Anything else?
‘There’s a pathway leading from the walled battlements to an entrance porch on the south side. I also see a corner buttress.’ Another break followed to allow him to continue his sketch. Looking up, he said: ‘Beyond the wall is a stepped path and an access road, I feel.’
Could he see the castle?
‘No. No clear image of the castle. There’s something behind the church, though. I can’t see what—only feel its presence, so perhaps it’s a ruined castle.’ Those final words were thrown away as if only a suggestion.
Completing his drawing, he again concentrated on the embattled wall. ‘There’s someone there now, standing below the battlements, facing towards me. He paused for a moment to contemplate the image. ‘It’s the same person I saw in Danbury churchyard.’
Who?
‘The woman with shoulder-length dark hair in the black coat and boots,’ he unexpectedly revealed. ‘She’s wearing a black cowled cloak and is attempting to draw me to her. It’s like a pulling, but she’s weak.’
There was a period of silence before Bernard broke off his vacant gaze and placed the ape dagger down as if to signal an end to the psychometry session. ‘She’s gone,’ he announced, reaching for his cigarette packet. ‘I engulfed her image in white light and she disappeared.’
Did the ape dagger belong to her?
‘Yes, I think so,’ he confirmed. ‘She seems to be connected with this town.’
Did she live there?
‘Perhaps. Or she travels there.’
Where was this town? In Sussex?
‘No indication. It’s just vague stuff, really. Isn’t it?’
Possibly. However, the imagery itself was not vague. It was clear and precise and, judging by the accuracy of his past material, a town of this description existed somewhere, and it was my betting it was in Sussex, making it easy enough to track down and identify.
Tuesday, 8th December. ‘Sound’s like Arundel, in West Sussex,’ the bearded antiques dealer said from behind his shop counter, after having listened to the description of the town seen psychically by Bernard in connection with the ebony ape dagger.
The man had shown some interest in the Black Alchemist affair, following a couple of conversations on the subject, so I had promised to keep him informed of any new developments.
‘It has a castle perched on a hill overlooking the town, just as you say,’ he added, trying to recall his own memory of the place. ‘On one side of the hill there’s a steep drop, whilst on the other there’s some woods, I think. The whole thing is surrounded by battlements and there’s a large chapel within the walls of the castle.’
What about an access road to the castle?
‘Yes, that’s there too. All exactly as you say.’
And the castle. Is it a ruin?
‘Not that I recall. It’s years since I’ve been there, so you
might be right. Look, I’ve got a guide to the castle at home. If you’re passing this way later this week, I’ll have it here.’ It looked very much as if Bernard had been viewing Arundel.
Thanking him, I left the shop and made my way to Grindley’s Bookshop in Leigh Broadway, to take a look at the Ordnance Survey map of West Sussex.
Inside the bookshop, I looked through the display stand containing the Ordnance Survey maps. A slim female assistant with shoulder-length blonde hair and bohemian demeanour moved into view by my side. ‘Hello. What are you looking for this time?’ she asked, in a polite, well-meaning voice.
It was Debbie Newman. She was a friend and knew something of the Black Alchemist affair, so I told her about Arundel as I attempted to locate the correct map.
‘I’ve been to Arundel,’ she responded, with reserved enthusiasm. ‘The River Arun runs right through the town, and it’s about five miles inland from the sea, not far from Worthing.’
Is it a large river?
‘Yes, it is,’ she nodded.
The River Arun. That was what Bernard had seen, and no
wonder he had not felt the presence of the sea nearby—it was five miles away to the south. And Worthing. Close to Worthing, and therefore close to Clapham wood, where as far back as October the previous year, following the Running Well confrontation, Bernard had felt the Black Alchemist was involved in magical workings beyond the scope of anything we had encountered so far. This was getting interesting.
Unfolding the scarlet-fronted Ordnance Survey map, my eyes scanned the West Sussex coastline until they found first Worthing, and then Arundel.
Excitement filled me as I openly proclaimed that Arundel was a mere five miles west of Clapham, directly along the A27 road.
