The Black Alchemist: A Terrifying True Story

by Andrew Collins

  Yes, but wasn’t that tempting fate?

  ‘I know,’ he said, with an uncertain smile. ‘And what’s more, Saturday evening I’ll be on my own. Both the wife and daughter are going out.’ He paused to contemplate the predicament. ‘I’ll give you a call if anything happens.’

  29 The Sister of Zosimos

  Later that night, in some photocopies sent to me by a colleague named Clive Harper, I found the first reference to Bernard’s ‘Theosopia’.

  Taken from a recently published book entitled Arcana Mundi (Baltimore, MD, 1985), written by Graeco-Egyptian scholar Georg Luck, a short account of Zosimos’s life and works is given. Clive was aware of my new-found interest in the fourthcentury alchemist and so had dropped them in the post.

  The book alluded to a Zosimos text entitled On Completion which, it said, was dedicated to Theosebeia, whom it described as ‘presumably a wealthy lady who was interested in Zosimos’ alchemic researches’. There was no mention of her being his sister, and the spelling was different, although there appeared to be little doubt this was the same woman Bernard had picked up on earlier that evening.

  Turning to a book entitled The History of Magic by Kurt Seligmann (New York, NY, 1948), I found another reference to Theosebeia. Here she was clearly referred to as Zosimos’s sister. Nothing else was said about her, other than the fact she was an early female alchemist.

  For a while I searched no further, having satisfied myself that Theosebeia existed, and was indeed Zosimos’s sister. But then I remembered another book that might prove useful.

  It was a weighty tome entitled Hermetica—The ancient Greek and Latin writings which contain religious and philosophic teachings ascribed to Hermes Trismegistus. Volume IV (Boston, MA, 1985), edited and translated by Walter Scott (1855-1925).

  It is a long, tedious, yet essential work that suffers much from something I hate most about academic books—the constant use of original languages without translation! In other words, it was not very helpful unless you happened to read Greek, Coptic and Latin!

  This somewhat pricey, specialist book I had purchased the previous year as it contained a lengthy chapter on ‘Zosimos Panopolitanus’. However, it had not proved of any particular use since it did not appear to contain any material on Zosimos’s extraordinary dream vision concerning the Priest of the Sanctuary, who sacrifices himself at a dome-shaped altar— imagery featured in some of the earlier Black Alchemist material.

  Regardless of this, I scanned the book’s Zosimos chapter once more and found that the alchemist’s greatest work—a series of 28 short books, 24 of which were denoted by letters from the Greek alphabet, with the remaining four being identified by Coptic letters—takes the form of a personal address to Theosebeia on the do’s and don’ts of magic and alchemy.

  Unfortunately, the surviving extracts from these books remained in their original Greek. Yet enough could be gleaned from the accompanying notes for me to get a pretty good picture of Theosebeia, and Zosimos’s advice to her.

  The notes spoke of certain persons—corrupt priests—who tried to persuade Theosebeia to do something that troubled Zosimos. They wanted her to raise ‘daimons’, which could be entreated and called upon for help by means of sacrifice. In return they promised to help anyone who would do their bidding.

  Theosebeia went on to invoke these foul creatures— something that had greatly concerned Zosimos, who pointed out that daimons rarely keep their promises. He pleaded with her to ‘Invoke the supreme God alone, and employ sacrifices, not to propitiate the daimons, but only to drive them away, or avert their malevolent influences.’

  Zosimos offered advice to Theosebeia, telling her ‘the local [daimons] are not only hungry for sacrifices, but are eager to devour your soul also, that is, they seek to destroy your soul by inducing you to offer sacrifices to them instead of worshipping the supreme God alone.’

  So Bernard had been correct. Zosimos had attempted to persuade Theosebeia from calling up the local ‘daimons’ with sacrificial offerings. He warned her also that, if she continued with these ill-advised actions, her soul would be endangered.

  Perhaps, as Bernard had suggested, Theosebeia ignored her brother’s words and as a consequence her soul had in death joined with that of the foul virgin Paphotia.

  So far, so good.

