“Some take a small piece of buried corpse,” wrote Paolus Grillandus, a sixteenth-century witch judge, “especially the corpse of anyone who has been hanged or otherwise suffered a shameful death,” and employ it for occult purposes. Very little of the corpse went to waste: “the nails or teeth . . . the hair, ears, or eyes . . . sinews, bones or flesh,” all of these, according to Grillandus, were put to some use. In an even grimmer note, the flesh of unbaptized babies was much sought after; their graves were often desecrated as a result. Isabel Gowdie, the Scottish witch, once dug up the body of a freshly buried infant and buried it in a farmer’s manure pile, as a way of putting a curse on him and his crop.
Not surprisingly, the Christian church took a very dim view of all this. The Bible inveighed against such practices—Saul and the Witch of Endor as a case in point—and the third-century theologian Tertullian roundly condemned anyone who would disturb or desecrate a grave. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the church was even arguing that these spirits were nothing more than demons taking on a mortal disguise. William Perkins, in his 1608 Discourse on the Damned Art of Witchcraft, wrote that “the Devil being sought unto by witches appears to them in the likeness of a dead body.”
DEMONS IN THE COLISEUM
Although Benvenuto Cellini was best known for his brilliance as a goldsmith and artisan to popes and princes, he was also a devoted fan of occult studies, and recounted in his autobiography several harrowing experiences with the denizens of the otherworld.
Once, having met a Sicilian priest who was reputedly skilled in the black arts, Cellini confessed to him his great interest. “A stout soul and a steadfast must the man have who sets himself to such an enterprise,” the priest replied, and Cellini, never one to duck a challenge, a fight, or a romantic assignation, immediately said that he was ready for anything. “If you have the heart to dare it,” said the priest, “then I will amply satisfy your curiosity.”
The next night, the priest, his assistant, Cellini, and a friend entered the Coliseum. The priest gathered everyone around him, drew the magic circle, and assigned each one of them a task: the necromancer-in-training was told to hold the pentagram, while Cellini and his friend were instructed to keep the fire burning; they were also told to feed the flames with various perfumes, or noxious weeds. As for the priest, he recited the necessary incantations for the next hour and a half, until he declared that the Coliseum was now filled with legions of devils.
“Benvenuto,” he said, “ask them something,” and Cellini requested that the infernal horde reunite him with Angelica, his Sicilian mistress. But the devils wouldn’t say yes or no. The priest dismissed them for the night and told Cellini they’d have to try again.
On their next pass, they brought with them, at the priest’s request, “a little boy of pure virginity.” Again, the priest drew the magic circle, and again he recited the prayers in Hebrew, Latin, Greek; he called upon the lords of the infernal world to bring their legions with them, and in no time “the whole Coliseum was full of a hundredfold as many as had appeared upon the first occasion.” Cellini reiterated his earlier request, and this time the priest said, “Hear you what they have replied; that in the space of one month you will be where she is?”
Cellini would have been happier to hear it if he hadn’t noticed that the priest himself was now quaking with fear. The demons he’d summoned were so numerous, and so fierce, that the priest was afraid he’d never be able to get them peaceably to go. The little boy, who claimed he could see four giants trying to force their way into the magic circle, stuck his head between his knees and cried, “This is how I will meet death, for we are certainly dead men!”
But Cellini plucked up his courage and rallied the others; he had them throw more foul-smelling weeds on the fire. And eventually, the devils departed. By the time the matin bells had begun to ring, it appeared to be safe to leave the circle and make their way home. The priest threw off his necromancer’s robe, picked up the pile of books he’d brought, and they all left the Coliseum, “huddling as close as we could to one another,” Cellini recalled, “especially the boy, who had got into the middle, and taken the necromancer by his gown and me by the cloak.”
But what of the devils’ promise? Cellini got into a terrible scrape a short time later—knocking a man out in a street fight—and had to get out of town fast. He wound up in Naples, staying at an inn where, lo and behold, a fellow guest was his Sicilian mistress, Angelica. “While drinking deep of this delight,” he writes, “it occurred to my mind how exactly on that day the month expired, which had been prophesied within the necromantic circle by the devils. So then let every man who enters into relation with those spirits weigh well the inestimable perils I have passed through!”
