Moon Magic

by Dion Fortune

  It was my task to bring certain new concepts to the mind of the race; not to its conscious mind, but to its subconscious mind, and this is done by living them. One who had knowledge once said that an adept must not merely tread the Path, he must be the Path, and this is true. It was not my task to lecture or write or appear in the public eye as is done by those who speak to the conscious mind of the race, but for the carrying out of my work I required a certain amount of cooperation. Like King Solomon, I required men and materials. The necessary money had been placed in my hands, and I could always invoke for more if I wanted it; but that in itself was not enough. Mere wealth would not create of its own accord, and the kind of background I needed was not one that could be entrusted to a professional designer.

  Moreover, I needed cooperation, and that was even less easy to procure. I needed people with gifts, but they must also have a sense of dedication. I needed people with minds, but pure intellect would not do, they must also have something of the artist in them. I needed above everything, people with that curious gift of magnetism whom I could use; and I needed, lastly, people on whom I could experiment. But it is not easy to get people to let themselves be used. Little do they know how Isis pays, and I might not tell them. For this is one of the tests of the Path—that they shall not bargain. You will remember that a certain man gave all he had to buy the pearl of great price. They give to Isis and she gives to them; but they give as men, and she gives as a Goddess. Onlookers see the sacrifice that is laid on the altar in open temple, but they do not see the initiation that takes place behind the veil. They see the candidate go down into the grave; they do not see the resurrection on the third day. All they ever know of what occurs is what they learn from those whose courage fails and who turn back, and are they the best judges?

  I knew that all I needed would be provided, and that I could draw it through into manifestation just in proportion as I had faith. Those who were behind me knew what was necessary for the work, and had made provision for it on the Inner Planes, but I and I alone could draw it through into manifestation on the earth plane. In proportion as I could realise the powers at my disposal, I could use them. It was said by them of old time that the treasures of earth were in the keeping of the gnomes, the earth elementals, and that there were spells and words of power that could compel the spirits of elemental earth to surrender their treasures; and this is true, though not after the manner that the ignorant believe. There is a life of the earth-soul, and gold is the blood in its veins and equates with that which on the subtle planes we call vital force. It is indeed the social equivalent of energy, and we exchange for it our energy of mind, body and estate and use it as the dominator thereof. It is possible to come to terms with the guardians of mineral life, and they will permit access to the unseen fountains of wealth in the earth-soul; but this power is possessed only by high initiates to whom money, as money, means nothing, for in magic we can only work with power when free from desire; desire defeats its own ends, for it is the parent of fear. So I, to whom poverty and wealth were all one, had resources placed at my disposal, and I used them to build my magical personality in the eyes of men and to make them see me as I wished to be seen.

  For the once-born cannot look into the heart, and only a few of them can interpret the subtle workings of the mind; but one can suggest to them through the eyes what one wishes them to believe. This is better than suggestion given by the spoken word, for they discount that so heavily, being versed in that art themselves.

  I, for my part, knew how little the true adept needs for his magic, but I had to work upon men's imaginations, and for that I needed a stage setting. I had to make them see me as an adept or I should never have been an adept in their eyes; and to this end I had to have about me that which should suggest the great days of the past when the cult to which I belonged was at the height of its power, so that their thoughts being turned thereto, memories might be awakened and they might come on to my wave-length.

  And so, little by little, I had collected ancient things from the old temples; and these had to be kept in a dim light so that their magnetism might not be dispersed, but gather about them and pervade the atmosphere as incense pervades it.

  I also used colours for my background, knowing their power over the mind—over my mind as well as over the minds of those who came to visit me. There is a science of colours, and we classify them in magic under the ten stations of the heavens which are the seven planets and space, the zodiac and the earth. There are also the four elemental kingdoms, but these are another matter.

  For my purpose I used the opalescent moon-colours on a base of silver; the purple that is a plum-colour and the reds that are magenta or maroon, and the blues of sea-water and the sky at night; never the strong primaries such as a man uses when he is a magus. Always the shadowy, blended colours are mine, for I am the shadow in the background.

  As for my body I had made that to be the instrument of my personality, training it, suppling it, learning its arts and its powers. Nature had not been unkind, but she had not been lavish, and I had to make of myself something that I could use for the purpose I had in hand. Being dedicated, I had the right to ask for what I needed, and I, naturally, asked for that beauty which should enable me to hold men's eyes and attention; but instead I was given insight and imagination, and with the knowledge that came from these I created my own kind of beauty.

  It was said of another: “She had the face that suits a woman for her soul's screen,” and this was true of me. My face was pure Egyptian, slightly high in the cheekbones, which makes my eyes look almondshaped; slightly aquiline as to the nose, for there was Assyrian blood in the royal caste of Egypt. My eyes are very deep-set, which makes them look darker than they really are. Seen in a good light, they are almost green—to match my tiger teeth, it has been said. I am supposed to be like Cleopatra—or perhaps Cleopatra was like me. I have an immense amount of hair of that very dark brown that is just not quite black; it is perfectly straight and sometimes I wear it in a knot on the nape of my neck; sometimes I twist it round my head in a coronet; sometimes in hot weather I let it hang in two plaits down over my breasts. Always I wear it parted in two smooth crow-wings upon my forehead as the Indian women wear theirs. For this reason people have talked of coloured blood, though my skin should give the lie to that, for it is the white of ivory, or of the great magnolia blooms that have no touch of pink in them. I am bold, even rash, in the matter of lipsticks, and I love long ear-rings. It would require Huysmans to do justice to the ear-rings I have possessed—jade, amber, coral, lapis, malachite for day; and for the night I have great jewels—square-cut emeralds; long, pale, dropshaped pearls; and all the fires of the different opals, which I adore.

