The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story

by Andrew Collins

  Working in his garden, Bernard had picked up that something untoward was taking place inside the church. On arrival, an oppressive atmosphere had hung in the air and having asked the site guardian, William de St Clere—a thirteenthcentury knight and lord of Danbury manor—what was going on, Bernard had been instructed to ‘remove the parchment’.

  With this command had come the impression of one of the recessed, wooden knight effigies and the feeling he should look beneath its head. Here he had found the sigilised piece of paper.

  Further psychic prying had revealed the names of the two students and the fact they lived in Paris, where they were studying psychology. I had put the feelers out among my London contacts and had eventually tracked them down. However, I was advised to ‘stay away from them as they are into heavy stuff.’

  ‘I know all that,’ Bernard interjected, lifting his glass from the table. ‘But if someone like the Black Alchemist carries out a major ritual in the churchyard then it will seriously affect me. It’ll be like someone playing around in my own garden.’

  I realised also that he might be susceptible to psychic attack if BA did strike in Danbury.

  I had an idea. Why didn’t he create a kind of magical barrier of protection around the church?

  He could achieve this, quite simply, by planting a ring of tiny crystals beyond its exterior walls. This would then act as a psychic alarm system, which would let him know when anyone with dubious magical intent entered the churchyard.

  ‘If I feel the need to do so, I will,’ he responded, obviously not wanting to tempt fate in this manner.

  He should do it, just in case.

  ‘Only if I think it necessary,’ he replied, emphasising the point. ‘I’ll let you know if I do.’

  Tuesday, 11th November. Bernard appeared in the doorway of The Griffin and joined me in the corner, next to the old Tudor fireplace.

  It was three weeks since we had last met, and I was eager to know whether anything further had happened since the chilling nightmare featuring the decapitated priest in Danbury church.

  ‘I was moved to set up the crystals around the church on Sunday,’ he announced. ‘I came up here and laid a circle of small green crystals.’

  What had made him do this?

  He grimaced and shrugged. ‘Just got the feeling to do it.’ And why green crystals?

  ‘Green is a colour relating to balance and harmony, I

  suppose. I don’t know, really. It just felt right.’

  Any new psychic material?

  Bernard said ‘Not really’, but then thought about his answer

  for a moment before throwing in a passing statement. ‘The only thing I get is that the Black Alchemist carries a swordstick.’ A swordstick? Like those owned by well-to-do gentlemen in Victorian times?

  ‘Indeed,’ he confirmed, lighting a cigarette. ‘But I don’t think he uses it for physical protection.’

  Why?

  ‘He uses it as a ritual tool to wield magical forces.’

  This was an interesting suggestion. Never before had I come across an occultist who used a swordstick for ritual purposes. Swords, wands, daggers and staves perhaps, but not swordsticks. In fact, I could not recall anyone who actually owned such a thing.

  Yet then, as I thought about the idea, it began to dawn on me how useful a swordstick might be, on both a physical and occult level. Someone like the Black Alchemist could openly walk around with it in the most conspicuous public places and no one—save perhaps a keen-eyed policeman—would ever know what was concealed within his walking stick. And, unlike a proper broadsword, used by magicians in ceremonial magic, a swordstick would be ideal for ritualistic purposes in circumstances where other people could disturb their magical activities at any time.

  He could slip out the sword blade to invoke and banish magical forces, or merely leave it inside the walking stick and use the weapon as a ritualistic wand or staff. It was easy, and very clever.

  I wanted one! If the Black Alchemist had one then I would have to have one! Visions of scouring local antiques shops filled my mind. At least I would have a good time trying to find one as browsing antiques shops was a regular pastime of mine.

  21 The Bloody Stave

  The darkness obscuring the empty desert was broken by the sight of a campfire burning in the distance. A clearly agitated man, sweating and even a little crazy—dressed in traditional Arab Egyptian dress and head scarf—half ran, half walked towards this far away beacon. He was breathing heavily, and suspicious of those who calmly awaited his arrival.