  Initially, however, I could not find any references to either Paphotia, or the ‘wizened’ old priest named ‘Nelos.’ They

  The Sister of Zosimos remained obscure until eventually I came across a book entitled The Origins of Alchemy in Greaco-Roman Egypt (New York, NY, 1970), written by Greek scholar Jack Lindsay. It contained a chapter entitled, simply, ‘Zosimos’, and bore a quote from one of the fourth-century alchemist’s works entitled On the Treatise of Magnesia, which was once again directed at Theosebeia. It reads:

  My blessed girl, turn away from the useless principles of those who confuse your ears. I have heard that you’re in converse with the virgin Paphnoutia and other uneducated persons; and you attempt to put into practice the useless and empty fables that you hear among them.

  Of these ‘other uneducated persons’, Zosimos names one as ‘Neilos, your priest’. This was the same name Bernard had picked up out in Danbury churchyard when he had encountered ‘Paphotia’, or ‘Paphnoutia’, as Zosimos calls her.

  Yet this ‘virgin’ was not some dark deity, but an actual person—one who like Neilos was a corrupting influence on Zosimos’s beloved sister. That ‘Paphnoutia’ is described as a ‘virgin’ probably implies she was an aging spinster, a crone with the appearance of a classical witch.

  If Bernard was correct, Paphotia had remained a force to be reckoned with, even in death. She had consumed Theosebeia’s own vulnerable soul, combining the two into an unimaginable psychic power that existed beyond time itself. Now the Black Alchemist had used the might of the hurricane, personified in the collective psyche as Hekate in her guise as Lykaina, the she-wolf, to manifest Paphotia in Danbury churchyard.

  The uncanny accuracy of Bernard’s psychic mind implied there was a very real threat looming—one set to challenge everything we knew about handling occult forces. It would start with whatever was going to happen on Saturday night—the night of Hallowe’en—for clearly this was not going to go unmarked.

  30 Trouble at the Tree

  Saturday, 31st October, 1987. Hallowe’en. A wrenching pain pulled at Bernard’s stomach as the mantel clock passed 10.30 pm. Something was building up—he was sure of it. It was time to leave the comfort of the lounge and move into the quieter surroundings of the dining room.

  Sitting at the table, he moved his notepad, pen and cigarettes into position, and waited patiently. Soon he sensed the presence of a supernatural entity growing steadily in power. It was a force—female, and connected somehow with the potency and use of magic spells. So who was it? Paphotia? Theosebeia? Hekate?

  An extraordinary vision now crystallised before him. It was of a deity, primeval and unblemished by time. Not good. Not evil. Just raw intelligent energy—an ancient Egyptian goddess with the perfectly formed body and dress of a woman, but with the slim neck and head of a hissing snake. Long, flowing black hair fell away from an intricate royal crown of silver bearing cow horns and a plume of feathers. In her left hand was the ankh—the ancient Egyptian symbol of life—and in her right hand she held a tall lotus sceptre. She was just there, present with him in the room, locked as one with his mind.

  He sketched her radiant form, before trying to obtain her name. A hissing voice uttered vague and indiscernible sounds that did not quite match the word he wrote next to his sketch: ‘Urtheku’ (pronounced wer-he-cow).

  Then, as promptly as she had appeared, the crystal-clear vision vanished from sight, like a light bulb being switched off.

  Yet he felt she was still around, in the air somewhere, and whether they knew it or not, it would be her power wielded by practitioners of the magical arts that night, for she was the true source of Hekate in all her different forms.<
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  Slightly unsettled now, Bernard finished off his sketch and waited for something else to happen. Then his hand began scribbling down the words of a stern male voice, which proclaimed:

  The Black Alchemist Moses smeared bush with plant root to give instant fire at a touch. He re-read what he’d written. The statement seemed innocuous enough, and it was an interesting hypothesis as well. Instant fire would have impressed the Israelite tribes, he considered, trying to recall the story of Moses and the Burning Bush.

  Time ticked by.