  I am a little taller than middle height, and but for my length of limb could walk straight out of the shop in whatever model gown I might try on. But I never wear model gowns. I wear my own fashions, and they come from the “soft furnishings” as often as not, for there is a richness in the great breadths of the draperies that one does not find in the dress materials, and who shall say me nay if I choose to wear what was meant for the windows of a Venetian palace? I like my gowns to hang full and straight and lie upon the ground around my feet, and I wear soft sandals of silver and gold and iridescent colours.

  Then I love furs, for I am a cold-blooded creature—it is my one physical weakness; I wear furs even in the house, and I have my houses hot. I love the whole skin with the great wicked head, and I love it to be a noble one, not the little mean mask of a fox. I have the pale skin of a timber wolf, and a blue wolf verging on black; of the great cats I have a spotted jungle leopard and a lovely pale leopard of the snows from the Himalayas that the Tibetans say are the ghosts of bad lamas who die in sin.

  I like rings, too, so big that I can hardly get my gloves on over them; and bracelets like fetters on my wrists. My hands are supple with ritual, and I am as bold in my nail lacquers as in my lipsticks. I have used silver and gold lacquers, and reds so dark
that they are almost black; and iridescent lacquers that make my nails look like opals, and I wear my nails long to match my tiger teeth.

  I like my shoes to be very soft and light and supple, like gloves rather than shoes, so that I can move in them without sound. I was trained as a dancer in the days of my youth, and I know the meaning of movement—how it should flow like water. I know too how the body should swing and balance from the waist, and that this is worth more in beauty than a slender line.

  I am not, and never have been, a fashionable woman. Not that I decry the fashions; they are for some, but they are not for me. Some say that fashions are artificial, the work of the trade, but that is untrue. Fashions change because novelty attracts and stimulates. But I who am the eternal woman, the archetypal feminine—I do not speak to the surface of consciousness, the sophisticated mind that the novelties catch, but to the archaic and primordial that is in the soul of every man, and I will pit my charm against that of any fashionable woman. They may have lovers, but I have been loved.

  And I will pit my silences against their speech. Yet there is much in a voice, and the tones of a voice; they should be singing ones, even when speaking; sweet and soft on the lips, yet with reverberation behind them, for in that reverberation there is power, a strange power that beats upon the soul. I know it well, for I have used it. I shall tell presently how I use it.

  For I use colour and movement and sound and light as other women use fashions, but more important than all these is scent. I value scents highly, and attach great importance to them, for there is a whole psychology and theology of scents. The scents I employ are spicy and aromatic; the flower odours are not for me—no one has ever likened me to a flower though I have been told I am as beautiful as a leopard. Sandal and cedar and Russian leather—these are my favourites. I love also the after odour of burnt musk and the way it clings. Camphor, I like too, for its cleanliness. Of the essential oils, I use geranium, jasmine, and attar, none other. These are the psychology of scents, but of the theology there are two I esteem most highly—galbanum and frankincense—the harsh, musky, hyrcinian sweetness of galbanum that is earth of earth, and the sharp stimulus of frankincense, which is as if all the trees of Paradise were burning. I have also a taste which I have never found anyone yet to share with me—the smell of iodoform gives me pleasure.

  So much for my personality, or as much of it as I can convey in words. The rest must be told by what I do.

  As to my mundane background—my little home in the hayloft I made when I was poor, and I made it to suit myself; but, as I have said, for what lay ahead I must have a background that would make people see me as I wanted to be seen, and yet, at the same time, I did not want to be burdened with elaboration. It was in my mind that a studio flat would serve my purpose, for the studio would give me space for what I had to do, and an artist's exiguous quarters would be enough for my simple needs, provided I spent money on the bathroom, for I like a nice bathroom—a legacy, perhaps, of my Roman days. I did not easily find what I wanted. After sharp words with the house agent I decided to advertise—and learnt at a cost of much petrol the unbelievable optimism of people who have something to dispose of. It seemed strange that the work I had before me should be held up for so simple a thing as suitable premises, especially as I was not narrowly limited as to money. Upon each previous occasion when I had had to find a place for my work, it had come straight to my hand—my hayloft, my fort, had both come like that, as if I had held a wishing-stone when picturing what I wanted; yet now, with the real work just beginning, I was as badly off as Noah's raven.

