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| Al-Hazred summoning the Dark Man through the Shining Trapezohedron (Woodcut from the Wormius edition of the Necronomicon, 1228, reproduced with permission from Universidad Valencia, Montecruz, Mexico) |
There is a dark moon tonight.
As I walk into the grove, on this night of ache and
longing, my black robe unresisting to the cool wind, I see my beloved Witch, clad
in red with the Fire Woman’s attire, beautiful as ever, standing beside the
altar. She lights the flame. I raise my hood over my head.
As I come closer, she lifts the chalice toward me. I
drink from it, then raise my hands in the sign of Voor.
And I intone:
Walk with me on the moonless night.
I am the voice you cannot hear.
The
voice of insects,
The
murmuring sands,
The
hush of the night-wind,
The whisperer in darkness.
I am the words you speak in your sleep.
Dance with me on the Sabbath night.
I am the blackness beyond the bone-fire.
The
faceless stranger at your doorstep,
The Black
Man with a starry cloak,
The Horned
One in the compass round,
The Devil
whose embrace you crave.
I am the silent howler ‘neath the earth.
Sign your name in my black book.
I am the bringer of the Black Flame.
Your
gaze on forbidden sights,
The
Witch-Blood warm in your veins,
The joy
you feel as they rise.
I am the mirror gazing back at you.
Laugh and sing my stories bold.
I am the Messenger in the endless void.
The
shadow at your sleepless bedside,
The
dream-song you forget at dawn,
The
wisdom that madness brings,
The
bringer of strange gifts you crave.
I am your grin as you’re filled with dread.
¡Hei!
¡Aa-shanta’nygh!
I am Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos!
As I speak the final lines, it is no longer quite my
voice that speaks; yet in a way, it is… more myself than it was before. The
flame of the altar candle shines black to my eyes that are now infused with
otherness; I briefly look up, and beyond the silent, gliding nightgaunts, I
glimpse the black stars hanging around the head of Taurus. And I faintly hear
Those who lie beyond stirring in their sleep.
The Witch, in her red Virykla robe, smiles, and I take
her hand even as, just beyond the sacred circle, unseen flutists begin to play.
And the Sabbath dance begins…
—Luis G. Abbadie