By way of postscript, I went back, in meditation, to where I thought that ceremony took place. I found a green field with a group of figures in religious habits, with spades. They seemed to be filling a circular trench with soil, and over the top they scattered straw. In the centre of the circle was a bare patch of earth, they scattered straw over this also.
***
Chapter 6 – A Rebuke to Thomas
I was cross when I came again to Thomas Nandyke, but in all conscience I could have done no other.
I stood before him in silence.
He looked at me, and I remained in silence, let him read my mood.
He cast his eyes down.
“I attended one of your brothers’ ceremonies.”
He began to shake.
“Do you think it fitting you should attack the lawful King of England with witchcraft?”
He was white as a corpse, and I do not think he could have spoken if he wanted to.
“Is your true purpose treason against the Will of God, joining with those who would damn themselves?”
This time I let silence draw out until it became unbearable.
Thomas struggled visibly to master his voice; in the end he managed two words,
“You knew?”
“Of course I knew. The ceremony had Odysseus in every word of it. No-one but you could have given John Morton that spell.”
“I had no choice.”
“We always have a choice. In this the Law of God is the same as the Law of Man.”
His trembling was now extreme, such that I feared he might injure himself. I found a second chair and sat on it.
“You will be named and condemned as a traitor in an Act of Parliament. It cannot be helped. Will you go on to condemn your own soul?”
For all Thomas Nandyke cut a contemptible figure in the World, he was intelligent and had courage, greater than many a bold knight of his day, to enter the Underworld and seek control over ‘demons.’
“You truly had better tell me your story. Start with where we are and how you came here.”
“As you must know my lord, we are in the Underworld the Greeks called Hades.”
My reaction would be closely observed, it had to be careful, and I raised an eyebrow.
“My Lord Bishop… John Morton left me here. Any who stay here long enough are doomed to join the dead, but you brought me tokens of life: warmth, food and drink. It gives me hope.”
If I’m to return you to the living I must know your story, has Morton ever ventured into Hades? Has he any agent here?”
“He has never been, though I cannot tell if he has any agent through a privy conjuration.”
Good, though it didn’t mean I could let my own guard down completely. I settled to hear the story as Thomas presented it, remarkably coherently, in the following words.
“I studied in my room, seeing my fellows little beyond meal-times, even then I only spoke if I must, but I listened. In the end I took meals in my room and studied Homer’s book. For two weeks it remained so, I reread it three times through, making separate notes, not daring to write on the book itself. Each time of reading it became easier and I could recite entire passages by heart. I worked as I think you work, my lord; I conjured images in my head so the Odyssey became alive in my mind’s eye.
After two weeks John Morton came into my room; locking the door, he examined me on what I learned.
I told him the entire Odyssey was a voyage of the mind. It was so strongly starred in the minds of those present it became the life journey of Odysseus and all his crew. What made it so was that Odysseus himself caused the fall of Troy. After very many years of siege the Greeks had tired and wanted to return home. Odysseus was inspired by the gods with the idea of building a wooden horse and retreating out of sight into the sea. The Trojans took the wooden horse into their city and rejoiced, believing the siege was over. There were Greeks inside the wooden horse, they broke down the city’s gates and walls, the Greeks came back from the sea and great burning and great slaughter followed, the entire city of Troy was destroyed.
Seeing this angered many of the gods and Odysseus, knowing in his heart he did a terrible wrong, knew he must be tested. The minds of his crew, being too weak, as test followed test, they fell away to many powers and temptations; most greatly they fell under the spells of the witch, Circe. But always Odysseus saved them, until finally they succumbed, through their own sin, to death and the ending of all flesh in Hades. Odysseus, without the care of his crew finally returned to the World of Men, there too he resolved the ravel of his affairs; though he never quite came back to ordinary mortal life.”
I was amazed at Thomas’ grasp of the plot, without resort to modern psychology.
“Did Morton understand any of this?”
“I think not. He asked many questions, did we need a ship to sail to the Underworld? Once there, how could anyone return? Were there spells which would protect?
I told him spells strengthen the mind. I told him we did not need a ship, and the way of return is to retrace your steps but this is not made easy.”
“Thomas, you did all this without magic, you did it by reading a book.”
“No my lord.” There was a pause, “I followed Odysseus into his trials and tests. I followed him into the Underworld.”
“And there you learned the spell I heard cast against King Edward IV, Edward, Richard’s son and Prince of Wales, Anne, duchess of Gloucester, King Richard’s queen, and finally Richard himself.”
Thomas’ eyes were downcast,
“The cause why the spell worked so well is it came from Circe herself.” A shudder ran through Thomas, “I don’t think the Bishop believed it.”
I didn’t know if I believed it.
“Go on.”
“I hadn’t intended it. When Odysseus found himself bewitched in Circe’s bed, and his men turned to beasts, I upbraided her. I told her a saviour of men would come hereafter; those who served mortal men would be blest, and those siding with demons would be consigned to the eternal flames. I made the sign of the Cross and recited the Lord’s Prayer; I did all this from inside a circle, proof against all her spells.”