  Moving closer he saw three figures seated in a circle around the fire. For what he had in his possession they would pay handsomely. It would make his family happy, and this, he convinced himself, was why he was taking such a dangerous course of action. He could not refuse what they had to offer, for it was his one chance to become rich.

  He saw now that the three figures were already looking towards him, their dark eyes visible as slits between black headscarves, which obscured their faces and blended well with their black attire.

  The worried figure began to slow his pace as he saw the three men rise one by one. Should he be warmed by their welcome, or even more on his guard?

  For they were Hashshashin, loyal to the caliph al-Nizar. People not to be messed with. People not to make angry.

  As he approached their camp, the assumed leader, standing on the right, gestured that the man hand over what was in his possession.

  The thief hesitated, but the Hashshashin merely nodded towards his chest, knowing full well what was concealed.

  It was time to make the exchange.

  From beneath his flowing garment, the golden stave was brought out for the three men to see.

  It glimmered bright red in the flickering light of the fire.

  The hand of the Hashshashin reached out still further, indicating that the rod of the prophet Moses, praise be his name, be handed over.

  The man seemed hesitant, but then relented, as he presented the serpent wand to the Hashshashin, trusting that they would keep their side of the bargain.

  With one hand the dark figure took charge of the holy relic, as with the other he promptly produced a deadly scimitar, which curled swiftly through the air, removing the head of the thief, and causing his bloody body to slump lifeless to the ground.

  Bernard, seated by the open fire in The Griffin’s lounge bar that cold November evening, recalled the contents of his powerful dream about the Hashshashin, or ‘Assassins’, beheading the unfortunate thief in order to seize the precious Stave of Nizar.23 With it had come a flood of new information, including the interesting fact that it had been unearthed somewhere in the vicinity of an ancient Egyptian ruin, possibly one near Cairo.

  The stave had then been passed from person to person, until eventually the Assassins had got their hands on it. They were a Muslim sect founded in the eleventh century by the Ismaili warrior and mystic Hassan-i-Sabbah (c. 1050s-1124), known as the Old Man of the Mountains. One of their main beliefs was that God wished them to harass and murder all enemies of the faith.

  When Nizar had assumed the caliphate in 1095, the Assassins pledged their allegiance to him, afterwards becoming his most loyal and fanatical supporters. Indeed, they even became known as Nizari in his honour.

  Thus to find the Assassins involved in securing the Stave of Nizar made real sense, and implied its procurement took place during the years when this Islamic sect supported Nizar prior to his death in a Cairo prison in 1097.

  Clearly, these fanatics were not going to pay a common thief for the gold serpent wand, which was seen as having belonged to the prophet Moses (who was thought to have lived in the city of Memphis, near modern-day Cairo, prior to leaving Egypt with the Israelites at the time of the Exodus). He, of course, famously had a staff or rod of power that with the help of Yahweh could be turned into a snake and back again into a rod.

  Further psychic information had finally revealed the fate of the Stave of Nizar. Hav
ing spent nearly two centuries at Wilmington Priory in Sussex, it had been removed during the second half of the fourteenth century by a prominent member of the de Warren family, the Earls of Surrey and Sussex.

  The de Warrens kept it as a personal trophy, without any

  The Bloody Stave concern for its immense religious significance and value, until sibling rivalry caused the holy relic to be sawn into pieces. One section was entreated back into the care of the monks at Wilmington. Here it was concealed somewhere beneath the altar of the church, where apparently it remains to this day.

  Another fragment was given into the possession of a powerful French family named de Coucy, whose seat was Coucyle-Chateau, near Laon in northern France.

  A third fragment continued to remain in the possession of the Earls of Surrey and Sussex.

  Another fragment ended up in the hands of the French king Charles V (1337-1380). He was an avid collector of holy relics and other religious treasures. An extant inventory records that among his possessions was a piece of ‘Moses’ rod’,24 very likely a reference to the Stave of Nizar.

