Moon Magic

by Dion Fortune

  Some people would have said: Yes—you have the knowledge, you should use it. But such use involves a responsibility I was little inclined to incur, for if I drew Malcolm to me by an act of will, as I very well could, whatever came after would lie at my door. I have a deep-rooted horror of any form of spiritual coercion, so subtle, yet so potent. How can one be sure that one is right in judging for another when it is so difficult to be right even in judging for oneself? Yet if I were right in my judgment of the situation, what I proposed to do would not only serve the Great Goddess, and through Her, my race, but would incidentally confer an inestimable benefit upon that troubled soul across the water.

  It's a dangerous business, playing with souls,

  And trouble enough to save one's own—

  said Browning, who I have always esteemed a very wise man. He goes on, moreover, to say:

  But there was my friend with the burning coals

  He played with for bits of stone!

  This too was true of Malcolm, for the man was mishandling himself abominably. Here was he, concerning himself with the central nervous system, which is the place where mind and body meet, and in spite of his nodding acquaintance with Freudianism, he knew as much about the mind as he knew about Polar exploration. He had been a student, I suppose, in a day that knew nothing of the modern developments of psychology, which are bringing it so near to the Secret Teaching. His inner life was receiving the same kind of nutriment as fell to the lot of children of the poor during the Industrial Revolution, and with, if I were not very much mistaken, the same kind of results. That man's soul was warped all out of shape and sick unto death. And the cause? Sheer ignorance and unhygienic ethics. It was to such as he that Isis should come down in silver light.

  “When in doubt, do nothing,” is a sound maxim in magic; for the consequences of action on the inner planes are so far-reaching that one dare not risk a mis-step. Moreover, time does not count, and I, being an initiate, could afford to wait.

  So I waited. I waited so long that I began to wonder whether Isis really had any use for Malcolm. Then suddenly it was like a dam bursting, and I knew that, even as I had thought, Malcolm had judged me too dangerous to know; had reckoned that I would deflect him from his duty, and had determined to break off relations with me. I could not but admire the castiron integrity of that decision at the same time that I deplored its needlessness and folly.

  It was a curious study in telepathy, and I will record it exactly as it happened.

  I was much alone in those days; I am always alone a great deal, and with this strange business on hand I was avoiding all other entanglements and commitments till I should see how it was going to work out. I put aside my studies, even, in order that my mind might be tranquil and receptive, and was sitting quietly one evening beside my fire in the great hall. It was falling dusk, and I had put on the reading-lamp at my elbow, not troubling to cross to the door to turn on the concealed lighting that filled the great room with a soft tawny haze. The high windows stood uncurtained and dark, for though it was the night of the full moon, she had not yet risen. The ceiling was invisible in the gloom, and the far corners of the room were in shadow. Just around me, where I sat, the glow from the fire lit up the floor, but in my lap lay a pool of concentrated light from the shaded lamp, and in this my hands moved, working at one of my iridescent robes, sewing on the gold thread that lent brilliance to the soft lustre of the silk. I had, I remember, a black diamond on one hand and a black pearl on the other, and as my hands moved, the savage black flash answered to the soft lustre, like Isis and Nepthys. Then suddenly, not a yard from me, I saw the face of Malcolm. I have never seen anything so clear, short of a materialisation.

  How did I know it was not my imagination? I will tell you how I knew—the eyes were alive and the soul of the man looked out of them. If I had called up his face in my imagination the soul would not have been behind those eyes. Therefore I knew that I had not called up the image of Malcolm, but that he had come to me in an astral projection, and I wondered what it was that had brought him to the point where he had let his mind escape him.

  Did he know what he was doing? I thought so, for I had left my book with him, and if he had read it, he would have known exactly what he was doing. Then why was he doing it? That was a mystery I could not solve. I could only see that face, with its strange light eyes looking at me with concentrated attention. There was no attempt at speech and no expression on the face save of strained attention; but there it was, poised in the air before me. Whether the man were asleep and dreaming, or whether he were gazing at me with psychic vision, I had no means of knowing. There were the watching eyes, however, and there they stayed.

  From that time onwards I enjoyed the almost constant companionship of Dr. Rupert Malcolm. Sitting quietly in my chair—going down the crowded street to do my shopping—it made no difference, Malcolm would appear, looking at me with those intent, expressionless eyes.

  One night I had gone to bed at my usual time in that great bed of mine which Mr. Meatyard used to shake his head over as giving him unnecessary labour, I being a single lady. I was doing the usual meditation with which an initiate passes over into sleep, going down the long avenue of cypresses to my temple, when I found I had a companion. I had no need to look over my shoulder to see who it was, though hitherto our excursions into dream had always been over downland beside the sea.

  I turned, and looked my companion in the face; then, taking his hand in mine, I drew him level with me, and side by side we entered the Temple of Isis, priest and priestess. I took the precaution, however, of drawing close the curtain across the Holy of Holies.

  We stood beneath the hanging lamp where burns the Perpetual Light; we stood in the centre of the mosaic Zodiac which symbolises the universe and all that in it is; we stood facing the black curtain that is drawn across the Holy of Holies, and we worshiped as it is permitted to all men to worship; but to him it was not permitted to pass that curtain.

