckons me to follow; her slim, silvery hand lightly touches the dagger in mine and my fingers slacken their grip to give her the gift that is her due.
But at that moment another radiance than that of the moon flashes in the sky above me. Instinctively I know the Baphomet is there and the crown jewel. It does not blind me, but bathes everything in a cool, clear, sharp light. A smile flits across the features of the mysterious Lady close in front of my face, but I sense the secret struggle between this smile, promising unknown delight for aeons to come, and the icy radiance of the crystal above me. At that fleeti
ng shadow of an exultant smile my spirit checks in its headlong flight for an infinitesimal, angel’s wing-beat of time – and I awake from my trance and see that my vision has thrown off the shackles of space and that I can see both before and behind, like the double-faced Baphomet. I see before me Dame World with her tempting smile and the mask stolen from the Holy Lady – and I see her from behind, ripped open from the nape of her neck to the soles of her feet, her whole body teeming with vipers, toads, worms and loathesome vermin. And whilst from the front her whole figure breathes the sweet fragrance and majesty of the Goddess, from the side she keeps turned away from me comes the stench of rotting flesh, filling the soul with nameless horror at the ultimate mystery of decay. –
My fingers grip the dagger more tightly and my eye is bright and my heart of good cheer. My words to the ghost are gentle and friendly:
“Go, Isaïs, I dismiss you from this place. You will not deceive one of Hywel Dda’s line a second time with the form of our chosen mistress. Give up and be satisfied that once in the park of Mortlake Castle you prevailed. That error has been expiated.”
And while I am still speaking a sudden gust of wind moans through the grass and the moon disappears behind leaden clouds. At about knee level a grimacing face is blown hither and thither across the meadow, baring its teeth and glowering at me in raging fury; by the red beard streaming in the wind I recognise John Dee’s comrade and first tempter, Bartlett Greene.
A wild dance begins: with lightning speed Black Isaïs changes form, each one more seductive than the other, more naked, more shameless in her desperation – and with each transformation she loses more of her potency as she descends to the pitiful wheedling of a common whore.
Then the meadow is at peace and the air around me still and above me the clear light of the stars. And I look and see that I am less than one step from the little gate in the wall and the path that leads steeply down and away from Elsbethstein.
And only then do I realise how close I was to that boundary which, according to Theodor Gärtner’s words, eternally separates Elsbethstein from the world of Black Isaïs. For although I imagined I was standing still, the demon had drawn me to her and it was only at the last moment that I was held back and saved by the grace of the Baphomet. Thanks be to him that I have been found worthy! – –
I see Theodor Gärtner once again – or is it my assistant Gardner? They seem to have become one man who calls me brother.
I hear him speak, and although many of his words are drowned in the upsurge of exultation within me, yet I can understand all that he says and commands. With an inner eye I see the golden chain of the creatures of light stretching out in front of me, and one link is opened to join with me, the new link. And I know: this is no symbolic rite reflecting a higher reality, such as those performed as “mysteries” by men in the shadow realm of earth; this is living, creative, life-giving action in another world. – “You will be called, chosen, accepted, John Dee!” – the song of joy pulsates with the steady rhythm of my blood.
“Spread out your arms, o upright man!”
I spread my arms wide.
Immediately hands appear from the right and from the left which grasp mine and I am filled with contentment as the circuit is closed. At the same time I feel deep within me the reason for this contentment: anyone who is part of the chain is invulnerable; any blow that is struck at him, any affliction that is visited upon him strikes countless others in the chain at the same time. And so all the power in the blow, all the weight of the affliction, all poison, physical and spiritual, is warded off with a thousandfold strength ... Whilst I am still exulting in the joy of eternal belonging, eternal union, a voice rings out in the hall saying:
“Lay aside your pilgrim’s garments.”
I happily obey. The clothes I wore on my pilgrimage are still scorched from the fire in my earthly house; they peel away from me. – A brief moment of surprise and reflection: that is how it should be at journey’s end, no matter where the journey led. The clothes of Princess Shotokalungin also peeled away ...
At that moment I am struck a gentle blow on the forehead, as if from a light hammer. It does not hurt, indeed, it is a pleasant sensation, for suddenly rays of light spring from the back of my head, endless rays of light that fill the sky with stars ... and to look up into this sea of stars is bliss.
Consciousness returns, hesitantly, against its will almost.
I am wrapped in white vestments; a beam of light strikes my face from below; I look down and see that my habit, too, bears a glittering golden rose on the breast.