It seemed likely that the Black Alchemist’s female accomplice either came from Arundel or she had some connection with the town, which, being so close to Clapham, told me she might be the link between the Black Alchemist and the notorious woods and church that Bernard had mentioned as existing down a long lane there. Apparently, the whole place exuded a very unwelcoming feeling indeed.
Friday, 11th December. Having not found much on Arundel in Leigh library, I picked up the castle guide from the antiques dealer and sat down that evening to study its contents.
Seen from the river, or from the east side of the Arun valley, Arundel, it said, is a most imposing town. Clinging to a shaggy hill, the town is dominated by three architectural structures of significance: the castle, a Catholic cathedral church and the parish church of St Nicholas.
Perched high on the crown of the hill, the castle—which is not in a ruinous state—is encircled by a mass of embattled stone walls, with a keep, gateway, and history stretching back to the time of the Norman Conquest.
The castle has been the seat of the FitzAlan-Howard family, England’s premier Catholic family, since the sixteenth century. Even today their estate extends well beyond the boundaries of Arundel, and remains by far the largest in the county.
The map in the guidebook showed the embattled walls encircling the castle and containing within them a Norman keep and several other buildings. It also indicated that the only religious edifice in the castle grounds was a private chapel built into the wall itself. However, it did not have a circular path around its exterior walls, nor did it possess a churchyard with tombstones on its western side. What is more, it could hardly be described as a church by any stretch of the imagination.
The discrepancy bugged me. Everything else checked out, even Arundel’s proximity to Clapham Wood. So what was wrong?
It made me even more determined to get down to the area as soon as time and money would allow.
38 The Sword of Dardanus
Thursday, 24th December, 1987. Among the late Christmas cards scattered across the doormat that morning was a bulky package from Terry DuQuesne. Opening it, I removed the cover note.
The academic had, at last, found details of the ‘Sword of Dardanus’ and, as expected, it was the title of a powerful GraecoEgyptian ritual. He had discovered it among a collection of magical formulae and spells translated into English for a book entitled Greek Magical Papyri, edited by one H. B. Betz and published the previous year in Chicago, Illinois.
The pages containing the ritual—numbers 69 to 71—had been photocopied and enclosed in the package. A ‘P.S.’ requested that I ring Terry as he had further information to give me.
Glancing through the photocopies, just the purpose of the ‘Sword of Dardanus’ rite showed its significance. For, if successful, it: ‘Immediately bends and attracts the souls of whomever you wish.’
Memories of Bernard’s psychic material from Hallowe’en came flooding back, prompting me to digest the rest of the magical formula, which begins in the following manner:
PGM IV. 1716-1870 Sword of Dardanus: Rite which is called ‘sword’, which has no equal because of its power, for it immediately bends and attracts the soul of whomever you wish. As you say the spell, also say: ‘I am bending to my will the soul of him [or her] NN.’
THE SWORD OF DARDANUS
; Take a magnetic stone which is breathing and engrave Aphrodite sitting astride Psyche and with her left hand holding on her hair bound in curls. And above her head: ‘ACHMAGE RARPEPSEI’; and below Aphrodite and Psyche engrave Eros standing on the vault of Heaven, holding a blazing torch and burning Psyche. And below Eros these names: ‘ACHAPA ADONAIE BASMA CHARAKO IAKOB IAO E PHARPHAREI.’ On the other side of the stone engrave Psyche and Eros embracing one another and beneath Eros’s feet these letters: ‘SSSSSSSS’, and beneath Psyche’s feet: ‘EEEEEEEE’. Use the stone, when it has been engraved and consecrated, like this: put it under your tongue and turn it to what you wish and say this spell: ‘I call upon you, author of all creation, who spread your own wings over the whole world … [the ‘spell’ then continues on for another couple of hundred words, including some 40 goetic barbarous names] … Turn the ‘soul’ of her [or him] NN to me NN, so that she [or he] may love me, so that she [or he] may feel passion for me, so that she [or he] may give me what is in her [or his] power. Let her [or him] say to me what is in her [or his] soul because I have called upon your great name.’
