‘So BA’s using Graeco-Egyptian goetic barbarous names,’ Caroline began, resting her arms on the top of the balustrade.
It seemed so. However, it also confirmed something Bernard had indicated as long ago as June 1985, following his dream about the Black Alchemist’s Eastbourne home: our adversary was almost certainly an academic working in a university and/or a library with access to rare books and manuscripts.
It was interesting information, although it took us no nearer to identifying the Black Alchemist, or knowing what he was really up to right now. This would come only from fresh moves, and there seemed little chance of this as well over a year had now passed without so much as a hint of his presence, at Danbury or anywhere else for that matter.
‘Perhaps you really have seen the last of him this time,’ Caroline suggested.
Perhaps. I wasn’t sure.
Working alone one evening on the Black Alchemist manuscript in the kitchen, where the heat from the rings on the gas cooker offered the easiest warmth, I got up to answer the phone.
‘Hi, it’s Caroline,’ the voice announced. ‘I’ve finally tracked down the sequence of magical characters found on both the Lullington and Rettendon fixing markers,’ she said, matter-offactly.
Intrigued, I wanted to know more. Where had she found them?
‘They’re in a book called Alchemy: the Philosopher’s Stone, written by Allison Coudert. It was published in 1980.’
I had not come across it.
‘Nor had I,’ she added. ‘I found it in Johnny Merron’s book collection.’
What did it say?
Caroline examined the illustration, which showed the exact sequence of symbols, including all three goetic barbarous names identified by Terry DuQuesne. ‘It’s definitely the same symbols,’ she emphasised. ‘The complete sequence was devised by Zosimos of Panopolis. It’s known as the Formula of the Crab.’
Another link with Zosimos, whose dream visions had been employed by the Black Alchemist as part of his unique brand of landscape alchemy. But what was the Formula of the Crab?
41. Zosimos’s Formula of the Crab inscribed on the fixing markers found at Lullington in 1985 and Rettendon the following year. ‘Well, the crab is one of the symbols—the one, two, three, four, fifth one in from the left—the one like a teardrop on its side, with eight lines coming off of it, representing legs, I suppose. The book says it means “fixation and the process of whitening”.’
What else did it say? ‘The “CH” monogram inscribed on the stones is also present—it starts the sequence.’
Oh well, it was not BA’s initials then, as I’d hoped. ‘The book interprets the three Greek words as ingredients in
the alchemical process,’ she added. ‘Apparently, the Formula of the Crab conceals the secret of the alchemical transmutation, but to be honest it’s all just speculation. Nobody knows for sure.’26
I asked her to send me photocopies of the pages in question. ‘You can have the book,’ she said. ‘Johnny said I can send it to you.’
I thanked her.
Putting down the phone, I felt elated. All this was confirmation yet again that the Black Alchemist was an expert in Graeco-Egyptian magic and alchemy.
That Zosimos’s Formula of the Crab was the key to the alchemical transmutation would not have gone unmissed by him. It was why the Black Alchemist was inscribing this specific sequence of sigils and signs on his fixing markers, along with John Dee’s Monas Hieroglyphica. Yet each symbol used was being tested and continually updated in the firm belief that it would lead, eventually, to the completion of the alchemical transmutation, which for him meant immortality. All this might be so, although we were not to forget that the Black Alchemist was also a quite dangerous and clearly deranged psychopath. He was someone who would stop at nothing to fulfil his aims, whatever price he, or anyone else, had to pay.
26 The Body of Christ
Sunday, 25th October, 1987. In the ten days since the hurricane had struck southern England, Bernard had spent much of his spare time clearing up the damage done by the high winds. He had lost a number of roof tiles, a set of double gates and three sizeable trees in the back garden.
Having replaced the tiles and repaired the gates, he now turned his attention to sawing up the fallen trees sprawled across the lawn. Taking out a wood saw, he started to attack the branches of the largest of the three.
