Bernard now felt a little safer within the magic circle of protection, so he began to visualise a green mist of energy spiralling upwards from the well and growing in power like a glowing tornado. This he then pictured spreading out like a widening ripple that touched, surrounded and embraced the churches featured in the Black Alchemist’s Ring of Darkness ritual. This, he felt, would help to restore and harmonise the subtle energy fields disturbed and damaged by their adversary’s activities the previous week.
Even more confident, Bernard attempted to send out a few psychic thunderbolts in the direction of the Black Alchemist, a little foolhardiness having now overtaken his senses. In his mind’s eye he saw green fireballs reaching the black cowled figure, who remained seated in a wood. As soon as he had done this, the overwhelming presence of his own spirit guide appeared to warn him not to use unnecessary retaliation.
Then came another disconcerting incident. Bernard saw a pair of agitated hands reaching towards his neck from directly behind him. He could actually see them out the corner of his eyes. Their presence was too strong to ignore, and it left him frozen to the spot, unable to move. He could not even bring himself to turn around to see what was going on. Mercifully, the sensation then faded, leaving him at a loss to understand what had happened, aside from the feeling that it had been an unsuccessful attempt by someone, or something, to break the circle of protection.
Once again, an air of calmness returned to the well hollow. The flames of the two green candles still flickered about in the darkness, although the smoke rising from the incense burner had now ceased.
The stillness was then interrupted once more as Bernard again felt the growing presence of his spirit guide. The Elizabethan alchemist now wished to convey a message of some sort. So, putting pen to paper, Bernard’s right hand leapt into an unstoppable bout of scrawled, almost illegible, automatic writing:
I used my lifetime to perfect the Art. Many they called me a soulfleur.13 The way is the way of the ancients. An abusing of the four grades of heat and the sacred laws of the Art. I tell you that no interest is shown [by your adversary] in the teaching of the final [Philosopher’s] Stone with its accompanying knowledge of the mystics of old.
It is found in the country, in the town, in all things created by God. Yet it is despised by all. Rich and poor handle it, but not one prizes it. Next to the soul it is the most precious thing upon earth and has the power to pull down kings and princes. It is cast away and rejected by all.14 From black to white to red. Numerous varied are the steps along the path. Some say 7, some 12, some 20. Some even more. The [Philosopher’s] Stone is one, the medicine one, the vessel one. One the operation and one the method. The great magistery, I say.
The laws of the Art are capable of great variance, but the most successful of the works and those who formulated those reasonings were only interested in finding their own Red Stone/God by overcoming the terrors and trials of the mind. The dedication was carried to the finality of what you will understand as Kether15 or the highest unknowable in an attempt to bring into manifestation the final truth.
All works are hidden with many riddles because the trials are of a highly personal nature and so cannot be followed word by word. It is possible to stay with calcination, the black dark side of the dualist’s treatise, to raise the mind through the 10 rooms,16 the 32 steps17 to reach the inner heights is possible on both sides. But on the dark [side] the end result will always be the same, the death of the practicer of this Art.
It may well be that this is the final step of the years of dwell with the serpent and toad. In your knowledge Neshama, Yecidah, Chia, Ain Soph.18 A black crucifixion and resurrection of the anti-lord preparing the palace for the coronation.
It is hid within the 3 principles of archeius19 and balsamum elementarium externum.20 There is a continuation of the base within many trees within woods. Caput corvi and the corpus invisible.21
You must understand I can only give the reasoning from what I know of this. There is nothing of the righteous soul here [in the Black Alchemist], only the growing power of the black magistery exorcista. He works on chaos of the Earth, chaos of the Water, chaos of the Air, chaos of the Fire and Magia Metaphysics, the art of occult secrets. He also uses pentacula the signs on virgin paper, metals or stones inscribed with many sigils which are the conductors of arcane forces in the universe.
