The reply was acknowledged by the old man who again beckoned the boy down to his level. Further words were exchanged and once more the youth stood up and looked towards Bernard. ‘Is he the one where the two rivers meet?’
Where the two rivers meet? That was a tricky one. Andy lived with his parents in Wickford, but was this near the meeting of two rivers? He was nowhere near the Thames. But what about the River Crouch and the River Blackwater? Bernard couldn’t think. It did not appear to be the answer.
He thought again. Was it perhaps not a reference to real rivers, but rivers of life, their coming together creating a duality, opposing polarities—one positive and the other negative, one black and the other white.
Andy often trod a narrow path between what some might consider as black and white magic. One week he might be in prayer with Orthodox monks in a secluded monastery on Mount Athos in Greece, whilst the next he would be wielding powerful and dangerous occult forces under the cover of darkness, combating fire with fire, so to speak. This was the answer the Indians were looking for, so Bernard agreed and once again waited for a response.
The old man, still turning the beads through his fingers, then spoke again via the youth, a more serious expression on his face this time.
‘The one you seek is like the coiled serpent,’ were the boy’s next words.
It was, he felt, another reference to the Black Alchemist’s nefarious activities, so he agreed once more.
More conversation between the old man and the youth produced another strange statement: ‘The one will stand in front of many dangers.’
‘Oh,’ Bernard responded, assuming this to be another reference to Andy.
‘My grandfather asks that you accept a gift from him,’ the boy said.
A sort of smile appeared on the face of the old man, who now nodded at Bernard.
‘Yes, but what for?’ Bernard asked, wondering what was going on.
More words passed between the grandfather and the grandson before the youth spoke again: ‘But it will not be yours. You will not keep it.’
With this statement the old man had now raised his hands in a gesture that said: need I say more? You will know what to do.
He did. It was to be given to Andy.
At that point the Indian youth turned around and picked up a long, thin package wrapped in brown paper, which he handed to Bernard. It was over four feet long, pole-like and quite weighty.
Instantly, Bernard began to feel his hands tingle, almost as if he had just grabbed hold of a live wire. What was this ‘gift’? It seemed to be exuding an intense energy of some sort, so much so he almost dropped it.
Still the conversation between the grandfather and the grandson continued. The boy looked up at Bernard. ‘It will protect you and give protection of the seven.’
Protection of the seven? He did not understand. Seven what? And protection from what? The Black Alchemist? Was he just to take it?
‘Yes,’ the grandson responded.
Did he want any money?
The boy shook his head, and the old man merely lifted up his string of beads with a smile, as if to gesture goodbye.
It was time to leave. Bernard moved away from the stall still holding the gift at arms’ length. Without stopping, he walked away from the hustle and bustle of the fair and stepped out into the solitude of the gravelled car park.
Once inside the car, Bernard carefully removed the wrapping paper concealing the object. To his amazement, he saw it was a long walking stick in varnished black wood with a metal cap protecting its tip.
Just below the handle was an inch wide brass ring set into the wood, and nudging up to this was what looked like an inset bone piece with a recurring floral pattern. Screwed into the end of the handle was a brass metal cap with the carved face of a lion.
It looked very much like a standard design in oriental walking sticks, had it not been for one seemingly unique feature. Scratched into the wood were strange looking symbols composed of zigzags, circles and lines. He partially recognised their symbolism, but decided to leave their interpretation to Andy for when he saw him at The Griffin the following evening.
More extraordinary than the walking stick’s physical appearance was the bright aura of light surrounding the shaft and extending beyond each end by at least a couple of inches. But that was not all.
Moving down from the handle towards the tip was a pulsating spiral of rainbow-coloured energy, which about midway along the shaft altered into rings of coloured light that slowly advanced towards the tip, before reforming back into a heliacal spiral and extinguishing completely just beyond the metal tip.
At any one time, no less than five of these detached rings of light could be seen moving down the central axis of the walking stick.
It was an amazing sight, yet one Bernard knew could only be witnessed by another psychic.
And its purpose was becoming apparent as well. It was a rod of magical power, a highly-charged ritual tool, imbued with supernatural energies by someone—possibly the old man, maybe someone else—for a specific purpose. If this was so, then it was to be used to invoke, banish and channel psychic energies for magical purposes. It would also be able to protect them from the rising might of the Black Alchemist. How exactly, he wasn’t sure. Yet he sensed that all would be revealed soon enough.
23 William’s Warning
Monday, 1st December, 1986. ‘ … and so I wrapped it back up and left it in the boot of the car,’ Bernard said, concluding his story. ‘Which is where it is now.’
He picked up his drink and awaited a response.
I sighed in utter disbelief. I had listened to some unreal episodes from the psychic’s remarkable life, but this one took the biscuit. I told him to go and get it.
‘Right, just give me a minute,’ he said, getting up and walking out of The Griffin’s lounge bar.
I pondered over the whole extraordinary story. Who were the two Asian guys? The old man was perhaps a mystic of some sort. The description was classic, but had he known that someone was going to approach him at the fair? It seemed so, as the walking stick was already wrapped when given to Bernard. Perhaps these people regularly give away ‘gifts’ to those whom they feel some affinity.
