“Love magic, black magic” (Alexandra David-Néel)

Thanks to the courtesy of the types of Venexia publishing house, we are publishing here, after last night's live broadcast, the fourth chapter of Alexandra David-Neél's novel Love magic, black magic.

di Alexandra David-Neel

Postal Code. IV of love magic, black magic (venexia ed.)
cover: nicholas roerich, kuan-yin, 1933

For eight days Garab and his companions had camped at the foot of the sacred mountain. Taking as an excuse the fact that for the long journey everyone needed rest, the young chief had not yet set about performing the rite which enjoins pilgrims to go around the great mountain on whose summit Mahadéva, the greatest of the gods, holds his court.

The thinker initiated into the esoteric doctrines of Indian mysticism conceives this fantastic Court as an image of the world, a magical and illusory projection of the thought of the god seated in absolute solitude in meditation on the inaccessible snowy peak. Others, having penetrated even better the symbolism of the legend, contemplate on the radiant summit the flame of their own creative thought, which continually destroys and recreates the universe with its gods, its demons, its beings and its innumerable forms. They murmur in a low voice the “creed” of the great mystics of Vedanta:“Shiva aham”,“I am Shiva, I am the Great God” (Mahadeva).

But Garab was ignorant of the profound knowledge of India and had never associated with the great sages of this country. For him, as it had already been for his mother, the Khang Tisé hid in its ravines hordes of genies, fairies, demons, all subjected to the will of a terrible god dressed in tiger skin and adorned with a large necklace made with human skulls.

Garab stalled, and he didn't know why either. He felt held by invisible strings. He spent his days wandering aimlessly, anxiously inspecting his surroundings as if he were about to make some kind of discovery. The mystery of his birth was present in all his thoughts and he watched in fascination the monks and yogijoints from Nepal or North India; he scrutinized their faces covered in ash, tried to guess their age, imagined that one of those strange characters could be his father.

His father! … She hadn't thought of him since the day she asked her master, the tenant farmer Lagspa, for news of his birth. The desire that had come to him, in Lhasa, to see the places where he had been conceived concerned only the geographical aspect of these. For the unknown man who one night had approached an innocent servant and had abused his naivete, Garab felt no sympathy. But ever since he had reached the foot of the Khang Tisé it seemed to him that impalpable memories of the past were arising in him, memories of a past in which the seed had been sown which had then given him a body.

What a bizarre feeling! The young brigand leader felt called, solicited by a force whose nature he could not understand, but which called him for an unknown purpose. He vainly tried to shake off the indefinite obsession that dominated him; indeed this, day after day, became stronger and stronger, making even love for Detchema fade into the background. Many times the girl had begged him to set off. She believed that the air of the region was harmful to her health, she had a very restless sleep and she woke up more tired than when she had gone to bed.

Three paths are offered to pilgrims who have to go around the mountain: the lower path, relatively easy to follow, the middle one, which presents greater difficulties, and the highest of the three, which passes through steep slopes on which only expert mountaineers can venture without danger. The merits of the devotees are proportional to the hardships they encounter in their walking. The blessings gained by one who treads the highest of paths are far more considerable than those accruing to one who circles the foot of the mountain. But Detchema aspired to obtain only the bare minimum of the merits of the pilgrimage.

However, despite the insistent solicitations, Garab, usually so ready to fulfill even the smallest requests of the young woman, didn't decide. He left early in the morning to wander around. His men believed that he performed secret religious practices meant to bring good luck to their future expeditions. The impatience of the young woman therefore found no support from her traveling companions.

A certain physical exhaustion always follows many months of ardent love passions or perhaps the fault was the strange state in which Garab was; be that as it may, the young man neglected his mistress. He often stayed awake at night, as if waiting for ambushes, without reason and without purpose, moved only by an imperious instinct.

One night, while he was in this state of nervous and agitated wakefulness, he thought he saw in the shadows the figure of Detchema tossing among the blankets in which he slept. It seemed to him that she was struggling, that she was struggling; these movements lasted only a few moments, then the girl let out a deep sigh and she went still again. A nightmare, Garab thought. Two days later the same thing happened again, but this time that strange semblance of combat was more violent and prolonged. The girl also let out a cry.