The ritual carries on in a similar vein, although for my purposes, I had read enough. In the footnotes it pointed out that the designation ‘sword’ served as a title for certain types of magical invocation, like the so-called ‘Sword of Moses’, a Jewish mystical rite of great antiquity.
Placing down the photocopies, I brought out Bernard’s original psychic material, recorded on the night of Hallowe’en, and read it again:
Sword of Dardanus … The sword will bend souls as is wished. It will torture. Engrave ACHMAGERARPEPSEI on stone. Burn Psyche. ACHAPA ADONAIE BASMA CHARAKO IAKOB IAO E PHARPHAREI. Tie to tree and burn.
Then, in his summary afterwards, Bernard had posed the question:
Is BA using whoever Dardanus is? It relates to fire and the bending of souls in some way. It was apparent that Bernard had picked up snippets of the ‘Sword of Dardanus’ ritual. Beforehand, I had not really understood what ‘bending souls’ actually meant. Now it was clear—it was a magical formula which, if successful, would attract or ‘bend’ a person’s will using the emotion of false love and passion for the purposes of getting her, or him, to reveal the nature of their power and the contents of their mind. It almost seemed like a corrupt love spell, where a witch or wizard helps a person to gain the heart of someone they desire as a lover.
It was this outcome that the Black Alchemist’s female accomplice had been trying to achieve when she’d initiated the ‘Sword of Dardanus’ ritual by the upturned tree stump in Danbury churchyard.
Fortunately for Bernard, it had not worked.
Intriguingly, the ‘Sword of Dardanus’ involved the use of an inscribed stone in much the same way that the Black Alchemist appeared to be using them. In fact, the flint calling card, found in the hollow by the upturned tree stump, had almost certainly formed part of the ritual itself. Clearly, a conversation with Terry DuQuesne was in order at the earliest convenience.
Tuesday, 29th December. Finally, after several days of trying, I managed to reach Terry by phone. I wanted to know more about this book containing the ‘Sword of Dardanus’ formula—in particular, its availability.
‘It’s certainly not freely available in this country,’ he replied, with some confidence. ‘The first I knew of it was when I received an advertising leaflet for the book which came with an issue of The Hermetic Journal earlier this year.’
The Hermetic Journal. Yes, I knew of it. Edited by Adam McLean, it covered the subjects of alchemy, Hermetica and Rosicrucian literature. However, I was not a subscriber, and was pretty sure Bernard wasn’t either.
He continued: ‘I had to order the book direct from the publishers in the States. At £40 to £50 a copy, I doubt whether very many have found their way into this country.’
Who might possess a copy?
‘A few students of Graeco-Egyptian magic no doubt, and one or two university libraries up and down the country. That’s all. It would be of little value to anyone else.’
Were there any alternative sources for the ‘Sword of Dardanus’ formula?
‘As far as I am aware, this is the first time the ritual has been translated into English,’ Terry responded. ‘To show its obscurity, I’ll give you its history as I see it.’
The rite, Terry explained, originally featured among a collection of magical spells and incantations put together by an unknown priest magician somewhere in Egypt during the third century AD. Some of the papyri texts were written in Coptic, which evolved from the ancient language of dynastic Egypt, whilst others were recorded in an awkward form of classical Greek. Each spell contained a selection of goetic barbarous words as well as an assortment of Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek and Roman names of gods and goddesses.
This book of spells was discovered in the nineteenth century and brought back to Europe where the collection became known as ‘The Great Magical Papyrus in Paris’. Yet despite the interest shown in the collection by classical scholars, it was never translated from its original Coptic and Greek.
The collection lay undisturbed in a Paris library until the 1920s when a German classical scholar, Karl Preisendanz, decided to collect together and translate a series of GraecoEgyptian magical papyri, including the Paris collection. These were published as a three-volume set entitled Papyri Graecae Magicae, or PGM as it is abbreviated by scholars. On the lefthand page of each volume was the magical formula in its original form, and on the corresponding right-hand page was the German translation.
‘The Great Magical Papyrus in Paris’, which, of course, included the ‘Sword of Dardanus’ spell, formed about sixty pages of Section IV of the first volume of PGM, published by Verlag Teubner of Leipzig in 1928.