Bernard re-emerged whistling to himself and holding the long, wrapped package.
Excitedly, I removed the brown paper. For a few seconds, I just stared at the stick in utter amazement.
‘And this is the brass cobra with the dancing figure on it,’ Bernard offered, placing down the Indian artefact.
Bringing it closer, I studied the two symbols scratched into the stick’s varnished surface. One, on the handle, was a finely carved, anti-clockwise fylfot, or wheel cross. The other, a little further down, was a little more complex. It consisted of a ninepointed star with a small circle at its centre, overlaid on which was a circle inscribed using a much wider tool. Cutting diagonally through both the circle and the star was a thick zigzag line.
These were mystical symbols alright. Both the fylfot and the nine-pointed star were Hindu symbols representing the creative force of the universe. The zigzag overlaying the star perhaps symbolised either a serpent, or flowing water, while the thicker circle signified either the sun or the cyclic nature of cosmic energies. Yet who carved these symbols, and why?
For me, this was the greater mystery.
35. The mystical symbols found carved on the Indian swordstick. Fiddling around with the wooden rod, I heard something rattle inside. A sense of excitement rose inside me.
I knew what this was. Twisting the brass ring released the handle, which I then pulled away from the rest of the stick. A long, thin blade, greased for protection, suddenly came into view.
It was a swordstick.
Bernard looked delighted and bent across the table to study the blade. Inscribed along one of its surfaces was the word ‘India’ between two simple decorative patterns. It had been punched into the iron blade with a fine point.
Yet then a pressing thoug
ht spilled out as a question: how come he had not realised it was a swordstick?
‘I didn’t really look at it that closely,’ Bernard responded, wondering the self same thing. ‘I only studied it briefly before rewrapping it and putting it in the boot. And that’s where it’s been until now.’
I accepted his word. Yet the whole story still baffled me. What did an Indian swordstick have to do with the activities of the Black Alchemist? Okay, so he had one the same …
‘No, not the same,’ Bernard interjected. ‘The one I saw him with had a more rounded cap. I don’t think it had a brass ring either.’
So his swordstick appeared to be of a more traditional design, like those carried by Victorian gentlemen. But how old was our one?
‘Don’t know,’ he admitted, getting up to go to the bar. ‘Same again?’ he asked, nodding towards my empty glass.
I placed the swordstick on the table for a moment. A tingling sensation throbbed across the palm of my hand. Whether this was the result of auto-suggestion or not, I could not say, but my hand actually felt as if it had been caned.
Bernard placed a pint in front of me, before sitting back down and reaching for his cigarettes.
So what was this strange sensation in my right hand? Was it me, or what?
He glanced towards the swordstick before answering. ‘Well, it’s as I said, some kind of rod of power. The feeling I get is that it can be used to affect subtle energy fields present in the body and outside, in the open. It can produce or change energies and create thought forms.’
36. The handle and termination of the Indian swordstick. He then hesitated for a moment as if composing his thoughts. ‘You know, I get the distinct feeling that although the swordstick is not old, it embodies an essence, or spirit, of something much older.
So it was not so much what it was, but what it contained that was important.
‘I think so, yes,’ he said, flicking ash into the already busy ashtray.
Shaking my head with a disbelieving smile, I twisted around and stood the swordstick up against the side of the Tudor fireplace, already decorated for Christmas. It actually blended in well among the pokers, coal scuttles and festive draping.
Seeing the brass cobra Bernard had bought at the antiques and collectors’ fair still on the table, I picked it up. The little dancing figure standing on the head of the snake was unquestionably Shiva, one of the principal deities of the Hindu faith. I had a small statue showing a dancing Shiva trampling on a much smaller snake. Bernard’s cobra certainly had some age to it, and was probably made for a personal altar.
Placing it back down, our conversation now turned to other matters and half an hour quickly passed.
Suddenly, and without warning, Bernard lunged forward in front of the fireplace and made a grab for the swordstick as if it was about to fall to the floor.
What the hell was he up to?
Realising the swordstick had not moved, he returned to the comfort of his seat, somewhat embarrassed by his actions.
Bernard seemed flustered. ‘Sorry about that, but it appeared to change into a snake.’
A snake?
‘Yes,’ he responded, before adding: ‘Perhaps it’s some kind of serpent stick.’
A serpent stick. Yes, of course. The zigzag symbol on the shaft seemed to suggest a connection with serpent energies. Bernard had said that the swordstick’s subtle energy field consisted of a spiralling band of rainbow light, and now it had appeared to change momentarily into a writhing snake, a totem of the god Shiva in Hindu tradition. It was all beginning to sound a little like the accounts of the Rod of Moses that the Biblical prophet was able to change into a writhing snake and back again, purely by verbal command. This linked it with the Stave of Nizar, which King Charles V of France certainly believed was ‘Moses’ rod’.
‘You’re probably right,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps the swordstick’s a replacement for the Stave of Nizar!’