In order to end the rising chaos you must use the strict Laws of the Teachings of your Lord. Use what methods you have well learnt. Use circles of your holy waters for your protection. Do not use evil vengeance [as you did earlier]. You can use your method of colours incorporating elixir—the essence of anything. Graeca magia art of making things appear which really were not in any existence. You should interpret majus noster, the lodestone to your aid of purification … Study the Cabala and make use.
The pen stopped scribbling. Bernard’s hand ached badly. Anyway, there was no way he could have continued without a break. He smiled as he realised the amount of time it would take to decipher this lot. Dozens of specialist books would be required to translate the entire message. Yet then, as if in response to this very thought, the Elizabethan alchemist returned to compel Bernard’s hand to write: ‘You think of manuscripts?’
What happened next both amused and astounded him, for his hand began to set down the names of several ancient works dedicated to the subject of alchemy and the magical arts:
Abul Quesim al Iraq
Aurora Aufore Artis
Pretiosa Margarita Novella
de Thesaro ac Pretios simino
Hermetic Musaeum
Nei Pen of Ko Hung
Amphitheatrum Sapientia Æterna
Viridorium Chymicum
Monas Hieroglyphica22
Only two of the titles—Henricus Khunrath’s Amphitheatrum Sapientiae Aeternae (‘The Amphitheatre of Eternal Wisdom’), published in 1595, and Dee’s Monas Hieroglyphica, published in 1564—were known to him. The other names meant nothing at all.
Pacing about, he lit another cigarette and waited for his friend to return. So what would happen next? It was becoming an intriguing evening, full of psychic surprises. But what about the Black Alchemist? What had happened to him?
Bernard’s intuition told him that BA would make no further moves that night. Yet he remained convinced their adversary was in a wood somewhere in Kent. Kent? It came to him at that moment.
But then, another psychic interruption. Beyond the well hollow, in the field on its northern side, he could hear the sound of male voices, talking together and moving towards him. They were not speaking English.
He listened. Was it Latin? He was not sure.
A gut feeling told him they were a group of five Roman soldiers passing by the well hollow. He could neither see them, nor understand their conversation. They were simply an inconsequential memory of an event that had taken place here nearly two thousand years ago.
Then came another presence, moving nearer and nearer. Footsteps sounded beyond the south side of the hollow. It did not feel hostile. Andy’s head reappeared through a corridor of overhanging branches, a sense of intrigue on his face.
I had given it 45 minutes before deciding to go back to the well to see how Bernard was getting on. I found him standing on the platform, seemingly in good health.
So, what had happened? ‘Pages of scribble,’ was his reply, holding up the clipboard as proof of his statement.
And the Black Alchemist?
‘Not here. Elsewhere. In woods, I think. Kent somewhere.’ He looked at me as if I was going to object.
I did feel slightly disappointed, as I was almost looking forward to a confrontation of some sort. Sighing, I asked to see what he had written.
‘I doubt if you’ll be able to see in this light.’
Looking at the pages of automatic script from the Elizabethan alchemist, I tried quickly to read what had been written, but it was no use, it was too eligible.
‘I haven’t bothered to look at it,’ Bernar
d said, pacing about on the concrete platform. ‘It didn’t seem to make much sense.’
I asked him to tell me what else had occurred, and he did.
So, where exactly was the Black Alchemist? Had he any idea of the location in Kent?
Bernard shook his head. ‘I really don’t know.’ Yet then he stood still for a moment and stared into thin air. ‘Actually, I get two place-names—Monksdown and … Mereworth. Where are they?’ he asked himself. After a few moments of contemplation he provided an answer: ‘They’re woods, I think. In Kent. I reckon that’s where he’s been tonight.’
The names meant nothing to me. Yet they could easily be checked out.
Several more minutes passed as I stood in the well hollow waiting to see if Bernard received any further psychic clues.
Breaking the long silence, he cleared his throat. ‘No, no more. Shall we go?’
