Raising Hell: A Concise History of the Black Arts and Those Who Dared to Practice Them

by Robert Masello

  At this point, the magician could relax a little, but not a lot. For although the spirits had taken on a gentle appearance and were for the moment behaving themselves, they were still an antagonistic force, lying in wait for their first opportunity to sow doubt or fear in the mind of the sorcerer or trick him into doing something stupid. His best bet was to make his demands of them, or ask for the information he sought, as quickly as possible, while his strength and senses were intact.

  As soon as that was done, as soon as he’d gotten what he was after, he could begin the rituals prescribed for dismissing the spirits. As these rites were performed, the spirits would regress, going backward through all the same stages and transformations that had announced their coming, until they vanished in a sulfurous cloud.

  Then, and only then, could the magician safely poke his toe outside the confines of the sacred circle.

  According to a celebrated account from eighteenth-century England, an Egyptian fortune-teller named Chiancungi made a fatal mistake. On a bet, he accepted the challenge of summoning up a spirit named Bokim. He drew the magic circle and installed himself and his sister Napula inside it. Then he went through all the necessary steps and recitations—to no apparent avail. Nothing showed up. He tried to conjure the spirit, over and over again, until he gave up in disgust and stepped outside the magic bounds. The moment he did, he and his sister were set upon and crushed to death by the invisible spirit, which had been silently lying in wait for them the whole time.

  PENTAGRAM AND HEXAGRAM

  In addition to the magic circle, there was another sacred shape that provided the magician with a powerful measure of protection—and that was the pentagram. A five-pointed star, the pentagram was to be drawn around the rim of the larger circle and again just inside it. Demons, it was thought, had an inborn fear and loathing of the pentagram.

  Why? With demons, it’s never easy to say why they felt or behaved the way they did. But according to some early theologians, the five points of the pentagram stood for many things that demons, unnatural creatures that they were, felt a quite natural aversion to—the living, breathing world of nature, for one. The five points could be thought to represent the four elements of which the world was believed to be composed—earth, air, water, and fire—plus the quintessence of them all. Or the four points of the compass and its center. Or the five wounds inflicted on the body of Christ. Or—and this was considered very significant—man himself. With arms and legs extended, a human being could be viewed as a five-pointed star (the head being the fifth point), and man was often said to be the embodiment, the microcosm, of all of nature. And what could be more repulsive than that to a creature of the dark, bent on destroying order and goodness at every opportunity?

  If, however, a magician wished to issue a clarion call to the forces of evil, the pentagram was good for that, too. All that he had to do was turn it upside down, so that its two lower points were now on top, symbolizing the reversal of the natural order and pointing upward like the Devil’s horns: “It is the goat of lust,” the magician Eliphas Lévi wrote, “attacking the heavens with its horns.” This particular configuration was also known as the Goat of Mendes, because the inverted star roughly resembled the shape of a goat’s head. When used for such black and nefarious purposes, the pentagram was sometimes called the footprint of the Devil or the sign of the cloven hoof.

  In the manuals of the Order of the Golden Dawn, a nineteenth-century mystical order, the overturned pentagram was recommended whenever “there may arise an absolute necessity for working or conversing with a Spirit of an evil nature.” Even so, it was a good idea to write inside the pentagrams the names of power—the ancient Hebrew Tetragrammaton, for example, and other such names as Hallya, Ballater, Soluzen, Bellony, and Hally—so that once the devils did appear, they didn’t get out of hand.

  In The Tree of Life, Dr. Israel Regardie, who wrote four volumes on magic and the Golden Dawn between 1937 and 1940, went so far as to suggest that the actual physical laying out of the pentagram was a waste of time and chalk. If the sorcerer had sufficient powers of imagination (and if he didn’t, why was he mucking around with sorcery at all?), he could simply imagine his protective pentagram “on the Astral Plane in glowing figures of fire, so that through the streaming lines of light and power, representative of the spiritual being, no lesser entity of any kind dare make its way. . . . The blazing five-pointed star is like the flaming sword which debarred Adam from the Edenic paradise.”