FRIAR BACON
When it came to estimating the dangers of conjuring up demons, no one was more persuasive than Roger Bacon, the Franciscan friar.
In his Discovery of the Miracles of Art, Nature and Magick, written in the thirteenth century, Bacon argued that “there is a more damnable practice, when men despising the Rules of Philosophy, irrationally call up Wicked spirits, supposing them of Energy to satisfie their desires. In which there is a very vast errour, because such persons imagine they have some authority over Spirits, and that Spirits may be compelled by humane authority, which is altogether impossible, since humane energy or Authority is inferiour by much to that of Spirits.” It was a lot easier to get what you wanted, Friar Bacon went on, by invoking “God, or good angels"—though he doesn’t seem to have stuck to his own advice.
Throughout his life, Bacon wrote learned tracts and essays, extolling the virtues of art and nature, praising science over superstition, devout prayer over magic. But if there’s any truth to the many legends that surround his name, he never quite gave up on magic. He studied alchemy, astrology, and necromancy; he believed strongly in the power that incantations might possess, admitting that “all the miracles since the world began, almost, have been wrought by words.” And he warned often that the Antichrist would one day come, and use these powers—both natural and magical—to bring destruction on the world.
Born in 1214, near the town of Ilchester in Somerset, Bacon studied at Oxford, taught there, and later moved to Paris; it was while he was in France, and already a member of the Franciscan order, that he first ran into trouble; in a letter to the pope, he complained that “the Prelates and Friars have kept me starving in close Prison nor would they suffer anyone to come at me, fearing lest my Writings should come to any other than the Pope and themselves.” This at least piqued the interest of the papal office—what could this humble friar be writing that was so dangerous? Bacon was asked to forward a copy of his work so the pope could see what all the fuss was about, and Bacon did so, sending on his Opus Majus, Opus Minus, and Opus Tertium.
In these works, Bacon described a world of wonders, of instruments, experiments, and techniques that could be used to plumb the depths of the natural world. He outlined what could be a diving suit for the exploration of the ocean floor and recounted experiments with niter that foretold the discovery of gunpowder. In the Opus Tertium, a kind of overview of the first two books, he predicted the use of “burning glasses which operate at any distance we can choose, so that anything hostile to the commonwealth may be burnt—a castle, or army or city or anything; and the flying machine, and a navigating machine by which one man may guide a ship full of armed men with incredible speed; and scythe-bearing cars which full of armed men race along with wondrous machinery without animals to draw them, and break down or cut through all obstacles.”
It’s easy to see why such suppositions were considered so volatile; weapons like these, in the wrong hands, could indeed do the Devil’s work. Although he was released from his confinement and returned to Oxford in 1268, his life remained one of trial and turmoil. Imprisoned again ten years later, once more for his writings, he spent fourteen years under arrest. Which makes it all the more amazing that by the time he died, most probabl
y in 1294, he had left behind him such a legacy of stories and adventures. In sixteenth-century England, there was a Bacon revival of astounding proportions.
Among other things, he was credited with having invented, while at Oxford, two magical mirrors. One of them could be used day or night to light candles. The other was far more astonishing—it could reveal what someone else was doing, anywhere in the world, at that precise moment. Legend has it that two young noblemen asked to see their fathers in the mirror, and when they did, they saw them with drawn swords, fighting a deadly duel with each other. The two sons instantly drew their own swords and engaged in a fatal duel of their own—much to Friar Bacon’s dismay.
Bacon was also a great patriot, and he dreamed of one day defending the entire English coastline with an insurmountable wall of brass. But as present engineering techniques did not allow for anything so monumental (for that matter, neither do today’s), he decided to start small, and build a talking brass head that would tell him how to do it. (Strangely enough, these talking brass heads were considered nothing very extraordinary to construct; Robert Grosseteste, bishop of Lincoln, was said to have made one, Albertus Magnus another, and even the ancient Roman philosopher Boethius reportedly had one on hand.) Bacon built his according to all the specifications, but for some reason it wouldn’t talk.