“What is it?” asked Garab approaching his lover and taking her hand. "You're sick?"

“Why don't you defend me?” stammered Detchema still half asleep. "You were asleep... did you see him leave?"

"Who?"

Detchema fully regained consciousness.

“What did I say?” he asked in a voice that hinted at some apprehension.

Garab understood that the young woman would not answer frankly if he attacked her with questions.

“You cried in your sleep,” he said in a calm voice, “and then you muttered some incomprehensible words… are you sick? Maybe it's all due to bad digestion, or an uncomfortable position…”

“Yes, perhaps,” the woman replied.

“Now try to go back to sleep,” Garab advised. And he wrapped himself in her blanket, but didn't take her in his arms to reassure her. His curiosity had awakened: he wanted to know.

The following day, at dusk, the young man sat with his back against a rock; he was away from the little encampment and was thinking of Detchema's behavior, wondering if the approaching night would also bring with it an incident similar to the previous ones. As he was absorbed in these thoughts, he felt the pressure of something enveloping him and trying to penetrate him. The daylight was still strong and he could see the surrounding terrain well. He was alone, nothing visible could touch him, yet that pressure, light and powerful at the same time, continued.

With an instinctive gesture, habitual for the people of his parts, Garb pulled the dagger from its sheath and leapt to his feet. The "thing" that was holding him let go immediately. Once freed, the young man returned to his camp with the vague feeling of being followed.

Garab had no doubt that one of the demons that surrounded the mountain had attacked him and wanted to harm him and his mate. "The best thing," he thought, "would be to get away as soon as possible from this place where I've stopped for too long." So the following day he would set off.

However, once he returned to camp, he did not inform Detchema of the decision taken; he preferred not to say aloud that he would leave, hoping in this way to deceive the demon that haunted them.

Towards the middle of the night, Garab was awakened by a strange sensation of coolness; gusts of wind entered his tent through an opening. The last quarter moon cast its reddish light and the young brigand saw a human form: that of an Indian yogi. His face, covered in ash, looked pale; his lips were ardently glued to those of his young mistress.

Immediately, Garab rose to his feet but, faster than him, the unknown visitor had already fled. The leader of the brigands saw the curtains of the tent open and then close again; when he in turn went out into the open he saw no trace of a living soul. He circled the tent, scanned the vicinity but could find no sign of a living being.

In the tent Detchema hadn't moved and, when the young man returned, he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

“Did you have a good night?” Garab asked her the next morning when she woke up.

“Yes,” the woman replied laconically.

"Didn't you have any particular dreams?" Garab insisted. “Sometimes the gods send dreams to pilgrims visiting sacred places.”

“No,” Detchema answered again, but his voice trembled.

Garab asked her no more questions. But he was sure he hadn't dreamed. He had seen the yogi with his own eyes and had gone out to look for him. Who on earth could that stranger be?

Could the figure he had seen be an illusory shape created by the demon whose presence he had sensed? Or was it a true yogi skilled in magical practices and able to become invisible at will? Or better yet, a wizard capable of producing an ethereal double of himself with the power to act like a real man?

But, whatever his true nature, the nocturnal visitor was certainly animated by lewd intentions. The agitation that had shaken Detchema the previous night, her cry and the strange words she had uttered about her indicated that the woman had already met, several times, that abominable being. So why hadn't she told him about it? Why so much reticence and denial? Was it believable that she hadn't awakened when she had risen suddenly to pursue her apparition? Had the girl not felt the touch of her lips on hers?

Garab couldn't accept the logical succession of facts: the struggle sustained by his lover to face the lascivious attempts first, the repetition of the same, finally the acceptance… or even the pleasure! Had Detchema perhaps reached the point of preferring the caresses of her phantom lover to hers? These thoughts aroused mad rage in him.

Suddenly, however, the young man remembered the strange story linked to his conception: was it possible that in this place beings from other worlds were stalking women?

