Masks of the Illuminati (24 page)

All of this, Sir John realized, came from the Golden Dawn teachings, but—to give the devil his due—Crowley certainly had a gift for explaining it with marvelous clarity and scientific precision.

Book Four
went on to explain the techniques of yoga as physiological experiments.

Asana
, the contorted gymnastics which Sir John had learned so painfully from Jones, was simply a method of bringing the body to maximum relaxation without actually going to sleep.
Pranayama
, the special yogic breathing technique, Crowley went on, was similarly a method of bringing the emotions under the control of the Will. Sir John again found himself grudgingly admitting that the Enemy had a real gift for making the occult arts scientifically clear.

The first sinister note entered in the discussion of
yama
and
niyama
, chastity and self-control. Crowley denounced all the traditional teachings on this subject as superstitious, pernicious and superfluous; in their place he offered the anarchistic advice: “Let the student decide for himself what form of life, what moral code, will least tend to excite his mind.” This was totally insidious, Sir John realized: while pretending to scientific objectivity, it opened the door to any system of morality or amorality the reader might personally prefer.

Crowley then turned to ceremonial magick and explained it as an aid to yoga. The mind alone, he said, cannot achieve its own transcendence, even by the techniques of yoga, until the Will has become a weapon capable of absolute dictatorship over the body, over the body’s raging emotions and over all mechanical habits. Every technique of magick, Crowley said, was simply a trick or gimmick to aid the student in developing such a self-transcending Will. Moral considerations about the handling of this Will were entirely ignored, Sir John noted; the perversity of Crowley’s system was becoming more obvious.

And then Sir John came to the chapter on Mother Goose.

“Every nursery rhyme contains profound magickal secrets,” Crowley began blandly, in the same rationalistic tone as the rest of his treatise. He then offered an example:

Crowley provided the key to this mystic verse, beginning:

Sir John stared at the page, dumbfounded. It was, damn the man, quite plausible Cabala.
Binah
was the dark secondary aspect of God, coequal with
Chockmah
, Divinity’s primary or rational aspect. And
Binah
is usually symbolized as an old woman, just as
Chockmah
is symbolized as a white-bearded old man. The Cabalists taught that the vulgar could only understand the male or patriarchal aspect of Divinity, but the first step to Illumination is to understand, by direct intuition, the Most Highest’s feminine, passive aspect. And
Hé
as the second letter of the Divine Name,
Yod Hé Vau Hé
, is identified with this secondary aspect of Divinity—because
Hé
means a window and symbolizes the womb. Crowley was engaged in a very complicated Cabalistic in-joke, to say the least of the matter. Sir John read on with astonishment:

This was not only sound Cabala but good comparative mythology. Isis, Sir John realized with awe, really did fit in with the dog symbolism, since she was identified with the Dog Star, Sirius. But it was also a wicked parody of Cabala to pretend to find all this in Mother Goose.

Crowley went on to explain the profound mystical meanings in Little Bo Peep (Buddha beneath the
bo
tree) and her sheep (the Lamb, the Saviour); in Little Miss Muffet
(Malkus
, the world of illusion) and the spider (Death, the great illusion); and so on, and on, through Little Jack Horner, Humpty Dumpty and all the rest.

Book Four
, which had started out as the clearest and most empirical volume on mysticism Sir John had ever seen, had turned into an enormous practical joke on the reader. Sir John found himself remembering Victor Neuberg’s terse note: “No man living understands, or can understand, Aleister Crowley, but those who value their sanity will not get involved with him.”

When Mr. George Cecil Jones returned from his holiday in France, Sir John immediately met with him to recount the whole saga of Lola Levine,
Clouds Without Water, The Great God Pan
and the Rev. Verey’s dead cat.

The meeting occurred at Jones’ home in the Soho section of London. Jones introduced his wife and children—a pleasant and ordinary English family—and then retired with Sir John to a book-lined study on the ground floor. “You have been meddling with the Abramelin spirits,” he said at once.

“No,” Sir John said, taken aback that his nervousness was that easily read.

“Well, then, they have been meddling with you,” Jones replied. “Tell me all about it.” And he sat with an attentive, but impassive, face—much as he might sit through a business meeting at his chemical company—as Sir John poured out the whole story. There were perhaps a dozen candles about, two in brass candlesticks and several in
sconces, so that the room was brilliantly illuminated; but Sir John still felt that each dank shadow that moved contained an adumbration of dark foreboding.

“Well,” said Jones when Sir John’s narrative was concluded, “you have certainly uncovered a very nasty situation, indeed. Are you afraid?”

“Fear is failure and the forerunner—”

“I know, I know; that is what you are supposed to believe,” Jones interrupted. “The question is: How deeply do you believe it at this point?”

“I have my moments of trepidation,” Sir John confessed.

“Only moments? Not hours or whole days?”

“Moments,” Sir John said. “I think that, between the technique of
pranayama
and the Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram, I have learned to vanquish any negative emotional state before it can take full possession of me.”

“That much, at least, is expected of the rank of Practicus,” Jones replied. “If you were put to higher tests, however … If, say, I arranged with a surgeon friend of mine to have you observe while he performed major surgery, or an autopsy … or if I managed to pull the proper strings in government and you were admitted to see a hanging at Newgate Prison … could you stand as a Buddha, clear-eyed, without fear or loathing?”