  What became of this holy relic after the king’s death is unclear, although the sheer fact that it existed was enough to demonstrate the apparent accuracy of Bernard’s psychic material.

  The only fragment of the stave I made any attempt to retrieve was the one apparently concealed within the wall of an underground room beneath the castle ruins of Coucy-le-Chateau.

  Having gained access to the castle grounds one summer’s evening, I had come across an old mine shaft earlier described psychically by Bernard, who believed it had been created during the Second World War. This led directly towards where the stave supposedly lay concealed beneath the collapsed donjon or central tower. Once inside the shaft, stone debris had begun falling from the shored up roof, causing me to go no further.

  Realising the stave fragment was now beyond my reach, I had conducted a meditation in an attempt to release and then contain its serpentine spirit. This Bernard felt we needed in order to gain entry on a psychic level to a cave underworld he predicted would be found beneath the Pyramids of Giza (a cave complex I eventually discovered and entered for the first time in March 2008).

  Since then no more had come to Bernard concerning the fabled Stave of Nizar.

  ‘Well, I don’t know why I’m thinking about it now,’ he admitted, stubbing out a cigarette. ‘Maybe there’s something in the air.’

  I hoped so. Finding just a tiny fragment of this incredible object would be the achievement of a lifetime.

  Bernard laughed. ‘I think the chances of that are pretty low,’ he suggested, sensibly, ‘but somehow the quest is not over yet. Not by a long stretch of the imagination.’

  22 The Mystic’s Gift

  Sunday, 30th November, 1986. There was something nagging at the back of Bernard’s mind as he got up that morning. It was an impulse within him—an urge to go somewhere, meet someone, find something, although what exactly he did not know.

  The feelings intensified as the morning progressed, and with them came the distinct impression of an area locally, and an event taking place that day.

  Without either believing or disbelieving his feelings, Bernard consulted a newspaper to see what was going on. Finger-flicking the pages, he first passed, and then returned to the coming events section. Scanning the different display adverts, he found it—and, yes, it was that day—an antiques and collectors’ fair in a village not far away.

  He wanted to go. But what would he find? A relevant book on heraldry perhaps? Yes, that seemed the obvious answer. For the past year he had been researching and painting the heraldic devices of members of the Order of the Garter, from its inception in the fourteenth century right down to the present day. Not an easy task by anyone’s standards.

  Yet to achieve this goal, he needed books—old, rare, out-ofprint—and these were often difficult to obtain. So it had been in this respect that his acute psychic ability had come in useful. On rare occasions he had received distinct impulses to go to either a specific second-hand bookshop or an antiques and collectors’ fair where he had been drawn to books relevant to his research.

  Such a talent was, he believed, one of the few ‘perks’ of being a good psychic. So he would go to this fair, and should he be wrong, and there was no book to be found, it would still be a good excuse to get out of the house for a few hours before dinner.

  Having locked the car, Bernard walked across the car park to the entrance foyer and queued behind a couple waiting to pay the nominal admission fee. Seconds later he was through the pay desk and within the hall itself.

  In front of him were stalls selling every kind of antique and collectable item. The air seemed alive with the muted conversation of stallholders, dealers and visitors buying, selling, bartering and admiring. Yet the large room was by no means full. There was ample room to wander from table to table without hindrance.

  Bernard strolled about not quite noticing anything other than the occasional pile of dusty books occupying some corner of a stall dedicated to other, more attractive items.

  One by one, he turned them over or lifted their covers to search for an author or title. None appeared to be relevant to his work. However, something would leap out at him eventually, he was sure.

  For twenty minutes he wandered about studying more or less every stall in the hall. But nothing was taking his interest. Growing a little disappointed, he began to accept that, on this occasion, his psychic abilities might have let him down.

  Having more or less given up, Bernard wandered aimlessly and without interest along the rows of stalls stacked with curious objets d’art of every shape, size and colour.