Another feeling took over the anger: the desire to clarify this mystery and finally know to whom he owed his life.

The following two nights he stayed awake until dawn, but nothing unusual took place.

Perhaps the mysterious yogi would never show up again? Garab chided himself for continuing to linger in this place where magical forces were at work. Hadn't he already decided to leave before the mysterious apparition changed his mind? He blamed himself for using his mistress as bait for a presence that was no doubt dangerously demonic, but that he wanted to see again, chase, know; he knew he was wrong, but he didn't start.

Four days and nights passed peacefully; on the evening of the fourth, Garab and Detchema dined as usual with their two companions by the fire kindled between large stones which supported the pot on which the tea boiled. After dinner, Detchema went to sleep while Garab stayed to talk with the two men.

Finally, the young leader also got up and walked towards the tent he shared with the girl. He was getting dark and a blue veil shrouded the surrounding landscape, but there was still enough light to clearly distinguish nearby objects.

Garab lifted the curtain of the tent and froze. The yogi was there, in the hall, from behind, standing. And Detchema too, wide-eyed, stood silently waiting. Both desire and terror were read on the girl's face. Without her moving, the yogi approached her and grabbed her by the shoulders. At this point Garab, forgetting his desire to clarify that mystery, mad with rage, pounced on the strange character. The latter turned his pale face towards the brigand and the young brigand felt his mouth touched by the greedy lips of that monstrous being. Garab struggled, trying to free himself from that hateful embrace, but his fists only met emptiness, while he felt the horrid kiss suck his strength into his being deeper than him.

Yet the young leader continued to struggle, trying to get out of the tent and call his companions for help. During the struggle he bumped into some objects and the noise of the struggle attracted the attention of the men.

Gorin came to see if anything had happened, if the leader needed his services, and was startled to see him struggling and struggling, apparently in great anguish, yet seeing no opponent before him.

Tsondu also came to his cries and Garab saw the yogi's form dissolve in the same instant in which the contact of those deadly lips ceased.

The men found the woman unconscious, lying on the floor of the tent.

Garab didn't have to provide any explanation, his companions had immediately given themselves an explanation of the strange incident: that place was frequented by demons and one of them had tried to kill their leader.

The order they awaited was immediately given.

“Let's leave at once,” Garab said.

“Of course,” the two men replied.

The campfire was revived; in its light the luggage was prepared and the animals loaded. Less than an hour had passed since the terrible fight and the little caravan was already on its way.

They marched for two days stopping only for very short stops. Those men fled with a shattered mind and thought only of saving themselves from the attacks of the demon who had attacked Garab. The latter, however, had not been able to tell his companions what concerned Detchema.

Toward the end of the second day the fugitives came within sight of a shepherds' encampment. The proximity of other men, the familiar sight of the herds peacefully grazing in the fields, and the sight of the large tents similar to those of their village, calmed the fear of the small group. They stopped near the camp and Garab warned the two men and the girl not to tell anyone about the terrible encounter they had been involved in. If the shepherds had known that they had been attacked by a demon they would surely have suspected that the demonic presence still accompanied them and would have prevented them from camping nearby.

Nevertheless Garab had not abandoned his idea of ​​shedding light on the mysterious figure of the yogi and wanted to protect Detchema and himself from possible new attacks. Was it perhaps enough to have abandoned those places to be safe from the demon? The young boss strongly doubted it. Rather, he thought that demons pursued those they had chosen as their prey, and he wanted to turn to a lama expert in ghosts for advice and help. If necessary, he would have had himself exorcised together with Detchema. Especially her, whose twisted desires he had seen in her. During the brief stops on the return journey, Garab had taken the girl, in addition to her usual sensual frenzy, also with a certain amount of anger. In fact the young man thought that while Detchema lay in his arms he was thinking of the caresses of theother and this thought drove him mad with jealousy and at the same time made him desire the girl even more.