I wanted to stay, in the hope that something else might happen. As well as being disappointed at the Black Alchemist’s non-appearance, I sensed also that this was not over. Perhaps we had misinterpreted the death threat and he would come here another night. No, I swept this idea aside as I thought back to the contents of the sealed black envelope addressed to me. Nine nights to live it had given us—no more, no less.
With this now came a sense of helplessness, in that we no longer had any idea where the Black Alchemist would strike next, or what he had in store for us. Perhaps the whole idea of the death threat was to leave us here in the cold, wondering what was going on, unable to predict where we go from here. He was playing us like puppets, and I did not like it one bit.
Frustrated and still a little unnerved, we closed down the circle of protection and headed back to the car.
I easily found the village of Mereworth. The atlas showed it was a few miles northeast of Tonbridge. Nearby was a large wooded area marked as Mereworth Woods. Monkdown Wood was not far away.
‘I’m now picking up somewhere else connected with the Black Alchemist,’ Bernard revealed, flicking ash out the side window, as we sat there in the darkness.
‘I see him at a place called “ Clapham”,’ he said, with some slight hesitation. ‘I see woods, with a very bad feeling attached to them. Something’s been going on there—rituals, I think. I also see a church, reached down a long, winding lane.’ He shook his shoulders as a shiver ran through him. ‘Not a nice place at all.’
I knew exactly where he was talking about. It was Clapham Wood, an eerie location near Worthing in West Sussex. Back in the mid 1970s I had investigated various UFO sightings in the area, although I didn’t know it was connected with the occult.
‘I shouldn’t bother wasting your time checking it out,’ he added, having heard enough. ‘It’s only vague stuff really, and I don’t think it’s got anything directly to do with what’s been going on here tonight.’
I accepted his word. It would take me long enough to check out the psychic material written down at the well that evening. Vague impressions about woods in West Sussex would have to wait.
Thursday, 16th October, 1986. The late day at work left me tired and headachy. In fact, I had been suffering from stress headaches and sleepless nights ever since the Black Alchemist had set up his Ring of Darkness ritual. Despite this, I sat down that evening, a glass of red wine in front of me, and attempted for the second night running to write up the events of the past few days.
It was hard going. I felt my eyes wanting to close, but pressed on in the knowledge that I could give up and go to bed at any time.
Reaching across the desktop strewn with pages of notes, I pulled across those relating to the Elizabethan alchemist’s lengthy automatic script, scribbled down by Bernard at the Running Well.
What was I to make of this stuff? Already I had read and dissected the script dozens of times in the hope that it would eventually make some kind of sense. Yet then something the Elizabethan alchemist had said drew my attention:
It may well be that this [i.e. the Black Alchemist’s work] is the final step of the years of dwell with the serpent and toad ... A black crucifixion and resurrection of the Anti-Lord, preparing the palace for the coronation.
I thought long about these enigmatic lines, and then ran back through the automatic writing Bernard had scribbled down earlier that same evening as his mind had linked with that of the Black Alchemist.
The one shall spread beyond the places of my knowledge settling and growing amongst the roots, the woods, the trees—and the streams … Impregnate. Let it grow. Let it form. The master shall form …
The master shall form? What master? Maybe the Black Alchemist believed he was preparing the way for some kind of antichrist … no, this was getting silly. Yet he did seem to have a fixation with the concept of death, resurrection and rebirth. It had first surfaced at Ide Hill, where he had attempted to utilise Zosimos’s Priest of the Sanctuary dream. It had been present again with the creation of the mercurial thought form at the Running Well on the night he constructed the Ring of Darkness, and now it had resurfaced again. What was he trying to achieve? Whatever it was, Bernard’s spirit guide saw it as abominable, or even worse.
Pushing Bernard’s automatic writing to one side, I looked back at the lined sheet of A4 paper in front of me, took a sip of wine and continued to write.
20 Danbury
Friday, 17th October 1986. It was late, well past midnight. At first he saw nothing, only darkness. But then came a sense of motion, and light, raining in from the full moon outside, illuminating rigid features all around. Bernard’s squinting eyes identified rows of pews on either side.