  Glimpses of faces and snippets of conversation broke through his senses as he ambled about, not really knowing what to do next.

  ‘I can come down to twenty-two. No less, I’m afraid,’ a male face with receding grey hair responded to a lady standing nearby.

  ‘No, these are repro, darling. Those over there are original art deco,’ a pretty woman with shoulder-length blonde hair said from behind another stall.

  He did not glance to see what they were talking about. It did not seem to matter. He was lost in his own frustration. Why had he been led to this place? There had to be something here somewhere.

  Images blurred into moving and stationary forms. Distinct conversation now became a background murmur. He was losing orientation and perspective. Something was happening.

  ‘Yes sir, can I help you?’ the clearly Asian voice asked.

  Bernard stared up at the intrusion. A smiling Indian youth in his late teens, dressed in an old, out-of-fashion man’s casual shirt with frayed collar, stood behind a stall awaiting a reply.

  In front of the boy was an assortment of oriental curios and antiques, mostly of brass or wood. Patterned plates stood behind brass incense burners, cheap jewellery and crudely-cast statues of Hindu deities.

  Bernard shook his head, but found his eyes scanning the stall for anything of interest. They caught sight of an antique brass cobra, standing some three inches in height, nestling among the collection of statuettes.

  It resembled a pair of cobra candlesticks owned by Andy and used by them the previous year in astral workings in which they had explored the cave world existing beneath the Pyramids of Giza. To achieve this they had hired a secluded meetings hall on some run down estate in Basildon, which had then been transformed into a temporary Egyptian temple for the night. The essence of the Stave of Nizar that Andy had brought back from Coucy-le-Chateau in France, contained within a small magical talisman, had then been used to gained access to this underworld domain.

  Bernard picked up the candlestick. It was a little worn and, turning it around in one hand, he saw that on the snake’s head was a small dancing figure.

  He felt he should have it.

  ‘How much?’ he asked.

  The Indian youth took hold of the item and surveyed it for a moment. ‘Two pound,’ he said, a note of exactness in
his tone.

  Nodding in acceptance, Bernard produced two one pound coins and handed them over.

  The Indian carefully wrapped the coiled snake and returned it to him, the transaction over. For a few seconds Bernard paused, enough for the young Asian to meet his eyes and ready himself to speak: ‘You are in conflict with the one who reverses the wheel. Is this true?’

  The question caught Bernard off guard. Looking up at the youth, he realised that he was merely conveying the question on behalf of an elderly Indian gentleman sitting down behind the stall, who also now looked up, waiting for a reply.

  Bernard tried to take in the situation before even contemplating an answer to the curious question. The old man looked strange. He wore a long white robe that contrasted sharply with his deep brown wrinkled skin, jet black eyes, long grey hair and wiry beard. In his right hand he fingered a long string of orange prayer beads—an act he appeared to be doing almost involuntarily.

  It seemed that whilst Bernard had been studying the brass cobra, the old man, who, he assumed, spoke little English, had asked the youth to put the question to him and now the pair eagerly sought an answer.

  What did they mean? ‘You are in conflict with the one who reverses the wheel.’

  Bernard thought it might be a reference to the Black Alchemist and his warped alchemical operations.

  Could he not be described as ‘reversing the wheel’ by causing the harmonious forces at ancient sites to fall into a state of chaotic disarray through dark ritualistic activity? It was the only explanation. So, in response, he said, simply, ‘Yes.’

  Accepting his word, the old man beckoned for the youth to lend an ear again.

  More words were spoken and, nodding, the boy returned to Bernard. ‘There is one who seeks to unblock the dam. Is this true?’

  He thought carefully before answering. One who ‘seeks to unblock the dam.’ That had to be Andy. Yes, Andy. He was undoubtedly attempting to repair the psychic damage caused by the Black Alchemist. So, once again, he said, simply, ‘Yes.’