  To go that extra mile, a magician might also construct—on this plane or the astral one—a hexagram. Created by laying one triangle upside down on top of another, this six-pointed star was also known as the Seal of Solomon. Solomon himself, the king of Israel, was said to have worn a ring with the seal on it, and engraved with the real name of God, which gave him the power to control and corral the spirit world. Using the ring, he was able to get the demons to help build his temple for him. Furthermore, the ring allowed him to travel, each day at noon, up into the Firmament, where he could listen in on the secrets of the universe. (Legend has it that the Devil was able one day to persuade Solomon to take the ring off his finger; the moment he did, the Devil assumed his shape, and Solomon had to wander in distant lands for three years until he could get his throne back.) For alchemists, the two triangles of the hexagram symbolized fire (an upward-pointing triangle) and water (a downward-pointing triangle), making the figure as a whole the ideal sign for the elusive philosophers’ stone, thought to be an amalgam of the two elements.

  THE GREAT GRIMOIRES

  Any sorcerer worth his salt had a grimoire, or book of black magic, on which he relied for all the necessary instruction and advice. Raising spirits was a devilishly difficult and dangerous task: first, you had to conjure them up, then you had to keep control of them long enough to get them to do your bidding, and finally you had to make sure you got rid of them safely and soundly and that you managed to hang on to your own soul throughout the whole process.

  None of this was easy.

  The great grimoires (which meant, literally, “grammars") were weighty and seemingly impenetrable books, often written in ancient tongues, filled with confusing and arcane lore, meant by their very obscurity to fend off dilettantes and amateurs and reward the wizard willing to put in the required time and effort. If you could get through the grimoire itself, you were halfway to meeting a demon.

  Two of the most venerable of these books were known as the Key of Solomon, or Greater Key, and the Lesser Key of Solomon (also called The Lemegeton). Some believed that these Keys were written by King Solomon himself; others believed they were written by devils and entrusted to the king. They came to be called Keys after the lines in Matthew 16:19, in which Jesus says to Peter, “And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” These books, it was thought, held the power to unlock occult powers and wisdom.

  The ruler of Israel in the tenth century B.C., Solomon was widely regarded as a master magician, one who could control the spirits and get them to do whatever he desired. It was even said that he had marshaled their forces to help in the building of the Temple in Jerusalem. In the Greater Key, he set out all the necessary steps for summoning a spirit and keeping hold of the reins, as it were, once you had. The book also included the fasting and purification rituals to which the magician must submit himself before trying any such conjuration, along with practical advice on what to wear, what equipment to use, how to go about drawing the magic circle, etc.

  The demon Belial presenting his credentials to Solomon. From Jacobus de Teramo’s Das Buch Belial, printed at Augsburg, 1473.*

  In the Lesser Key, which was often thought even more useful, Solomon left off with the general advice and really got down to brass tacks. In the first section, entitled “Goetia” ("magical arts"), he described just how to conjure up seventy-two chief demons and their respective
ministers. In the second, “Theurgia Goetia,” he discussed spirits and their main characteristics. In the third, the “Pauline Art,” he ran through the angels of the hours and the days, and the signs of the zodiac; and in the fourth, the “Almadel,” he described the angels who presided over the altitudes, as the compass directions, north, south, east, and west, were then called.

  According to legend, both of these Keys were buried under Solomon’s throne, where they would have stayed forever if it hadn’t been for the intervention of some troublemaking demons. After Solomon died, the demons whispered where the books were hidden to a few of the king’s courtiers, who promptly dug them up and unleashed all kinds of trouble on the world.