I was dumbfounded.
“You preached Christianity to a high witch, beloved by the gods, in ancient Greece?!”
He nodded.
“And it worked?”
“When she found her spells could do nothing against me she started to fear me.
When I explained I meant not to hurt her but to free Odysseus she pitied me.
When I prayed to God for her redemption she thought me deluded.
When I pleaded for the help of one such as she, not for myself but for others, she thought it strange. I think she loved me for it.
If ever a man such as I could love a woman it would be she who would bewitch me.”
The silence was a long one but I didn’t press him. Thomas was entitled to some privacy.
“Circe gave me the spell you saw, and I have ever since regretted it. My Lord Bishop held it over me as commitment to the further practises which have brought me to this place. I have confessed it to you, and I hope you will be my redemption as I once hoped to be Circe’s.”
It was time for a change of subject and I brought him back to Morton.
“The Bishop was grateful for all you’d done?”
“I didn’t tell it all. When I gave him the spell and told him of Odysseus I don’t think he trusted or believed me. He required proofs of me that I could not give. After much importuning and threats I had an idea.
You could build a well, and if a rope were thrown down it you could climb down to the other world, if you cast such spells as would change your mind such that, by degrees, as you descended, you would slide between the worlds.”
“And Morton accepted this?”
“Yes.”
Thomas deserved some admiration for all he hadn’t told me, as well as all that he had. I quoted,
“Son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, Od
ysseus of many devices.”
He blushed.
The silence was awkward, finally Thomas almost stuttered,
“And you, my lord, have you always known that which others cannot understand?”
It was my turn to blush, but he was partly right, that’s how I came to be doing what I was doing now.
“Do not make me the seed of Zeus, I have enough assurance already.”
***
Chapter 7 – A Plan of My Own
Do not make predictions. It is a rule of the Universe, whatever the conscious mind devises will never actually come to pass, at least, not as we expect it to do.
Never make judgements. It is in the nature of the human ego to require reality to fit in with the patterns it makes; but the truth is not answerable to our demands, and when it goes against them we judge against what is. We’re particularly prone to reject the behaviour of others, defining it as sinful, wicked, or evil as it displeases us; causing us to call on retribution, human or divine.
I could judge against Thomas: that he may, or may not, have been responsible for the deaths of the English royal family in the 1480s, that he had sinned against the teachings of the Church in his liaison with Circe, that he was guilty of delusion according to the theories of modern Psychology, his experiences all being explicable by twentieth century metaphor.
It would even be possible to find myself guilty of such delusions.
Any of this could massage my ego with the warm glow of being ‘Right’ and I could justify any course of action. Unfortunately none of this would help me deal with what IS, or perhaps I should say, what WAS.
There was at least an answer to the accusation of my own delusion, the barrel of beer, spigot and mallet had all disappeared; while an empty plastic water bottle had appeared in a pocket of the robe I bought.
Under medieval law, Thomas Nandyke, on his own testimony, had done enough to be hanged, perhaps burned at the stake, or to have been hanged drawn and quartered for killing the King. By contrast, John Morton, the cause of all this, as a bishop, was more or less immune to such punishments.
We had not yet started on the crime I set myself to investigate, and already there was such a mass of possible judgements. On top of that there was such an evident danger of being drawn in. It took deliberate effort to remain open minded. My concern was to know; certainly it would be nice to know how matters might be made better or even reversed, but equally certainly the first step was to establish the whole story. It would be wrong to predict or judge, but entirely reckless not to prepare.
In the first psychic investigation I ever undertook I kept a journal. The investigation was a long one, taking many months, and the journal turned into a book. Making that journal fit for publication took an astonishingly longer time, it kept the events fresh in my mind when otherwise they would have slid into memory, it fixed the exact facts as I saw and heard and researched them. As the book took shape a strange thing happened, albeit in minor details, but the exact nature of facts changed, conflicting with my carefully prepared and sealed notes. As I came to this present task at least I knew the nature of reality is not fixed. In my book I remained true to my notes; my notes now should be impeccable, a premonition told me they might need to be.
My second preparation was a simple one, to clear my diary. It may be simple, but it was very hard to explain why and not always easy to do.
The third preparation was to set such psychic defences as I could devise, an important aspect of which is, forgive me, to tell no-one what they are.
Lastly, I did what I could to make my peace with God and the World.
Only after that did I set any targets or objectives; these, after all, were obvious, and would unfold of themselves.
***
Chapter 8 – On Eavesdropping
There is an old saying amongst trial lawyers, “Don’t ask a question to which you don’t know the answer.”
In truth you could call this part of my preparations, but it deserves a chapter to itself.
I was horribly ignorant of Bishop Morton’s school, and its members were not the only ones who could do a little scrying. In fact you don’t even have to gaze into a crystal ball. All you have to do is sit quietly and meditate, the World will unfold naturally at your feet, it has no choice, and all you have to do is ask.