  Clearly, and repeating it again and again lest his psychism was not equal to bringing it through, I told my companion that he had the right of entry into the Temple of Isis and was free to come in to the worship. Then I left him, and myself went on through the black curtain. Concerning the Holy of Holies I may never speak, not even after this long time to explain my story. I may only say that the room is empty. Let who can pass that curtain and gain the priesthood: I may not draw it.

  I returned, and my priest was still there, kneeling where I had left him. I took his hand in mine again, and led him back, out through the lotus court and down the long avenue; at its end we parted—he to cross the river and return to earth-life, and I to the House of the Virgins for the night.

  Thenceforth I seldom had the Temple of Isis to myself. Those who worked with me at times were also aware of his presence. Some resented it, and some, with more insight, knew he belonged.

  Then, on Christmas Eve, the culmination came. I was well used to the presence of my priest by now, and it had ceased to trouble me, either waking or sleeping. I had made the usual journey in meditation to the temple, and the meditation had passed over into dream, as it should, and I was standing facing my priest under the Perpetual Light, when my sleep was disturbed. The friend with whom I was in the habit of working was spending Christmas with me, and I thought I heard her come into my room. I was annoyed, for my dream was interesting, and I did not wish to be aroused. I knew she was a nervous person, and thought she had probably come in to tell me of some foolish psychic experience. I lay still, though awake, hoping that if she saw me thus, and the matter were of no real importance, she would go away again. But instead I felt a firm grip on my upper arms. She had evidently no intention of being put off. I could not very well be an inhospitable hostess, so with an effort I roused myself—to discover that there was no one there! I knew then, with an absolute inner certainty, who had been there, and had materialised sufficiently to leave black bruises on my arms.

  I sat up in bed. This, I thought, i
s a serious matter, for that which came was a complete materialisation, and it had been projected over water. But there was nothing I could do about it, save wait and see.

  I had to wait some time before I saw anything more. Next morning there was dead silence, a complete vacuum. Malcolm had evidently succeeded in scaring himself as well as me.

  I missed my priest. The magnetic flow between us, which is the basis of the moon magic, had already begun, and I felt its deprivation. It made me feel flat, aimless, unsure of myself and my mission. But I was used to these psychic reactions and took them in my stride. They were unpleasant while they lasted, but they did not last long. I had a suspicion that although I had warned him not to speak of these things to any living person, Malcolm had taken counsel with someone who was helping him to resist my influence. I had no intention of forcing his will against his better judgment, but I had no such compunction with regard to that other person. We were, however, getting into the broken water that heralds the Vernal Equinox, and I was reluctant to try any psychic work under such circumstances. At the Equinoxes, the Vernal and the Autumnal, all contacts break automatically as the astral tides change, and it remained to be seen whether I should pick Malcolm up again or not on the new tide. I might not; if he were recalcitrant, Isis might drop him; but if I did pick him up again, I should know that the work was going through.

  And sure enough, as the swirling astral conditions came slowly to calm water after the vernal moon, there was the astral form of Malcolm again, but it was only a pale shadow of his former self. Someone had intervened. Now what was I going to do? I had the power, should I use it? I hated the idea of using it arbitrarily, for a soul is a sacred thing to me. Yet some other person had used power arbitrarily. I made up my mind that, although I would bring no pressure to bear on Malcolm, I would thrust that person aside.

  As the new moon gathered power I went up to my temple, which had already been re-sealed and re-dedicated on the new tide. I will tell what I did, for it is interesting. First I put on the Pentacles, the great signs drawn in astral fire at the four cardinal points. I was already robed in the straight black robe and silver head-dress of a moon-priestess; now I assumed the astral robes, imagining myself clad as befitted my grade. I felt the weight of the Uraeus serpent arch itself over my brow; I felt the pressure of the silver kestos on my hips. In my hand was the astral ankh as well as the terrestrial one. With this I drew the moon-signs and invoked with the greater Names of Power. The power came down. Every piece of ritual furniture, every symbol on the walls, was edged with light. The room was getting quite bright, though nothing save the lamp before the Goddess and the Perpetual Light overhead were burning in all its shadowed darkness.

  I laid the ankh back on the altar and took up the fire-wand. I traced the symbol of Fire upon the air, and little flames followed it. The smoke that was rolling off the incense in clouds became red-tinged. Then I called upon the Goddess Sekhmet, the Lion-headed One, and over my head I felt the head of a lioness formulate.

  I laid the fire-wand back on the altar and took up again the ankh, the crux ansata, the sign of life, and with it I drew the magic circle and the triangle of art. Then I called upon my priest, and called him till he came. He formulated in the triangle of art. Then, round him and myself, he in the triangle and I in the circle, I drew with the fire-wand the circle of fire. The flames rose higher and higher till they were higher than our heads; a glowing heat came off them. With my eyes I held the eyes of the form I had evoked, and saw that the soul of the man was behind them.

  “Oh beloved of Isis!” I said. “You and I are alone in the circle of fire where none can intervene. You will do your own will and no one else's.”