The subsequent volumes of PGM were published in 1931 and 1941 respectively. Virtually all the copies of the third volume were destroyed during the Second World War. However, several copies of the first two volumes did find their way into the classical sections of private and university libraries in this country. Of course, they were useless to anyone unless they read Coptic, classical Greek and, of course, German.
Even though I tried to take notes, it all seemed a little confusing to me. However, the obscurity of the ‘Sword of Dardanus’ formula was clear enough. Anyone possessing even a basic knowledge of its existence would have required an in depth understanding of Graeco-Egyptian magical papyri, and the languages behind them.
As early as 1985, Bernard had felt the Black Alchemist worked in a quiet, academic environment, like a college or university library, where access to rare books and manuscripts was easy. If so, then he would have had very little problem laying his hands on a copy of PGM.
Terry seemed troubled by my assessment of the man. ‘If this man is an academic with such an intricate knowledge of GraecoEgyptian magic, then what’s he doing poisoning holy wells?’
He was, of course, referring to the Black Alchemist’s desecration of the Running Well. In answer to this, I suggested that perhaps the man was simply a warped and rather unstable psychopath with an obsession for re-working and corrupting ancient magical formulae.
‘That might be so,’ Terry replied, a little perturbed by the thought. ‘But I almost take this business personally.
‘To know there is someone out there with an extensive knowledge of Graeco-Egyptian magic, who is corrupting it for their own vile ends is disconcerting to say the least.’
Coming from a world-renowned expert in this field, Terry’s statement seemed poignant indeed. Just who was the Black Alchemist? Could he ever be found?
Bernard had refused point blank to come up with a name and address, knowing full well that the first thing I would do was head straight down to Eastbourne and knock on his door. This Bernard did not want, for as he said: clearing up the man’s dirty work at ancient and sacred sites was one thing, but looking into his eyes was another thing altogether. Leaving the Black Alchemist as a mental construct was quite enough. Anything else, and he, Bernard, would ge
nuinely live in fear of what might happen next.
I understood and respected what he was saying, although it would never stop me searching for the Black Alchemist myself.
Changing the subject, I updated Terry on recent developments concerning the Black Alchemist’s female accomplice and her apparent link with Arundel.
‘If you want my opinion, I think you’re going to find she’s the driving force behind the Black Alchemist now,’ he said, prophetically. ‘She is the power. Mark my words.’
Terry’s closing statement about the Black Alchemist’s female accomplice being the driving force behind his current activities now played on my mind. Perhaps he was right.
The Black Alchemist was a loner who studied, schemed, brooded and then struck quickly before withdrawing to carefully plan his next move. She, however, was an altogether different animal. I sensed she was a charismatic and highly intelligent person with a lively, outgoing, sensuous personality. The sort of woman who was likely to take the bull by the horns and confront us face-to-face.
Yet no way was I going to upset Bernard by suggesting he keep an eye out for any strange women unexpectedly turning up on his front doorstep!
Maybe it would pay me to forget trying to track down the Black Alchemist for a while and instead concentrate on the woman.
I would welcome the New Year—as always—on Glastonbury Tor, Somerset’s famous landmark close to the site of the town’s famous festival. For this reason it seemed a good idea to drop down into West Sussex on the way home and pay Arundel a visit.
39 The Net Closes
Friday, 1st January, 1988. Subdued, and yet without that much of a festive hangover, Ken Smith and I left Glastonbury after breakfast and crossed the dull and wet landscapes of Somerset, Dorset and Hampshire. Low cloud enveloped the hilltops, and rain fell constantly throughout the long journey.
As the car passed from Hampshire into West Sussex during the early afternoon, we were immediately confronted by the mass devastation left behind by the hurricane. Whole forests were now a tangled mess of fallen trunks, uprooted tree stumps and twisted and broken branches. In some areas, the tops of every tree had been violently snapped off around head height, leaving them an ugly reminder of the brute strength of the terrifying winds that night. I thought that Essex had suffered badly. Yet in comparison with what I was now witnessing in West Sussex, it had got off lightly.
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