Time passed, and as the low sun began to sink towards the horizon, a sudden urge began to pull at his stomach.
Something wanted him to go up to Danbury churchyard. He felt more—a connection, somehow, with fire, and heat. He was being drawn up there and, unless he went, he would get no peace of mind. Frowning, he put away the saw and announced to his wife that he was going to Danbury for an hour or so.
Bringing his Orion to a halt alongside the small green in front of the church, Bernard saw that a group of some eight or so cars were parked on the green in front of the churchyard. There was obviously a service in progress and, noting the day and the hour, realised it was a christening.
Moving up to the church his thoughts returned to the night of the hurricane. A number of slates were missing from the building’s tall conical spire above its west tower. Still, if this was the only damage it had sustained then it was a blessing. This is what he told himself, as he entered the churchyard, which is contained within the circular bank of an Iron Age hilltop fort constructed around 2,500 years ago.
Then a sight saddened him greatly. The old horse chestnut tree where he and Andy had conducted their psychic sessions on so many occasions, had been uprooted by the hurricane and sawn into manageable segments in readiness for removal.
The scene disheartened the psychic. He had always felt inexplicably drawn to this particular tree. It exuded a warm, protective atmosphere ideal for psychic work.
Light-heartedly, they had always referred to it as ‘the centre of the universe,’ as it had appeared to be at the very heart of the hilltop site. From here they had attuned to sites all over the world. Now it was gone, forever.
42. Bernard approaches the fallen horse chestnut tree in Danbury churchyard, following its destruction during the 1987 hurricane. For a few moments he stood in silent respect to the death of a tree. Then, moving in closer, Bernard became annoyed when he saw that someone—kids most probably—had extensively burnt the area to one side of the tree stump which, although still in situ, lay on its side, like a plug twisted out of its socket. A thick layer of fine silver ash covered the charred stump and the ground around it.
He sensed the tree had suffered in more ways than one. Suddenly remembering his earlier impressions of fire and heat, the burnt tree stump now took on a new significance. He mentally focused his mind on the spot and immediately gained the impression that something—an artefact of some sort—lay secreted around its base. Glancing about, his eyes saw nothing. However, he felt drawn intuitively to a crack-like hollow, caused as the hard earth had split and fractured when the tree had overturned. It was half filled with dirt and ash, and yet his
The Body of Christ instincts told him something would be found there. Making sure no one could see what he was doing, Bernard picked up a stick and began prodding about in the hole.
Realising this was not going to solve anything, he got down on his hands and knees and felt about within the loose dirt. Unexpectedly, he caught hold of something cold, hard and metal. Withdrawing it, he picked off the encrusted earth and recognised its shape and form—it was a cast iron figure of Christ crucified, about six inches in length and five inches across. It had once been attached to a wooden cross or plaque, this seemed obvious, but how had it got there in the ground? And who had put it there, and when? Only one point was clear, it must have lain at the spot for some years and would not have been brought to the surface had it not been for the hurricane.
Flicking off more of the dry earth clogged around the metal figure, Bernard contemplated the new find and tried to open up to the situation. Just one name came to him
. It sounded like ‘Chris’, or ‘Christopher’. Yet he realised quickly it was actually Christos, the Greek rendering of ‘Christ’.
Something else told him that although the Christ figure was psychically dead, it had once contained a relevant memory concerning the purpose of its burial. Yet this was wiped clean when the fire consumed the area around the upturned tree stump.
It was a frustrating and peculiar feeling, but there was something more to it than that. Something he could not quite put his finger on.
Something seemed out of place and not quite right.
Unexpectedly, a sudden gust of wind swept through the churchyard, blowing an assortment of autumn leaves into the air. As the breeze dropped they fluttered back down several yards on from their original position.
A chill ran down his spine, sending his body into a sudden shiver. The churchyard felt unfamiliar, even a little unwelcoming—a feeling he had never before experienced at Danbury. He felt as if he was intruding, and that unseen eyes were burning into his back.