  Then I slowly relaxed the power. The flames died down. The man's figure faded, and I did the banishing that released the psychic tensions and restored all to normal. The room was intensely hot. I think something would have gone on fire if I had prolonged the experiment much longer. I was dripping with sweat and completely exhausted. The whole experiment, including the preliminary meditation, had occupied less than half an hour, but I was two days getting over it.

  So much did I do for Rupert Malcolm, and I had my doubts as to whether he would thank me for it. If I had known for certain that I was never to set eyes on him again, I would have looked for replacements without missing a heartbeat. But as it was, there was an insistent urge behind me which said: “This is the man for the work; he must, if possible, be got to do it. Never mind his feelings. Never mind yours. Personal feelings do not count in this matter. He will suffer and you will run risks, but the work must be put through. It is important.”

  Then came the confirmation that is never lacking when big things are afoot, for Those on the Other Side never expect one to trust blindly—my friend came to me and said:

  “I have had a strange dream. I dreamt that I was with you in the temple; and the Priest of the Moon* came to me and told me I was to tell you that you must give the message. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I do.”

  “Will you give it?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “How?”

  “In my own way,” said I. “Rest assured it will reach the person for whom it is intended; but whether he will act upon it or not is another matter.”

  * See The Sea Preistess.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was a stormy evening. The river was in flood, sand-bags were piled all along the Grosvenor Road and Mr. Meatyard had got out the heavy boards that fitted into slots across the lower part of my front door. I had put on a sou’-wester instead of my usual wide-brimmed felt hat and had gone down to the wharf to watch the flood water going past. It was a fine sight. I was absorbed in watching it oblivious of all else, when I felt a touch on my elbow.

  Taken completely by surprise, I started, my foot slipped on the wet timber, and I all but went over the edge of the wharf. I felt myself gripped from behind by a pair of hands like a gorrilla's and lifted into safety. I turned round to see the face of Dr. Malcolm, white as a sheet.

  “My God,” he said, “you nearly went in the river! I'm frightfully sorry. I'm afraid I startled you. I didn't mean to. I spoke to you, but you didn't hear.”

  “How did you know I was out on the wharf?” I asked.

  He coloured slightly. “I don't know how I knew. I just knew, that was all. I couldn't make any one hear at your house, so I came on here.”

  We turned and walked slowly back down the short street. Dr. Malcolm walked with his eyes on the ground, never looking at me and never speaking a word.

  “I am glad you have come,” I said, for the silence needed breaking. “I should have been sorry if I had never seen you again.”

  “I have been pretty hard driven at the hospital,” he replied. “They are short-handed. My junior has been ill.”

  I accepted this excuse, though I did not believe it; and presently he too thought better of it.

  “As a matter of fact, I suppose I could have come if I had really meant to; but I couldn't get things clear. I couldn't adjust the relationship between you and the woman I had dreamt about.”

  “Aren't we the same person?” said I.

  “Not altogether,” said he. “I can't imagine you doing the things I have imagined her doing.”

  I thought it best not to query this.

  We came to the big door. I inserted my key and got it open, but it was heavy, and inclined to swing shut of its own weight, and the knee-high flood-boards made entry difficult.

  “Will you give me a hand?” said I, and put mine out to him. He did so, but kept his eyes cast down, whether to avoid mine, or whether to gaze at my ankles, of which he received a good view, I do not know. So we arrived back in the house.

  “What does this place always smell of?” he asked as he came through the inner doors into the great hall.

  “Different things,” said I. “Tonight it smells of frankincense.”

  “Why do you use that sort of thing?” said
he.

  “For its psychological effect,” said I.

  He walked over to the fire, turned his back to it, and with his hands in his trouser pockets and his reefer jacket rucking over them like the feathers of an angry fowl, he stood staring into space, an extinct cigarette between his lips. It only needed a peaked cap cocked at an angle to make him look exactly like a ship's officer keeping watch. Presently he discovered that his cigarette was extinct, and pitched it into the fire.

  “I'm sick of the central nervous system,” he said.

  Who would have believed that this was the world-famous authority on the subject!

  He fished a crumpled packet of Player's out of his pocket, and lit up without asking my permission.

  “There's been a hell of a row at the hospital.”

  “What about?”

  “Me, as usual. Tell me, Miss Morgan, do you think my manners are so very bad?”

  They were, of course, simply vile, but I hadn't the heart to tell him so.

  “I think you are very absent-minded,” I said, “and that probably makes you give offense without meaning to.”

  “Why can't the fools see I don't mean to?”

  “Probably because they are fools.”

  “Yes, they probably are. But I'm a fool outside my own line, and my God, don't I know it!”

  “That is the beginning of wisdom.”

  “So I have discovered. I hadn't meant to come and see you again, you know, until I'd got things straight in my own mind.”

  “And have you?”

  “No, I haven't. They wouldn't come straight. That's why I'm here this evening.”

  I felt that this was a momentous confession, coming from him.

  “You called me,” he said, stating a fact.

  “Yes,” said I.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I wanted you.”

  “What do you want me for?”

  “That,” I said, “is a long story. You could, if you chose, be useful to me.”