He was in the centre aisle of a church. His fixed gaze moved closer and closer towards the high altar.
Then came a peculiar sight: crouching mythical beasts, grotesquely carved in wood, sitting upon the edge of wooden pews—awesome, repulsive and yet somehow warm and familiar. In pairs, they came into view before passing by, each one maintaining their own frozen stance.
He carried on.
The building appeared quiet and empty, and yet also somehow imbalanced, oppressive and wrong. He disliked what he sensed and wanted to leave. But he could not. There was no choice.
The raised neo-Gothic pulpit moved out of sight to the left, while to the right, the menacing stare of the wooden lectern eagle appeared and disappeared without incident.
Then he was revolted.
Before him on the tiled floor, above the stone steps leading through to the choir, lay the prostrate corpse of a black-robed clergyman. It was sprawled across a crudely-chalked inverted pentagram, enclosed within a circle. Sticky, crimson rivulets of thick, congealing blood oozed from horrifying wounds, seeping into the dusty gaps between the ceramic floor tiles.
Yet something was missing.
Slowly his eyes followed the line of the body, along the erratic trails of blood, across the altar rail, and onto the wooden-fronted high altar.
A dreadful nausea welled up inside his stomach and he retched at what he saw.
Upon the once-white altar draping stood the holy man’s almost unrecognisable head—its mouth agape and its thick, grey hair matted with viscid blood.
And worst of all, he knew the church, and the culprit.
The Black Alchemist was now nearer than ever before, and it concerned him greatly.
The soft lunar light spotlighted the psychic as he twisted and turned until the movement finally broke his sleep. His head pounded and ached, and for a moment Bernard fought desperately to keep his eyes from closing. There was no way he was going to return to the disgusting nightmare. Yet as he began fully to wake up, he realised it was over. He could now rest in peace.
But neither could he forget or ignore what he’d seen. He knew the church. It was Danbury. He was sure of it. Here, over the past couple of years, they had researched the
village’s medieval mysteries for Andy’s book The Knights of Danbury. The Griffin, just over the road from the church, was still Bernard’s choice for their regular meetings to discuss on-
going and future research projects. Danbury was his manor, his domain, in the same way that Andy was associated with Wickford, Runwell and the Running Well.
It was, he realised, just a scare-mongering dream. A vision. A warning. A portent? He hoped not.
Yet left in his mind was the firm conviction that Danbury was the Black Alchemist’s next target, a realization he would try to ignore as long as possible.
Tuesday, 21st October. Danbury was unquestionably the Black Alchemist’s next target, I told Bernard as we sat supping beer in the snug of The Griffin.
‘Ah, well, I’ve already had a dream about that,’ he finally admitted, having not mentioned it earlier.
When?
‘Last week. Thursday night, I think.’
Around the time of the full moon.
Bernard nodded. ‘It was past midnight, I know that,’ he added.
So, the early hours of Friday, 17th.
Bernard now revealed the details of his macabre dream concerning the headless priest lying in the choir area of Danbury church.
It sounded disturbing, to say the least.
‘He knows about Danbury,’ Bernard revealed, a slightly worried expression having formed on his face. ‘And I’m not sure what to do.’
It was inevitable. Shenfield, Runwell and now Danbury. He was obviously warning Bernard, in the form of a dream, that he knew about our interests in Danbury and could strike there whenever he wanted.
34. The omnipotent presence of Danbury’s church of St John the Baptist. Yet if the Black Alchemist did ever turn up at the church, then I felt sure Bernard would know.
‘How will I know?’ he asked, intrigued.
Because he, Bernard, was very much attuned to the hilltop site and had, in the past, known when people were up to mischief there. It had happened back in March 1985, when two French students visited the church. They carried out a simple occult ritual in which they had concealed a folded parchment containing magical symbols beneath the head of one of the two wooden knight effigies in the north aisle.
The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story Page 15