  When Bernard next glanced at his watch it was 11.15 pm, or thereabouts. Patiently, he waited for further psychic clues. The next came shortly afterwards as he began to feel an urge to write once more. Words, again from an unknown source, started to spray across the notepad:

  Sword of Dardanus. Seven vowels. Harmony of the seven tones. What was the ‘Sword of Dardanus’? he asked himself. ‘A rival of Solomon’, came the clairaudient response. It did not make any sense. However, he knew a little about

  using tonal notes and sounds to invoke magical forces, so that part he did understand.

  Without warning, his hand began to scribble down more words. He looked at what he’d written:

  Saraphara, Araphaira, Bramarapha. No, these made no sense to him either. Then came a distinct impression. He recalled the seven vowels and seven tones, for some reason. The tones were not sung, but made with a hissing sound, he was being told. A bit like a snake’s hiss, he suspected. Back to Urtheku? He wrote it down.

  Another voice then echoed through his mind and, as if recording a freak radio signal, his hand involuntarily moved again:

  The sword will bend souls as is wished. It will torture. Engrave ACHM ACER ARPEPSEI on stone. Burn Psyche. ACHAPA ADONAIE BASMA CHARAKO IAKOB IAO E PHARPHAREI. Tie to tree and burn.

  There was someone in Danbury churchyard. He sensed it. But not BA.

  Someone else—a female, on her own. Not just a visitor

  either.

  There were strong vibrations coming from her energy form.

  Trouble at the Tree She was up to mischief. Nothing heavy, not yet at least. No impressions of a ritual, or of her leaving anything, just walking around the church perhaps.

  Then the feelings ceased.

  She had gone.

  47. Bernard’s quickly drawn sketch of ‘Urtheku’, the Great Lady of Magic Spells, who appeared to him in vision on Hallowe’en 1987.

  Glancing at his watch, he saw it was just after midnight. She could only have been in the churchyard for ten minutes or so. No longer.

  There was no point in ringing Andy, as he would only shoot up there and find nothing. That could wait until later.

  Bernard received no more messages that night. Yet the overriding feeling left in his mind was that the female in the churchyard was, in some way, connected with the Black Alchemist. She was using this ‘sword of Dardanus’ to ‘bend souls’ in connection with the element of Fire. How or why, he did not intend finding out. No, he would leave that for Andy to sort out.

  31 The Flint Calling Card

  Sunday, 1st November, 1987. The rural housing estates of East Hanningfield and Bicknacre passed by as the car moved ever closer to Danbury. Already the tall spire of its celebrated ancient church, dedicated to St John-the-Baptist, could be seen poking out of the tree-lined ridge of hills on which the village was built.

  I had expected a rather frenzied telephone call from Bernard the previous night. However, by 12.30 am I had heard nothing, so concluded I’d been wrong about the Black Alchemist hitting Danbury on Hallowe’en.

  So if not Hallowe’en, then when? Saturday, 7th or Sunday, 8th November most probably—the weekend closest to the true crossquarter day, the midway point between the autumn equinox and winter solstice. Was this when the Black Alchemist would show his face at Danbury?

  Certainly, it was something I would discuss with Bernard when we met. Pulling up alongside the green in front of Danbury church, I locked the car and made my way to the upturned tree stump in the rear of the churchyard. It was three o’clock and, as Bernard would not be arriving until four, I decided to take a few photos.

  Even before I had a chance to take any, Bernard came into view, having decided to arrive early as well. Without further word, we took various shots of the tree stump and the hole in which the Christ figure had been found the previous week.

  Looking at the charred earth at the base of the stump, I wondered where we were going to bury the new crucifix. In the same hole as before perhaps?

  A guilty expression emerged on Bernard’s face. ‘I’ve forgotten to bring the cross,’ he now revealed. ‘It went completely out of my mind.’

  I was frustrated, but decided to improvise. Couldn’t we find a substitute of some kind, or even make one, perhaps?

  ‘I’ll look in the car,’ he suggested, fumbling in his pockets for the car keys. ‘I might have something in there we can use.’

  He disappeared and returned a few minutes later, empty handed. ‘Er, sorry. There’s nothing there,’ he admitted, with a shrug.

  I sighed.

  ‘Oh well, it was obviously not meant to be,’ he said, with a note of resignation. ‘If I went home now, by the time I’d get back, it’d be dark. I’m afraid it will have to wait until another time.’