“Not entirely,” Sir John admitted. “But I have attained such degree of detachment from the body-emotions that I would guarantee not to faint or become ill.”

Jones arose and began to pace the room, silent and inscrutable as a caged panther. “Suppose,” he said finally, “I were to take you on a jaunt to Paris and brought you to one of those clubs, of which you must have heard rumors, where sexual orgies are staged for the amusement of the spectators. Could you watch as a Buddha, clear-eyed, without lust and without the conditioned reflexes of horror from your Victorian upbringing?”

Sir John looked into the fire, sermons on hell running
through his memory. “No,” he said hoarsely. “I think I would be disturbed by both desire and disgust.”

Jones smiled reassuringly. “At least you are honest,” he said simply. He ceased his pacing, drew a chair close to Sir John, and asked quietly, “Suppose I were to instruct you to take the next train to Inverness, go to the home of Reverend Verey, and employ the great ritual of exorcism to expel the forces that threaten his unfortunate household?”

Sir John’s heart sank. “I could not do it,” he said abjectly. “I have not yet sufficient confidence in myself and my control over the astral forces.”

Jones laughed, and clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Excellent, most excellent,” he said unexpectedly. “You have gone far into a dreadful business,” he continued, his eyes warm with admiration, “and I must allow that I am torn between the highest regard for your courage and the most dismal apprehensions about your foolhardiness. If you had acquiesced in my suggestion about the exorcism, I would have had to conclude that you are not only foolish but suffering from a bad case of premature self-confidence verging closely upon the Biblical sin of Pride. Nobody of the rank of Practicus should attempt what I just suggested. To accomplish an exorcism requires at least the rank of Adeptus Major.”

Sir John breathed a great sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he said, meaning more than two words could convey.

“I will have to think about this overnight,” Jones added. “Perhaps I may even have to consult my Superior in the Order, although I hope this matter is not that serious. Mostly what we have here is malicious mischief, I think.”

Sir John started violently. “Very malicious mischief,” he objected.

“Oh, certainly,” Jones agreed. “But calm yourself a bit and think about the matter more rationally. Have you ever seen me levitate or walk through walls? Do you
imagine that I can perform such wonders but have hidden them from you, out of modesty perhaps? I assure you that such
siddhis
, as the Hindus call these powers, are very rare, and are mostly a distraction from the Great Work anyway. That a group of debauched diabolists is very advanced in the
siddhis
is simply preposterous, Sir John. They have magnified egos usually, not magnified powers. There is much evil here, certainly, but there is also much trickery and sheer bluff. Let me think upon it.”

Once again that night, Sir John’s dreams were beastly and terrifying. Lola, Lola, Lola was everywhere he wandered in the gnomic caverns of sleep. Old Celine was guiding Sir John through some dark, Hispanic sort of museleum and they came upon Goya’s
Maja Naked:
the face on the portrait was Lola’s, and her eyes were live, looking into Sir John’s soul with obscene mockery. “Wait,” Celine started to object, “it is only Art …” But Sir John was racing through a garden past a tree around which curled a blue gartersnake the size of a python: under the tree, still nude and mocking, Lola called to him, “See you when tea is hot.” NO TRESPASSING said a sign. “C.U.N.T. is hot,” said an echo. He was in the Boulak Museum in Cairo (where was Celine?) and an ancient Stele was before him showing hawk-headed Horus, a winged globe and the naked star-goddess Nuit. Surgeon Peel sang:

“Watch Surgeon Peel,” said Surgeon Talis.

Sir John was in Hagia Sophia in Constantinople, examining a most intricately jeweled Eastern Orthodox crucifix.
“Speak,” Sur Loin said, “if you see Kay?” And Sir John noted that the initials I.N.R.I, were followed by a smaller script, saying:

“The name itself is the thing itself,” Sir John translated. “What on Earth does that mean?”

But the cross became the bodhi of Lola, arms extended, glowing goldly. “Yod: Isis: Virgin Mother,” she said hermetically. “The seamen at dawn.”

“Nun:
Death: Apophis, the Destroyer,” said old Verey morbidly. “Sir Talis at noon.”

“Resh:
the Sun: Osiris Risen,” Celine added soulfully. “Rest, erection.”

“Yod:
Isis: Virgin Mother,” Lola repeated. “Eat it with catsup!”

“Isis: Apophis: Osiris: LAO!” cried a voice like thunder.

THE NAME ITSELF IS THE THING ITSELF, Sir John was writing desperately in his journal: this was too important to be forgotten.

And then it was morning. The birds sang outside, sunlight poured in a golden flood through the windows; and Sir John wondered whether we approach ultimate reality more closely in ordinary consciousness or in the gnomic symbolism of our dreams. He recorded the whole vision in his magical diary before it could fade and went down to breakfast still puzzling over
Ipsum Nomen Res Ipsa:
The Name Itself is the Thing Itself. I.N.R.I.: Isis, Apophis, Osiris: IAO.

The morning mail contained an oddly shaped package from the Society for the Propagation of Religious Truth, Inverness, Scotland. Sir John tore it open as he sat down to breakfast, and found it contained a letter from Verey and a cylindrical phonograph record. He turned to the letter at once.

Verey’s handwriting was so shaky, now, that it was difficult to read in places. He began without formality: