Fallen Angels . . . and Spirits of the Dark

by Robert Masello

  Next the flask had to be unsealed, in order to begin the feeding of the creature. This was done by adding a dose of human blood daily, and by keeping the contents at the constant temperature of a mare’s womb. After another forty weeks, if everything had been done right, you had a fully developed, well-proportioned human child, no longer transparent, though still very small. In time, he would grow to normal size. “It may be raised and educated,” Paracelsus counseled, “like any other child, until it grows older and is able to look after itself.”

  Some of the ancient philosophers, such as Zosimus of Greece, and magicians, such as Simon Magus, claimed to have been successful in the creation of a homunculus. But as a result, they were sometimes suspected of being homunculi themselves. Anyone who could pull off such a formidable task, the standard reasoning went, must be a supernatural creature himself.

  THE MANDRAKE

  Somewhat simpler to make than the homunculus, though not without its own problems, was the mannikin, or elf, created from the root of the mandrake plant. Properly cared for, this little gnome could give invaluable advice and great wealth; but if it was neglected or scorned, its owner could wind up dead.

  The mandrake is a humble plant of the Solanaceae family, along with henbane, belladonna, and tobacco. But it has an extraordinary history. Because of its thick, white roots, which are forked and roughly resemble the human trunk and legs, the mandrake has been invested with a whole host of supernatural properties. For centuries, it was thought to cure everything from madness to insomnia; its “apples” (the orange fruit that it produces) were considered an aphrodisiac and its root was used as a powerful talisman — so powerful that just acquiring a mandrake root was a deed requiring courage and a knowledge of the magical arts.

  As far back as in the writings of Pliny, in the first century A.D., the mandrake was approached with caution. Pliny advised anyone hoping to pull a mandrake root from the earth to stand with his back to the wind, mark three concentric circles around the plant with a sword, pour a libation, turn to the west, and then, with the sword, pry the plant loose. If these steps weren’t observed, he warned, the plant would use its forked legs to run away.

  Flavius Josephus, a Jewish authority on such matters (and a contemporary of Pliny’s), added something far more frightening to the formula: Josephus wrote that the plant shrieked when its roots were torn from the ground, and that the sound of this terrible cry could kill a man. Fortunately, he had a solution. He advised his herbalists to loosen the dirt around the plant, tie a string around the top of the root, then tie the other end of the string to a dog. Once the man was far enough away, he was to blow a hunting horn to call the dog, who would presumably respond to the call, pull the plant free of the soil, and die on the spot. Later accounts asserted that the mandrake could only be harvested at midnight, at a crossroads, beneath the gibbet where a man had been hanged.

  But why all this trouble to acquire a root? According to one common practice, the mandrake was used as something like a Voodoo doll; witches could dress it up and make it represent a person against whom they wished to direct their magic. Wherever they injured the mandrake, it was thought the person would be injured, too. In Germany, peasants added millet grains for eyes and took great care of their little mandrakes — bathing them, dressing them, tucking them in at night (sometimes in a coffin) — in order to consult them on important questions. In France, they were considered a kind of elf, called the main-de-gloire or magloire. Often they were stashed in secret cupboards, because possessing one could be dangerous on other counts, too: it could expose the owner to the charge of witchcraft. In 1630, three women in Hamburg were executed on this evidence, and in Orleans in 1603 the wife of a Moor was hanged for harboring a “mandrake-fiend,” purportedly in the shape of a female monkey.

  BLACK BOOKS

  Magic — specifically, the conjuration of spirits to do one’s bidding — was a very serious, extraordinarily complicated, and above all dangerous business. And no sorcerer would think to undertake it without a black book, or grimoire, at his side. In these grimoires (literally, grammars) were contained all the secrets of the black arts, the rules and rituals and prayers that the magician must faithfully perform; if he failed to follow the instructions properly, he could find himself suddenly at the mercy of whatever demon he had summoned from Hell.

  And demons were not known for their understanding.

  The oldest, and the most sought after, of all these grimoires was something known as The Key of Solomon. And no surprise — according to one legend, it had been written by the devils themselves. It was given to Solomon, King of Israel in the tenth century B.C., and kept hidden under his throne. A powerful magician, Solomon was considered a master of the occult world; it was even said he had harnessed demons to help in the building of the Temple in Jerusalem. The book came to be called a “key” after the lines of Matthew 16:19, in which Jesus says to Peter, “And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” The book was considered just such a key, an instrument for opening the doors to secret wisdom.

  Belphegor, an ingenious demon who seduces humans with wealth.

  Although references to the book can be found as early as the first century A.D., the oldest edition which still exists today, housed in the British Museum, is a Greek translation from perhaps the twelfth century. Many other editions, usually in French or Latin, were published in the 1700s.

  But what does the book contain? In language that is heavily influenced by astrological and cabalistic doctrine, the book sets out, in elaborate detail, all the steps that must be taken to summon spirits and force them to do as asked. It prescribes the fasting and purification rituals that the magician himself must first undergo before even attempting a conjuration. Then it goes on to explain how to choose the proper time and place; the robes, weapons, and pentacles which will be necessary; the incantations, the drawing of the magic circle (within which the magician will be safe), etc. Though the spirits may be summoned for any number of tasks, they were most commonly invoked to uncover and procure the secret treasures of the Earth.

  To that end, another book, also attributed to Solomon or his devils, was judged by some to be even more useful. Called the Lemegeton, or Lesser Key of Solomon, it was neatly divided into four parts. In the first, “Goetia” (or magical arts), it describes how to conjure up seventy-two chief devils and their respective ministers. In the second, “Theurgia Goetia,” it deals with spirits and their main characteristics; in the third, the “Pauline Art,” it enumerates the angels of the hours of the day and night, and the zodiacal signs; and in the fourth, the “Almadel,” it describes the angels who preside over the altitudes — as the directions north, south, east, and west were called — of the world. Like the so-called Greater Key, this one was purportedly buried under Solomon’s throne, and only discovered after his death when demons, perhaps knowing that much mischief would thus ensue, encouraged his courtiers to dig it up.

  THE BRAZEN VESSEL

  For Solomon, controlling the hordes of unseen spirits was not an impossible task: he not only had the Key to help him, but a magic ring that enabled him to give orders to angels, demons, and all the natural forces.

  But since he was aware that others might find this same task quite overwhelming, he used his magical powers to gather together seventy-two of the chief demons, which he then forced into a brass vessel. After sealing it tight, he hurled the vessel into a deep lake, where he hoped it would sink and be forgotten.

  But luck wasn’t with him. The Babylonians, legend has it, thought the vessel contained some valuable treasure, so they went on a fishing expedition, found it, and, of course, opened it. Just as in the story of Pandora’s box, the seventy-two demons, and the legions of their followers, flew out of the vessel and returned to their former places and business — except for Belial, who by one account set up shop in a graven im
age and in return for sacrifices and honors gave the people of the country oracles.

  Among these newly liberated demons were some of the most famous and powerful, Baal and Aguares, Barbatos and Amon, as well as many others of more limited renown. And each had his own peculiar talent or propensity. There was, for instance:

  Marbas, who customarily appears as a roaring lion, but who, if the magician requests, will happily assume human form. He can offer the same shape-changing ability to men. In addition, he can answer questions about anything hidden or secret, and cause — or cure, if he chooses — disease.

  Sytry, a great prince with the head of a leopard and the wings of a griffin. He stimulates passion between the sexes, in part by encouraging women to display themselves naked.

  Gomory, also skilled at procuring the love of women — particularly young women. In fact, Gomory, a prominent duke, appears as a beautiful woman himself, riding a camel and wearing a ducal crown.

  Lerajie, a powerful marquis, who appears as an archer in a green tunic, armed with bow and arrows. He stirs up battles among men and takes a special interest in arrow wounds — which he causes to putrefy.

  Glasyalabolas, a winged dog, who is the god of homicides. When not inciting men to murder, he can also be persuaded to teach the arts, the sciences, and the knack of invisibility.

  Caim, who looks at first like a blackbird, then transforms himself into a man wielding a sharp sword. When asked a question, he answers — though it is not entirely clear what this means — in burning ashes. Once of the Order of Angels, he likes to argue, and if he feels so disposed, he can impart the meaning in the songs of birds, the lowing of cattle, the barking of dogs, the babbling of a stream.

  MEPHISTOPHELES

  When summoned to Earth by the renowned Dr. Faustus, the demon Mephistopheles answered with a line from The Key of Solomon: “Why am I called? And what is your command?”

  Faust wanted quite a bit. A sixteenth-century scholar and dabbler in black magic, Faust wanted power and knowledge beyond anything he could find in the many books he consulted (even those dealing with the black arts). A doctor of divinity and medicine, he wanted the secrets that Nature would not yield, and the answers that philosophy and faith had not been able to provide. To that end, he had studied the books of occult lore, in Arabic, Greek, and Chaldean (the same books many of the clergy at that time studied). And when he had mastered the skills they taught, he went to the woods one night.

  There, between nine and ten o’clock, he stopped at a lonely spot where four roads met and drew three magical circles in the dirt — the innermost for himself, the outer for the demon who answered his summons. At first, his incantations appeared to have worked too well; he was assailed by a host of devils, who gibbered and railed at the perimeter of the magic circle, trying to terrify him into abandoning his experiment. But Faust persevered, and eventually, he was rewarded with a demon who agreed to do his bidding. That demon, whose name comes from the Greek for “he who does not like light,” was the melancholy but clever Mephistopheles.

  The pact they made was this: for a period of twenty-four years, Mephistopheles would serve Faust in all things, and supply him with whatever he desired. But when the term was over, Faust would give himself up, “body and soul,” to the devil. The contract was signed in Faust’s own blood.

  And Mephistopheles delivered. The doctor, who had always been a poor man, suddenly had untold riches at his disposal. His shabby clothing was replaced by silk and velvet finery, his house was filled with rare and valuable things, his table was laid with sumptuous foods and wines. Seven beautiful succubi were offered to him for his carnal desires. And his thirst for knowledge was at long last sated — in the batting of an eye, the demon escorted him anywhere in the world he wished to go, even into Heaven and Hell, opening all doors, revealing all secrets. The stories of the things Faust saw, and did, were told and retold for centuries.