  In addition to the two Keys of Solomon, there were other grimoires, which were also considered hallmarks of the occult trade. They shared a great deal of common advice on the proper ways to invoke the infernal powers (for the space of an entire quarter of the moon, the sorcerer was advised to keep his thoughts centered on the task before him, to eat no more than two meals a day, to sleep little, change his clothes as infrequently as possible, etc.), along with words of wisdom on how to thwart the demons’ own evil intentions.

  In one such book, the Grimoire of Honorius, a veritable catalog of the fallen angels was offered, along with advice on how to raise them. Credited to Pope Honorius III, who succeeded Innocent III in 1216, it pretended to carry the imprimatur of the papacy and was first published in Rome in 1629. Heavily freighted with Christian formulas and benedictions, it not only instructed priests in the arts of demonology but virtually ordered them to learn how to conjure and control demons, as part of their job. The brief introduction reads surprisingly like a modern-day sales pitch: “But until the time of this Constitution,” it says in part, “only the Ruling Pontificate has possessed the virtue and the power to command the spirits and invoking them. Now his Holiness, Honorius III, having become mellowed by his pastoral duties, has kindly decided to transmit the methods and ability of invoking and controlling spirits, to his brothers in Jesus Christ, the revered ones.”

  What followed the introduction claimed to be a papal bull, or edict, from Honorius himself, addressed to all the brethren of the Holy Roman Church. “In the times when Jesus, the Son of God, the Saviour, of the tribe of David, lived on this earth: we see what power he exercised over Demons. This power he passed on and communicated to Saint Peter with these words: ‘Upon this Rock I shall build my Church, and the Gates of Hell shall not succeed against it.’ “

  The bull goes on to explain that although this power over infernal spirits had indeed resided only in the pope until that time, Honorius now felt every priest and deacon, abbott and archbishop, ought to know how to perform such feats: “We feel that while exorcising those who are possessed, they [the clergy] might become overcome at the frightful appearances of the rebellious Angels who were thrown into the Pit for their sins, for they may not be well enough versed in the things which they should know and use; and we desire that those who have been redeemed by the Blood of Jesus Christ should not be tortured by sorcery or possessed by a demon, and so we have added to this Bull the unchangeable manner whereby they may be invoked.” That said, the book conferred upon its readers not only the powers of demonic invocation but a sort of papal permit for doing so.

  The Grimorium Verum, or True Grimoire, which was printed in 1517, claimed to be a translation from the Hebrew and borrowed heavily from both of the Keys of Solomon. Its publisher was listed as “Alibeck the Egyptian” and its place of origin was given as Memphis (as in Egypt, of course). It was divided up into three sections, but the organization wasn’t very strict. Overall, the book was a nuts-and-bolts outline for the invocation of demons: “In the first part,” states the grimoire itself, “is contained various dispositions of characters, by which powers the spirits or—rather—the devils are invoked, to make them come when you will, each according to his power, and to bring whatever is asked: and that without any discomfort, providing also that they are on their part content; for this sort of creature does not give anything for nothing.”

  There were two kinds of pacts, the grimoire explained, “the tacit and the apparent,” and only by reading the book would you know one from the other. “It is when you make a pact with a spirit, and have to give the spirit something which belongs to you, that you have to be on your guard.”

  As for the spirits themselves, there were many you could call upon, but three who were referred to as the superiors. They were Lucifer, who directly lorded it over Europe and Asia, Beelzebub, who resided in Africa, and Astaroth, who lived in the New World of America.

  In appearance, these spirits were quite malleable. Because, as this grimoire contended, they didn’t really exist in a corporeal form of their own, they had to find a body to inhabit, “and one suited to their (intended) manifestation and appearance.” Lucifer, the great deceiver, often chose to appear as a handsome young boy, with “nothing monstrous about him.” But if he got angry—not an uncommon occurrence—he turned bright red.

  Beelzebub, on the other hand, opted for a more conventionally frightening look, appearing sometimes as a gargantuan cow or as a male goat with a long tail. When he got angry, he had a tendency to vomit flames.