I saw the house in Cambridge, occupied by the school, when Thomas was installed there. “This is a house of brothers.” It was at Morton’s insistence the members called each other ‘brother,’ though no-one ever called the Bishop that. There were about a dozen of them; it gave a sense of exclusivity, almost as if they were disciples, of Morton rather than Christ. In fact two of them were known as ‘the disciples,’ these were brothers John and Bartholomew. It wasn’t just from their names, unlike as they were; they followed Morton and each other in word and deed. Thomas was also named after a disciple but he was always separate and isolated, fortunately for him he was never labelled ‘doubting.’ One other biblical name caught my attention, it was Matthew. It seemed Matthew was everywhere, he was a far greater eavesdropper than I, always on the edge of every conversation; he was Morton’s eyes and ears, for the Bishop didn’t trust his own students.
And the brothers would talk, mostly with enthusiasm for their ‘distant seeing.’ They had other less serious activities; one of these was tripping people up. Whether it was by suggestion or telekinesis, they would pick on a victim as he walked and cause him to catch his moving foot behind his standing foot. The trick was not to let him know what had happened, and their amusement was the look of bewilderment on their victim’s face as he stood back up.
Morton would seldom teach in his own school, by teaching he would have revealed too much of his thoughts and that was not his way. What he would do was suggest lines of enquiry and activity, afterwards asking brilliant and incisive questions about the results. On one subject he made an exception; I would call it the art of suggestion, putting thoughts into a victim’s mind, as if the thoughts were the victim’s own. At this he was a master.
One afternoon Morton called the brothers together. As they crowded into the refectory he ignored them, craning his neck to peer closely into the topmost corners of the room. When he turned to them he said,
“I will cause you all to stand on the table, without my bidding it.”
He looked back at the ceiling.
“It would be very strange if you all decided to stand on the table together.”
And with that he walked out.
After a stunned pause the brothers looked at each other. Then they looked at the ceiling, in the topmost corners of the room. One by one they climbed onto the table, to get a better view; all of them.
I think part of the suggestion was the inflection in Morton’s voice, but I can’t be sure.
After that I looked again at what I’d seen and assumed in these scenes. It dawned on me, most of the incisiveness in Morton’s questions was judicious silence; most of the brilliance was pure suggestion.
None of this was High Magic. Here were parlour tricks you could find right now. For much of the ‘Cold War’ and, for all I know still today, both the Russian and American governments spent a fortune investigating and researching ‘distant seeing.’ If anything, their efforts were less sophisticated, and certainly less successful, than those of Morton’s school. Maybe it is wrong to underestimate ‘low magic’ and certainly I was taught a lesson. But, for all that, it was irresistible to look for high sounding ritual and portentous incantations; surely Thomas was not the only necromancer in the School of Magic.
The place to look for High Magic is the study of books. To be transmitted spells have to be written down. Very often part of the magical working involves writing, frequently the destruction of the object on which the spell is written. Throughout the ages magicians and alchemists have been fascinated by formulae, as if these were the inner workings of Creation. The most famous of these magicians, about the time of Christ, was Simeon Magus, against whom the Chur
ch so ruthlessly set its face.
Perhaps it’s this tradition which makes me so dislike High Magic; though I will argue what I don’t like is applying a lever to Reality and trying to move it by force, what really happens is the ritual applies force to the magician’s mind and, as always, it is the mind which works the magic.
Of course, the writings themselves are not easy,
“All the masters who write of this solemn work,
They make their books to many men full dark,
Through poetry, and parables, and metaphors also,
Which to scholars cause much pain and woe…”
I remembered reading Eliphas Levi, very many years ago, and reread some of his work now, if you’re as dedicated as the brothers you can read a free download of ‘Dogma and Ritual of High Magic’ – though I don’t recommend it. I needed the books the brothers read.
There were many grimiores or demonologies, and fragments floating through the hand of the brothers; many no more than the nightmares and overheated imaginings of ignorant and fearful people. Morton was dismissive of these, “I want sharp steel, not minds blunted to stone and madness.” But there was one magical book which could not be ignored, the “Liber Juratus” or ‘The Sworne Booke of Honorius.’
It was said it came from a conference of magicians who decided to condense all they knew into one book, and it’s further said it came down through the ages under the authority of Pope Honorius. The brothers were understandably secretive about possessing such a manuscript and Morton, who invested it with awe and reverence, would not discuss its history.
The brothers studied it for months and years, arguing about its working. At least in their hands it seems to have worked poorly or not at all. It taught them humility. Not that I wanted to work High Magic but, looking over their shoulders, I couldn’t resist going a little closer.
Here I’ve somewhat rendered one short passage into English,
“Take the natural seed of the fish called a whale,
lignum aloes, costus, musk, saffron, armoniac, with
the blood of the foul called a lapwing, and make a
confection thereof. With this said confection make a