  He was right. People I knew had seen a lady actually metal detecting in the churchyard just that week. So it was highly possible that any new artefact buried would be discovered pretty quickly, especially if it was left anywhere near the tree stump.

  Changing the subject, I asked Bernard if he had picked up anything the previous night.

  ‘Did you?’ he responded, turning the tables.

  One or two things, perhaps, but they were of little consequence. What about him?

  ‘There was somebody up here,’ he revealed, his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘A female—a girl, I think. But she didn’t stay very long—about ten minutes or so. I didn’t ring you because it was late, and you would only have shot up here and found nothing.’

  I wished he had of rung me. I might have caught her in the act. In fact, if I had staked out the churchyard then … No, I had to let it go.

  So, had he picked up on anything else?

  He stood balancing himself on the top of a sawn-up log, a contented smile on his face. ‘Loads of scribbles. See what you make of them.’

  Moving away, we entered the comparative stillness and warmth of the church interior and continued the discussion there.

  He produced a bunch of folded notes and handed them over.

  Sitting down at a pew I started to read their contents. Unfortunately, they made little sense to me either. I had never heard of ‘Urtheku’, the ‘Sword of Dardanus’, the ‘seven vowels’, or of ‘bending souls’. The only part that did seem familiar was the sequence of strange words he had written. They looked like goetic barbarous names, similar to those displayed on the stone fixing markers found at Lullington and Rettendon. One was instantly recognisable—‘IAO’—the title of the Gnostic Supreme Being, and one of the words Terry DuQuesne had identified on the Rettendon marker.

  So the academic had been right. The Black Alchemist was using goetic barbarous names to call upon arcane magical forces nearly 2,000 years old. The only other word I recognised was ‘ADONAIE’, a Hebrew name of God meaning ‘lord’ or ‘ruler’.

  Turning to the subject of the girl, I asked Bernard to tell me what he knew about her.

  ‘I know nothing more than what I said,’ he responded, moving over to the medieval knight effigies of William de St Clere and his fellow family member John FitzSimon, both set within recesses in the wall of the north aisle.

  I was almost ready to dismiss her visit. She could have been anybody. Remember, it was Hallowe’en.

  ‘No, if that was the case, there would have been no reason for me to have picked up on her presence here, would there?’

  I agreed, as we left the church and strolled back along the gravel path.

&nbs
p; ‘There must have been others who came to the church last night, but I didn’t pick up on them.’

  It was a valid point. He did not usually pick up on any old Tom, Dick or Harry who interfered with the church’s energies. No, she had to have been in the churchyard for a specific reason, so I suggested we take a closer look at the tree stump.

  ‘I think she was sizing up the place. Casing it out for some reason,’ he offered, as we approached our destination.

  At the tree, I put my hand down the hole where the Christ figure had been found, but there was definitely nothing there.

  Bernard moved around the stump and studied other cracks and hollows by the main crater. He came to an inquisitive halt in front of an earthen crevice around the other side of the stump.

  Was he okay?

  ‘I don’t know. Something going on, perhaps.’

  Did he get any feelings from there?

  He shrugged his shoulders, hands still in pockets. ‘Possibly. There seems to be a slight feeling, although it’s weak.’

  For him to say there was a ‘slight feeling’ coming from the hole strongly hinted there was something down there.

  Taking off my jacket and jumper, I rolled up my shirtsleeves, got down on my stomach and forced my hand as far as it would go into the deep, tube-like hole, which seemed to curve upwards.

  If we knew what we were looking for it might help.

  ‘Well, it must be small, as all I get is … it’s down the hole,’ Bernard responded, standing close by.

  Dirt and gravel came up by the handful. Then, as I deposited another small pile on the ground, our eyes caught sight of something out of place, and yet familiar. Staring in amazement, I snatched up the object and studied its form—it was an inch long, blunt-tipped flint of the type used in antique flintlocks.

  Scratched onto its upper surface was a Monas symbol with ‘WE CAME’ written beneath it, while on its reverse were the words ‘TO TIE’ next to a naive image of a tree.