  Astaroth appeared as a human being, cloaked in black. Once a seraph in Heaven, Astaroth had fallen with Lucifer and been made a great duke of the infernal regions.

  Each of these three had a couple of lieutenants they could dispatch to do their dirty work; in addition there were dozens of freelance demons that the well-versed sorcerer could call upon for specific tasks. Although their names and powers differed according to the particular manual being used, in the Grimorium Verum eighteen of these demons were listed, along with their specialities:

  Clauneck can bestow riches upon you and uncover buried treasure.

  Muisin can sway the minds of great lords and offer strategic and political advice.

  Bechaud has power over many natural forces, including rain and hail, thunder and lightning.

  Frimost can control the bodies and minds of women and girls.

  Klepoth can provide you with insightful visions and dreams.

  Khil can create earthquakes on demand.

  Mersilde can magically transport you anywhere, instantaneously.

  Clisthert can turn the day into night, or the night into day, whenever you feel the need for a sudden change.

  Sirchade can introduce you to any one of a huge assortment of animals, both real and supernatural.

  Hicpacth can deliver to you anyone you want to see, from whatever distance, in the batting of an eye.

  Humots can provide you with any book you want.

  Segal can make all kinds of prodigies appear.

  Frucissiere can bring the dead back to life.

  Guland can inflict any kind of disease.

  Surgat can unlock anything.

  Morail can bestow invisibility on anyone or any object.

  Frutimiere can serve up any feast you desire.

  Huictiigaras can put you to sleep or create insomnia.

  In the third part of the Grimorium Verum, all of the invocations and rituals that the magician had to go through, step by step, were described. If he actually expected to raise a spirit and get it to do his bidding, he had to follow the instructions to the letter—which wasn’t at all easy. The instructions were convoluted, time-consuming, and often nearly imcomprehensible. But even so, the Grimorium Verum was considered far more precise and authoritative than most of the other manuals of black magic.

  To begin with, the sorcerer had to purify himself. The “Ablution of the Sorcerer,” as it was called in the Grimorium Verum, began with these words: “Lord God Adonay, who hast made man in Thine own image and resemblance out of nothing! I, poor sinner that I am, beg Thee to deign to bless and sanctify this water, so that it may be healthy for my body and my soul, and that all foolishness should depart from it.” With the blessed water, the sorcerer was to wash his face and hands, and onl
y then could he go about preparing the instruments he’d need to perform his magic.

  There were lots of instruments.

  First, there was the knife or lancet, which had to be made “on the day and hour of Jupiter with the Moon crescent” (or, in other words, it had to be new); the magician then had to recite a lengthy conjuration over it, followed by the Seven Psalms.

  Then there was what was known as the sacrificial knife, “strong enough to cut the neck of a kid with one blow,” which also had to be new, and had to have a wooden handle made at the same time as the steel. Four magical characters were to be engraved on the handle.

  Once you had the knife, it was necessary to cleanse it in the blessed water and fumigate it over a coal fire. Aromatic branches and perfumes—aloe and incense and mace—were to be added to the blaze so that the knife was made fragrant, too. Again, there were prayers to be recited over the blade.

  A virgin parchment was also indispensable; most of the time it was made from the skin of a goat, lamb, or other unfortunate virgin animal. The creature was laid on a flat surface before having its throat cut “with a single stroke ... do not take two strokes, but see that he dies at the first.” After the animal was skinned, “take well-ground salt, and strew this upon the skin, which has been stretched, and let the salt cover the skin well.” Needless to say, the salt, too, had to have an extensive benediction performed over it first.

  When the skin was dried, blessed, and fumigated, it was ready for use—provided none of these preparations had been observed “by any women, and more especially during certain times of theirs, otherwise it will lose its powers.” The parchment was used for the writing of spells and for the holy names of power that would keep the sorcerer safe from the demons he’d summoned.