And now he felt angry.
Looking at the rest of the churchyard, he saw that out of the dozens of trees of all shapes and sizes only their tree, and one other in the adjacent hedgerow, had been torn down.
Others, taller, older and in more exposed positions, had been left unscathed. It almost seemed as if the hurricane had been selective in its targets. A bizarre thought, he knew.
He had to leave. Wrapping up the Christ figure in tissue paper, Bernard slipped it into his jacket pocket and promptly left the churchyard, perplexed by his attitude and feelings.
Danbury churchyard was different. Something was changing, and he did not like what he felt.
43. The cast iron figure of Christ found by Bernard beneath the fallen tree stump in Danbury churchyard.
27 The Foul Virgin
Tuesday, 27th October, 1987. ‘No one would have found that Christ figure had the tree not fallen down in the hurricane,’ Bernard emphasised, after revealing the story behind the artefact’s discovery just two days beforehand.
As he disappeared off to the bar at The Griffin, I carefully examined the cast iron figurine. Its reverse was hollow and several clods of oxidised earth still clung tight, like small orange growths. This oxidisation was not natural—it was the sort of effect achieved when a buried object is exposed to a great deal of heat.
No wonder any psychic residue it might have contained was destroyed by the fire, which I felt sure was not caused by kids, as Bernard seemed to believe. It had probably been lit to consume the branches and leaves removed from the tree shortly after its fall.
There were also two screw holes in its hollow back, suggesting the object had once been attached to a wooden cross. Yet since no screws were actually present it implied the figure had been buried on its own, either before the tree was planted or whilst it was still in its infancy.
Assuming the tree was around 100 years old when it was torn down, the figure had to be a similar age, meaning it probably dated back to Victorian times. But who had placed it there, and why?
The logical answer was that someone, a past Danbury parishioner perhaps, had left it at the spot as a devotional act in remembrance of someone who was buried nearby. Maybe the tree had been planted for the same reason.
We could go no further on the matter, so, on Bernard’s arrival with more drinks, our conversation inevitably switched to the subject of the hurricane.
I felt it had been a cleansing agent, cropping the countryside like a gardener might prune a tree. Although the tree would look ugly for a while, it would benefit in the long run.
Bernard disagreed. ‘Look at the way it struck. It was calculated and destructive, and hit the country under the cover of darkness. It almost seemed as if some supernatural agency had stage managed its path of terror.’
44 & 45. Above and below, trees destroyed by the Great Storm of 1987 at Emmetts House, near Ide Hill, Kent.
I explained how, during the night of the hurricane, several people known to me had experienced strange dreams and visions concerning wolves, crones and dark goddesses.
‘Well, all I saw that night were balls of electric-blue light bobbing up and down above the distant treetops,’ he said, drawing on a cigarette.
‘Did you know that the hurricane reached its peak around 4.30 am—the darkest point in the night, and the time when the human body is at its most vulnerable?’
He sat back and looked as if he knew what he was talking about. ‘More people die around four to four-thirty in the morning than at any other time of the day—just ask a funeral director!’
46. The anemogram, or wind record, from the meteorological station at Shoeburyness, Essex, showing how the Great Storm reached its maximum strength around 4.3o am on 16th October, 1987.
But what had any of this to do with us?
Bernard frowned, stubbed out his cigarette and looked serious for a moment. ‘Look, I know the hurricane was a terrible natural disaster. Even so, the winds were an elemental force of immense potency, which could easily have been tapped and utilised by those who knew what they were doing.’
Only partially understanding where he was going, I returned to the cast iron Christ figure still lying on the table before us. There was something I had just remembered which might be relevant to its discovery. A day and a half after the hurricane, during the evening of Saturday, 17th October, Bernard had picked up a clear image—his first clairvoyant vision for some time—of a metal figure of Christ crucified affixed to a wooden cross. He had seen it floating above a flickering flame of light. However, as this psychic image had entered Bernard’s mind whilst we were working on a quite separate quest, I had not made the link until now. Yet this vision appeared to take on a new significance in the light of him finding the cast iron figure out by the burnt tree stump. So, was this earlier clairvoyant image somehow relevant to the situation?