  I went over again in my mind what I needed. I must have quiet, that was a sine qua non, for the work of the higher magic can be shattered by noise just as a photographic plate can be spoilt by light. I must have a place that was readily accessible, and yet a little off the beaten track so that the people who visited me should not be in any danger of running across their acquaintances. It must possess one large and lofty room in which I could entertain, and another room suitable for use as my private temple, and then such living accommodation as a single woman of simple needs might require—excepting of course, the bathroom, which I knew I should have to be prepared to instal myself, for I have yet to meet the artist who shares my views on bathrooms. All this seemed simple enough to find, and yet I could not find it.

  Then suddenly there came to my mind the memory of that dingy little church that had had such a depressing effect on me as I came into London at the end of my dreadful drive. I had never seen a property I liked less, but was it possible that this was the destined place, that had been waiting for me all those years while its To Let board gathered grime, and that the other eligible residences, knowing this, had fled at my approach in order to leave it a clear field? I only hoped this was as impossible as it sounded, but a sense of duty compelled me to give it its chance.

  It was certainly very suitable so far as position went, in its quiet culde-sac beside the river; it was well off the beaten track, for, to the people I sought, the Surrey side was as remote as the mountains of the moon, yet it was easily accessible, for one only had to cross the neighbouring bridge and one was back in civilised parts.

  So I took my little car and impelled, as I have said, by a strong sense of duty, went down to have a look at it. I went with the streaming traffic over Vauxhall Bridge and found myself in the mysterious land where Wandsworth abuts on Battersea. I had for my landmark the great chimney, standing up like a beacon with its pale plume of smoke, and yet could I find that spot where I took the wrong turning? I could not. The curse was still on me, and the little church, offended perhaps by my lack of discernment, hid its face.

  No one, neither the policemen, nor the postmen, nor the street sweepers, could tell me anything about it, and indeed it was just as well I had consulted the police early in my search or I am sure I should have been arrested as a suspicious character long before the day was out, so thoroughly did I comb that dingy district. When at length I gave it up as hopeless and made for Vauxhall Bridge, it was once again the peak hour of the evening's traffic; so, having got across the bridge, I turned along Grosvenor Road intending to slip down a by-street to avoid the congestion of the main roads. And then I saw it! The setting sun was sending low, level beams across the river, and on the far bank the stained glass of its west window lit up like a jewel.

  I turned my car so sharply that I nearly ran over a man who was crossing the road, and who, being a cross-grained individual, did not accept my apologies with at all a good grace, but told me what he thought of me, in which he was probably quite correct, for I had very nearly dispatched him to eternity. Then I told him what I thought of him, and he lifted his hat and said: “I beg your pardon, madam,” and I saw that allowances must be made for him as he had red hair. I had thought for a moment, too, that he was a doctor, and I have a liking for doctors, for a faint waft of iodoform came into the car as he stood staring at me angrily, but the old-fashioned, double-fronted house he entered bore no brass plate. If he had been a doctor, I think I should have pursued the acquaintance then and there, for there was something about that man that was rather striking, a sense of power and dynamic drive, and it was such as he that I had in mind to help me in my work. Moreover a doctor, with his special knowledge, is often very useful in occultism. But perhaps it was just as well I had no designs on this individual, for not only was he in a very bad temper from having been half run over and wholly scared, but he must have been a dour type at the best of times, and encased in the plate armour of middle class convention and professional prestige. A professional man I judged him to be from his be-damned-to-you air when angry, which is not developed by those who serve either God or Mammon.

  * See The Sea Priestess

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I had no difficulty in finding my church after that, and a very few moments’ driving brought me to it. But how different it looked now. Then it had seemed sinister. It had rather lovely lines, as if some one had cut down a cathedral,
and with its pantiled roof rising to a lantern it looked like a little bit of Italy. The London grime that lay thick upon it had caused the soft stone of its facing to weather rapidly, giving it an air of antiquity to which it was not entitled, being, if the truth were known, a bit of Victorian Gothic toned down by dirt.

  The To Let board stated that a caretaker was within, so I beat upon the door with an enormous knocker, raising such a din that I thought I should bring the whole district to its doors; but nothing happened; not even a fold of the Nottingham lace curtains all down the road was stirred by an inquisitive hand. I did not repeat the fusillade—if the caretaker were within he would have come rushing out—and was making a note of the address of the agents, when there issued from a little house tucked away under the wing of the church which looked like a gatekeeper's lodge on a country estate, a man in a bowler hat. The To Let board had not been strictly accurate; the caretaker was alongside, not within.

  There is something about bowler hats that always rouses my prejudices, they are so offensively unexceptionable. No man whom I have called friend has ever worn one. Slouch hats; pork pies; Trilbies; Homburgs: cloth caps; even, under certain circumstances, billycocks, but never a bowler among them. But this was not an ordinary bowler—it had been tarred! This went a long way towards removing my prejudices, for I had never before known a man who tarred his hats. There was a vaguely horsey air about this individual, and I guessed, and subsequently found I was right, that he was a retired cabby.

  “D'ye want to see the plice, lidy?” he enquired.

  I said I did, and he produced from his hip-pocket a key so huge that it would certainly have prevented him from sitting down if he had carried it in the more accessible trouser pocket. The heavy door creaked on hinges so corroded that it was evident he thought that the light of his countenance on its exterior was all the caretaking the property needed. However, although it was close and un-aired, the place did not smell damp.