  In one such story, he summoned the shade of Helen of Troy (an event immortalized by Christopher Marlowe in The Tragical History of Dr. Faustus with the lines, “Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?”). In another, it was the ghost of Alexander the Great he brought back to Earth, at the request of an emperor. For princes and their courts, he was said to have conjured up lavish banquets on golden plates, and castles with towers and gates and lakes — all of which then vanished in a flash of fire. And once, when ambushed by a troop of horsemen, he summoned up a regiment of cavalry of his own that routed and disarmed them.

  But time passed, relentlessly, and on the last night of his pact Faust invited many guests to his house for a great feast. It was then that he revealed the secret of his astonishing deeds. As midnight approached, he retired to his room, there to await the servant who was soon to be his master. Outside the house, a terrible storm arose, rain pelting down on the roof, wind howling around the windows. At the chiming of the clock, his guests heard a frightening commotion in his room, the sounds of a violent struggle. But none of them dared to enter.

  The next morning the body of Faust, torn and bloodied, was found cast on the ground some distance from the house — and his soul, as the bargain had dictated, now belonged to Mephistopheles.

  GILLES DE RAIS

  In October 1440, a French ecclesiastical court was convened for the trial of one of the country’s most powerful noblemen. The nobleman, it was charged, had “adored and sacrificed to spirits, conjured them and made others conjure them, and wished to make a pact with the said evil spirits, and by their means to have and receive, if he could, knowledge, power, and riches.” Like Faust, this nobleman had conspired to use occult practices to fulfill his own unnatural desires. But he had also practiced abominations that have ever since made his name synonymous with human depravity and excess. His name was Gilles de Rais.

  A handsome French lord who had once fought at the side of Joan of Arc, de Rais had inherited titles, lands, and fortunes that made him one of the richest noblemen in all of Europe. But he was a man of two natures — one bold and forthright, the other deceitful and corrupt — and in the end, it was his second nature that won out.

  Raised in seclusion and luxury, de Rais had a brilliant career as a young soldier, fighting against the English; his bravery earned him the title of Marshal of France, and he was accorded the rare honor of wearing the royal fleur-de-lys. But at twenty-eight, he retired to his castles, his vast land holdings, and a new career . . . as alchemist, demon worshipper, and mass murderer.

  Great as his fortune was, de Rais squandered it at an alarming rate, until he was gradually forced to begin selling off some of his properties, thereby diminishing his family’s power and domain. To make up for the increasing shortfall, de Rais sought out the help of alchemists, with whom he believed he could find the way to convert base metals to gold. One of the men he recruited was a Florentine priest named Francesco Prelati, with whose help he sought to discover the Philosopher’s Stone (the secret material necessary for the transmutation of metals). But after many costly and failed experiments, Prelati told de Rais he knew another way to secure untold riches — and that was to conjure up the Devil himself.

  De Rais was wary; he had no intention of sacrificing his immortal soul. But Prelati assured him that the Devil could be propitiated by other means. Prelati also claimed that he had gone into the woods one night and summoned up the Devil, who asked to be addressed thereafter by the name Baron. The Devil had promised him bars of gold if suitable respect and sacrifices were made. The sacrifices included the blood, bones, hands, and eyes of murdered children.

  For de Rais, these were easy to come by.

  For several years, scores of children had disappeared in the vicinity of his castles. Boy and girls, the prettier the better, were reportedly lured into his fortresses, never to be seen again. Despite the rumors, it was nearly impossible to press charges or prove anything against a peer of the realm. It was only after de Rais attacked a member of the clergy that the Bishop of N
antes finally took heed and moved against him. And it was then that the awful story came out.

  De Rais had modeled himself on the rulers of ancient Rome, whose barbarous perversions he had read about in the illuminated manuscripts of his family’s library. “I found a Latin book on the lives and customs of the Roman Caesars by a learned historian called Suetonius,” he later confessed. “The said book was ornamented with pictures, very well painted, in which were seen the manners of these pagan emperors, and I read in this fine history how Tiberius, Caracalla and other Caesars sported with children and took singular pleasure in martyring them. Upon which I desired to imitate the said Caesars and the same evening I began to do so following the pictures in the book.” By some accounts, de Rais tortured, mutilated, and then murdered over 100 children before he was stopped. He kept some of the prettiest heads as relics.

  At his trial, dressed all in black, he admitted to his countless crimes, in full and lurid detail. At one point, his confession became so horrible that the presiding bishop went up to the crucifix that hung behind the judges and draped a veil over it; these abominations were too great to be spoken of before the holy icon. When he was done with the list of his atrocities, de Rais begged for forgiveness from God, the Church, and the parents of the children he had killed. The court, in return for his not recanting the confession, afforded him the privilege of being completely strangled before his body was burned on a pyre with two men convicted of acting as his conspirators.

  Prelati’s fate is unclear — by some accounts, he too was burned; by others, he was briefly imprisoned and then released on orders from the Duke of Anjou.