‘I had thought of it,’ Bernard admitted, picking up his drink. ‘Although I hadn’t really come to any sort of conclusion.’
For a moment, I let the subject drop. But then I thought seriously about the matter. It was a strange coincidence. Hold on, there was no such thing as coincidence in this game. It had to be connected. Surely he could see that?
‘Well, alright. I suppose it must be linked somehow,’ he conceded, forcing a grin.
Thank you. At the time, I had asked him whether he considered the crucifix to be buried somewhere, and he said it was. We were therefore meant to have found this Christ figure, and I needed to know why. Bernard seemed eager to show me exactly where he had found it, so, after emptying our glasses, we left the noisy pub and ventured out into the cold autumn air.
In the darkness, kids heading across the green towards the small hall at the side of the church were shouting, screaming and letting off fireworks.
Fireworks. Of course, Thursday week was Guy Fawkes’ Night.
Perhaps we should retire back to the warmth of the pub and come back later.
‘No, let’s carry on,’ Bernard said, uncharacteristically, as we began to pass between the groups of youths standing by the front entrance to the church.
Having forgotten to bring a torch, Bernard used his disposable lighter to illuminate the crack-like hole to the side of the upturned tree stump. In turn, we both probed the dirt and ash-filled hollow with our fingers to make sure nothing else lay hidden. Satisfying ourselves that it was empty, I asked Bernard if he would attempt to attune to the site by holding the Christ figure.
‘I don’t suppose I’ll get anything,’ he responded, as he reluctantly stood in a quiet, meditative state.
A minute or so passed.
Breaking his concentration, he shook his head. ‘No, I get nothing. Only the same name, “Christos”.’ Losing interest, he began pacing about and lit a cigarette. ‘It’s as I said. The fire has cancelled out any memory or message left in both the Christ figure and the ground.’
No way was I was going to let him give up that easily. There had to be more to th
e discovery of the Christ figure than simply this, so I asked him to go over to the other side of the path and touch another tree. Making contact with it might allow him to link in mind with any spirit presences in the churchyard.
As he reached towards its trunk, a sudden wind squall unexpectedly tore across the hilltop and hissed through the branches of the trees. I commented on this.
‘I know. Not a good sign,’ he admitted, light-heartedly. ‘I’m not sure I like it.’ Yet, calming down, he stamped out his cigarette, relaxed his mind and concentrated again.
Minutes passed, and then the information began to flow.
‘I pick up a laying to waste of good intentions caused by both the hurricane and the fire … and an opposite force to what there should be—here in the churchyard.’ He paused for a moment to work out his feelings.
‘There are odd forces abroad at the moment. Someone is working on a magical level. On the night of the storm several occult groups and individuals took advantage of the situation ... many not even known to each other. Those forces are still about.’ He paused to think about this for a moment, before adding: ‘I feel I ought to be careful.’
Another long pause followed before he turned his attention to the effects of the hurricane.
‘The gales destroyed countless millions of trees in a very short time. Each was a focal point of localised energies. Now they are no longer there, leaving gaping holes in the landscape’s normally balanced and harmonious energy matrix.
‘I see many other points like this site. All have changed. I also see and feel uncontrollable heat coming from here and other similar places across the country. Yet the hurricane also seemed selective in its targets, almost as if somebody chose which sites were to be destroyed.’
In total darkness, I tried frantically to scribble down his every word. I could not help but think of Chesca Potter’s picture of the tree sketched on the night of the hurricane. It seemed alive with flames rising from its branches. Had this been an omen of some sort? A warning of things to come?
The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story Page 20