My friend Gärtner is by me and all around in the high, spectral hall is a soft humming, as of swarms of bees.
Radiant white figures surround me, approaching from afar. The humming becomes clearer, more rhythmical, more vibrant. A dark melody breaks into words:
Men of the Rose are we,
Chosen of old.
Darkness repelled have we;
Light shineth gold.
Forged is the Spear for thee,
Bright is its blade;
Danger it wards from thee,
Comes to thine aid.
Joined in the Ring, now we
Open the Chain;
Forge the new link, then we
Close it again.
Hail to the victor who
Set himself free.
We raise our anthem, to
Worship with thee.
How many friends are with you! I think to myself; and in the night of fear you did not know where to look for aid!
For the first time I feel the desire to share my feelings, a desire that weaves itself into the delicate veil of melancholy that once more surrounds me and whose origins I cannot fathom.
But, as I sink into these tentative reflections, Gärtner takes me by the hand and leads me back, by paths I do not remember, to the garden and the low gate into the courtyard. Then my old friend stops and points to the flowerbeds that give off a warm scent:
“I am Gärtner; I am Gardner. That is my profession, although you saw in me the chemist, the alchymist. This is only one rose of many that I have lifted from the rubble and planted in the open beds.”
We step through the gate in the wall and stop in front of the tower.
My friend continues:
“You were always versed in the art of making gold” – a smile crosses his features, indulgent and at the same time with a gentle hint of mocking reproach that makes me cast my eyes down – “and so we have chosen for you a task that will allow you to do what your heart has longed for from the very beginning.”
We climb the tower. It is the tower of Elsbethstein and yet it is not. Slowly my spirit accustoms itself to the interplay of symbols and higher meaning in this realm where I now belong, in my new home.
We climb the broad and darkly gleaming porphyry steps of the spiral staircase to the familiar alchymist’s laboratory. I am strangely moved to find all this splendour where once stood the narrow old decaying wooden ladder. The laboratory is an immense vault; the glittering stars follow their courses round the dark blue walls; the roof is the night sky itself and far below on the earth the forges of labour glow.
The hearth glows with creative fire. The whole world seems to be reflected in it. Showering sparks hiss, darkness flares into light, colour pales, clouds of smoke thicken and disperse: terrible forces of destruction, chained and imprisoned in iron vats, seethe and bubble infernally – the wisdom invested in the retorts and furnaces holds them captive.
“This is your workplace; create the gold you have longed for – but the gold of the sunlight. He who increases the light is one of the noblest of our brotherhood.”
I am instructed. The wisdom spreads around me like the radiance of the sun. Its glory destroys all my puny earthly knowledge. One last question still buzzes round my mind like a tiny will-o’-the-wisp:
“Tell me, my friend, before the questions cease for good: who was ... who is the Angel of the West Window?”
; “An echo, that is all. It was right when it said it was immortal; it was immortal because it had never lived; if it had never lived, it could never know death. All knowledge and power, all good and evil that came from it, came from you. It was the sum of all questions, wisdom and magic that was hidden within you, but that you did not know you possessed. Each of you contributed to that sum and each of you marvelled at the “Angel” as at some divine revelation. It was the Angel of the West Window because the West is the green realm of the dead past. There are many such “Angels” in the realm of growth and the realm of decay. It would be better for mankind if no such angels crossed into the world, but there are paths of hope that lead astray. Behind your Angel of the West Window was Bartlett Greene. Now he has ceased to be since your questioning has ceased.” – Gärtner turns back to the forge – “The ancients said: everything is a vinculum, a link in the chain. One of our brotherhood had called this “everything” an image. – These vats only seem to boil. These tools hammer away – but nothing happens. This globe here: merely a vinculum. When your ignorance is complete, then you will know how to release the gold this apparatus contains. Then you can touch one spot on the earth with your finger and streams of forgiveness will spread through that spot from the warmth of your finger; and whirlwinds of destruction, like spiritual volcanoes, will descend on that place from the cold of your purifying hand. So guard your fire well! Remember: men will impute all your deeds to their God and call up angels from the West. Many a one who was not called, but still trod the path, found himself thus translated into the dead form of an “Angel”.
“And – that – is – my – task?!” I stammer, trembling at the burden of responsibility.
Calmly the adept replies:
“That is the greatness of mankind in every rebirth: Not to know any more, but to act. God has never broken his word nor diminished it one iota.”
“How should I weave fate without mastery of the art or knowledge of the pattern?!” – that is the last outburst of despair from the cowardice that sits deep in every human breast.
The Angel of the West Window Page 40