Honoring the Dark Man

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