Much frustrated, Bacon and his trusted assistant, Friar Bungay, went to the woods one night and raised a demon to ask it what the problem might be. After demurring at first, the demon finally told them what to do and said the head would talk in one month’s time, though he couldn’t say at exactly what day or hour. He warned the friars that if they didn’t hear it before it had finished speaking, all would be lost.
Consequently, the two friars went on a round-the-clock vigil. But after several weeks of constant attendance on the head, they decided to get some rest one night and delegated the responsibility to Miles, their servant.
And of course, that night turned out to be the fateful one. The head opened its brass jaws and said two words, “Time is,” but Miles didn’t think this was important enough to wake his masters for.
Some time later, it said, “Time was,” but again Miles figured this was pretty inconsequential stuff; in fact, since the head had so little to say, Miles started to jeer at it and sing bawdy songs.
Half an hour more passed, and the head, unhinging its jaws one last time, said, “Time is past,” and exploded into a thousand pieces. Bacon and Bungay, awakened by the deafening roar, raced into the room, but too late to learn anything from the smoldering ruins.
On a separate occasion, however, Bacon did come to the aid of his country (or so legend has it). Using one of his burning glasses, the English army was able to set fire to a French town they were besieging. The French garrison surrendered, a treaty was signed, and a grand fête was held to celebrate the generous terms of the newfound peace.
As part of the festivities, a magical contest was held, with Bacon pitting his skills against a renowned German sorcerer named Vandermast. Vandermast led off by conjuring the spirit of Pompey, in full martial dress, ready to fight the battle of Pharsalia. Bacon, not impressed, summoned the spirit of Caesar, who engaged and, once again, defeated Pompey. The English king was pleased with his friar’s work.
But Vandermast said he was ready for another round. Bacon said he’d let Friar Bungay handle this one. Bungay waved his wand in the air, uttered some incantations, and made the tree of the Hesperides appear before the celebrants, adorned with its golden apples, protected by its watchful dragon. Vandermast took one look and knew just what to do: he summoned up the shade of Hercules, who had slain the dragon and plucked the fruit. The famous warrior was ready to enact his victory all over again when Bacon stepped in to save the day; he waved his wand and Hercules stopped dead in his tracks.
Vandermast, furious, shouted at Hercules to carry on. But Hercules, trembling, said he couldn’t do that—not with a superior power like Bacon’s telling him not to.
Vandermast cursed the ancient shade, and Bacon laughed. Then, to seal the victory, Bacon said that since the spirit wouldn’t be following Vandermast’s instructions, it might as well follow his: he commanded Hercules to carry Vandermast home to Germany, which the spirit obligingly did, throwing the rival magician over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. When the crowd cried out, sorry to lose one of the competitors so completely, Bacon relented, and said Vandermast would just be in Germany long enough to say hello to his wife, and then he’d be back at the celebration.
This contented the crowd—but not Vandermast. Angry and humiliated, he later paid a Walloon soldier one hundred crowns to travel to England and kill the friar. But Bacon, who’d consulted his books of magic, knew that the assassin was coming and was ready for him when he sprang out with his sword drawn. Bacon knew that the man was an infidel, one for whom the fires of Hell were just a story. So Bacon, to convince him otherwise, conjured up on the spot the shade of Julian the Apostate; his body besmirched with gore, his skin crackling with flame, the ghost confessed that this was the torment that it had to endure for its apostasy. The Walloon fell to his knees in terror and instantly became a convert to Christianity. In fact, he went on to join the Crusades, where he died fighting for the return of the Holy Lands.
Despite Bacon’s protestations of his own faith, he was commonly thought to have come by his magical powers by making a deal with the Devil. How else, people reasoned, could he perform all these feats? But even there, Bacon’s genius was thought to have prevailed. In return for his skills, Bacon was said to have promised the Devil his eternal soul, on but one condition—that he died neither in nor out of a church. The Devil, thinking this was a pretty safe bet, agreed. And Bacon, during the last two years of his life, built and lived inside of a tiny cell in the outer wall of a church—neither in the church nor out of it.