Maybe it was.
I picked up the swordstick again. So if it was that powerful what would happen if we were to take it out into Danbury churchyard and play around with it for a while?
Bernard looked at me in utter disbelief as he began to shake his head. ‘No, no way. It’s cold out there, and it’s raining as well. What’s more, I don’t think it’s the sort of thing you just “play around with”.’
I persisted. If we were to go out in the churchyard I felt sure we would get some sort of response from the swordstick. If nothing else, he might ‘see’ changes in the energy field surrounding it.
‘Christ, you don’t stop, do you?’ he said, playfully. ‘Okay, we’ll go out there, but let me finish my drink first.’
In the relative stillness of the cold, damp and darkened churchyard—which in size dwarfs that of its nearest rivals—the two conspicuous figures came to a halt on the gravel path next to the old horse chestnut tree, their usual spot for carrying out psychic activities. Here they readied themselves for the paranormal experiment.
Bernard stood by as I half closed my eyes and ritually rammed the magical swordstick—its blade concealed—into the soft earth.
In my mind, I visualised golden energies pouring from me, through the swordstick and into the ground. I saw them radiate out in all directions, like the spokes of a huge wheel that now filled the churchyard.
Mentally, I began to turn this wheel of energy in a clockwise direction until its spokes blurred into a swirling mass of vibrant light. This was what I could see. How about Bernard?
‘The swordstick’s glowing gold,’ Bernard revealed, in a quiet, decisive voice, as he began to pace about. ‘Golden energies are now encircling the whole churchyard.’
Good. He could see what I was actually creating through visualisation.
But Bernard was experiencing much more than that. He stood and listened to the night. ‘Can you hear that?’ he asked.
‘What,’ I said, as I continued to visualise the golden wheel of light, pulsating and rippling through the churchyard.
‘It’s like a choir … an angelic choir, coming from somewhere.’
For a moment, I paused to listen, but heard nothing.
Perplexed, he started to walk towards the silhouetted image of the church. ‘Can’t you hear that?’
Still I continued the visualisation. My eyes momentarily caught sight of Bernard walking towards the great shadow cast by the towering Christian edifice, as he attempted to locate the source of his angelic choir.
For just a few, brief moments I forgot Bernard. Then, without warning, an almighty BANG came from the direction in which he had vanished out of sight.
I looked up. What the hell was he doing?
Fearing for his safety and curious to know what was going on, I curtailed the visualisation and scurried across the wet grass towards the church.
I found Bernard around ten yards short of the south wall. He just stood there, perfectly still and silent, staring towards the building’s little used south door.
Instantly, I saw the cause of his concern.
The great wooden door was wide open!
Something was clearly amiss. In my three years of regular visits to the church I had never once known this door to be unlocked, never mind open!
What had happened?
‘It opened by itself,’ he announced, quite casually. ‘I was listening to the choir, which sounded as if it was coming from the church, so I came over here.’
Then what happened?
‘As I got nearer I could see a silhouetted human form standing in the doorway. When I got here the door just opened on its own, almost as if the lock had been blown off with an explosive!’
The night was getting silly. First the swordstick. Now a church door blasting open by itself. I shook my head. Could I take any more?
Moving up to the open door, I inspected its lock and handle for any signs of damage. There were none. However, the bolt had retracted into the lock mechanism, suggesting the door had been opened from the inside. Perhaps it was a
sign we should go inside.
‘I’m not going in there,’ he protested, quite troubled by the thought. ‘What if someone comes along and finds us? How would we explain that? No, I’m staying out here, thank you.’
Doors don’t open of their own accord without good reason. It was quite apparent that if we were to go inside, he would probably gain a psychic message from the church’s medieval spirit guardian, William de St Clere.
Perhaps the Black Alchemist had already visited the church. Maybe we were meant to discover whatever he’d left behind. We had to go inside, and I told Bernard so.
Advancing into the church itself, I at last managed to coax him into moving just beyond the open door.
‘This is as far as I go,’ he categorically stated.
As a pillar of local society with a professional job, I understood why he was so hesitant about entering the church. If he and I were found inside, there was every chance we would be arrested, and the story splashed all over the local papers. So I said no more.
Knowing that a message would almost certainly follow, and that we might not have much time, I urged Bernard to ask William what was going on. He agreed, so I waited for a response. ‘There’s a threat, he’s telling me.’
A thread? What the hell had a thread to do with this? ‘A threat,’ he corrected me.
From whom?
‘Visitors,’ came the stern reply, out of the darkness. What … visitors will come?
‘Yes.’
When?
‘He doesn’t know. But I will know when.’
I recalled the swordstick still in my right hand. Had that anything to do with the door opening by itself?
There was a momentary silence. ‘No answer to that question.’
So what was all this about?
Another pause. ‘I know what this is about and I think it’s time to leave.’ Bernard shuffled in the darkness, ready to go.
Why? What?
‘I see the same images I saw during the nightmare. The headless priest. The blood stains. Everything. Come on, let’s go.’ He moved away from the door and back into the cold December air.
The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story Page 17