There, he spent all his time, praying, meditating, having his meals delivered to him, talking to his visitors through a small window. When he died, his bones were interred in the grave he’d dug, inside the cell, with his own fingernails.
THE BELL OF GIRARDIUS
For those of a more squeamish disposition, who wished to avoid digging up coffins or cracking open tombs, there was a more delicate method of summoning the dead, and this was a magic handbell invented by the necromancer Girardius.
In a document dated 1730, and now housed in the Bibliothéque de l’Arsenal in Paris, the bell is described and diagrammed and its usage explained. Surprisingly, all of this is done in relatively clear and concise French (most such tracts were written in Latin, of purposeful obscurity). If the document is to be believed, the bell can summon the spirits of the dear departed with the same efficacy as a dinner bell brings family members to the kitchen table.
But first, as with any occult exercise, many careful steps had to be taken. The bell itself had to be cast of an alloy of lead, tin, iron, copper, gold, silver, and fixed mercury. These various metals must be melded “at the day and hour of the birth of the person who desires to be in confluence and harmony with the mysterious bell.” Near the top of the bell, the necromancer must engrave the date of his birth and the names of the seven planetary spirits needed to make the incantation work; in order, these spirits were Aratron for Saturn, Bethor for Jupiter, Phaleg for Mars, Och for the sun, Hagith for Venus, Ophiel for Mercury, and Phuel for the moon. Below these names, and around the bottom rim of the bell, he was to write the ancient Hebrew formula Tetragrammaton. As for the wooden handle, on one side of this the necromancer was instructed to carve “Adonai” and on the other side “Jesus.”
When the bell was ready, the magician was to wrap it up in a swatch of green taffeta, and under cover of darkness take it to the cemetery. There, he dug a hole in a gravesite and buried the bell in the dirt for one week. In theory, lying undisturbed in the grave this way, the bell absorbed from the neighboring corpse “emanations and confluent vibrations” which would give it “the perpetual quality and efficacy requisite when you
shall ring it for your ends.”
When it came time to dig up the bell and ring it, the necromancer had to don ceremonial clothes (much like a toga) and hold the bell in his left hand and a parchment with signs of the seven planets on it in his right. The deceased, whose grave the bell had been buried in, would hear this sympathetic ringing and be compelled to come forth and answer its summons.
The Necromantic Bell of Girardius. Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, manuscript No. 3009 (eighteenth century).**
DR. DEE AND MR. KELLEY
In all the annals of the occult, there is no more unusual pair than Dr. John Dee, unofficial astronomer to Queen Elizabeth I, and Edward Kelley, the unscrupulous scryer, or crystal gazer, with whom he formed a long, and tempestuous, alliance.
Dr. John Dee, by all accounts, was a serious and devoted scholar all of his life. Born in 1527 to a minor functionary at the court of Henry VIII, he soon distinguished himself at his studies, attending Cambridge University at the age of fifteen (where he records in his diary that he studied up to eighteen hours a day) and graduating with his bachelor of arts two years later. Already an avid student of astronomy, in subsequent years he traveled the Continent, learning all that he could, meeting with other scholars, scientists, and astronomers and absorbing every new discovery they were willing to share with him.
Among his most valued prizes were two Mercator globes, which he acquired from the Flemish cartographer Gerardus Mercator himself and brought back to England, and a treatise on magic which he came across, quite by chance, while browsing through the bookstalls in Antwerp. Written by Trithemius, the Benedictine abbot of Sponheim-on-Rhine, this treatise on natural magic, entitled Steganographia, made the most powerful impression on Dee; indeed, he wrote an enthusiastic letter about it to the influential statesman Sir William Cecil, in which he claimed that the book’s “use is greater than the fame thereof is spread.” Inspired by what he found in its pages, he wrote in twelve feverish days his own work, Monas Hieroglyphica, on the correlation between numbers and various arcane magical practices. Though no one has ever been able to decipher with absolute assurance its true meaning, Sir William declared that Dee’s book was “of the utmost value for the security of the Realm.”
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