The day following their arrival, Garab went to the shepherds' tents on the pretext of buying butter. He introduced himself as a merchant from the distant country of Kham, who had come on a pilgrimage to Khang Tise with his wife and two friends. He said he had dreams that had made him anxious about some of his commercial dealings and he wanted to consult a seer lama: were there any in the vicinity?

He was told that a ngagspa lived in the neighboring camp which was about a day's march away; all the shepherds of the region held that lama in high esteem.

"Some ngagspa, modest in appearance and sometimes downright vulgar, live like simple peasants, but are sometimes expert magicians,” thought Garab; so the young man decided to try his luck and go and see the one they had told him about, a certain Koushog Wangdzin.

The small group of travelers set off again and found the lama in the indicated place. He possessed remarkable powers of clairvoyance and, after hearing Garab's story, he remained absorbed in deep meditation for a few minutes. So he opened his eyes and drew a diagram on the ground with some barley grains; he told Garab to throw on it first a white stone, then a black one and finally a mottled one. After the brigand had done what was required of him, the lama considered the parts of the drawing on which the stones had fallen and finally pronounced:

"In your case, it's not about demons or sorcerers," he said. “The being who has attached himself to you is alien to Tibet. There is no connection between him and me and I have no influence on his behavior. Contact an Indian ascetic expert in the esoteric sciences of his country, he will certainly be able to give you useful advice. However be careful, do not confide the things you said to me to the first comer dressed in the orange tunic, with the rosary of rudrash or holding a staff surmounted by a trident. Many of these characters are just miserable imposters; they would deceive you under the pretext of enlightening you. And, what is worse, you risk finding yourself in contact with individuals who practice the most vulgar forms of witchcraft and who have evil spirit companions to whom you could all fall victim.”

“But how am I going to do it?” Garab asked in exasperation. “A demon has been tormenting me and you yourself have told me that I am in danger of being attacked by other evil spirits. And also, how could I get in contact with one of these Indian yogis? I don't even know their language."

“Maybe I can help you,” Wangdzin replied. “You must consult a Nepalese ascetic who lives his life as a hermit on a slope of the Khang Tisé. He has lived in that place for more than ten years. Before settling there he lived among the sherpa frontier. This man speaks perfect Tibetan, I had him as a guest when he came to this region. And last year I went to pay my respects to him. He is a great yogi, he knows the secret side of things and possesses paranormal powers. I will give you a guide who will lead you to the entrance of the valley above which is his hermitage. When you arrive in the valley, address a respectful prayer to the ascetic, he will listen to you and, if he agrees to see you, he will guide you to him with signs. Follow these signs carefully and you will not go astray.”

And he continued:

“Going up the valley you will see a chain of completely snow-capped mountains to the north; from that moment be careful: if you and your companions dismount from your horse to sit down to rest on the ground, do not bring a single blade of grass to your lips. Near these white mountains grow two types of herbs which most men do not distinguish from the normal ones, but which possess strange properties. One of these herbs is a deadly aphrodisiac. Those who chew it go crazy. Because of the poison their vital energy runs away, their arteries empty and they die in excruciating suffering. The other species of herb provides those who ingest it with a vision of the worlds of pain and the beings who inhabit them.

And he said again:

“A monk who came with other pilgrims to Khang Tisé stopped, with his friends, in a place where this herb grows; after eating sitting on the lawn, he absentmindedly picked some leaves of grass and chewed them. Immediately he saw a chasm open before his eyes. The terror that image caused him made him spit out the grass he had begun to chew. Immediately, as it had appeared, the vision disappeared. That monk had heard of the particular properties of those herbs, understood that thanks to them he had been able to see the gates of hell, and regretted having missed the opportunity to observe the mysteries of those worlds invisible to human beings. He tried to find the herb he had spat out, or others of the same kind, but all his efforts were in vain. When his companions set off again, he refused to follow them, stubbornly pursuing his search. He remained in that place several years; he had built himself a hut there and he spent all his time examining the herbs and tasting them. Gradually his mind became troubled and he died completely insane."

Finally he concluded:

“Behind the white mountains there really is an abyss that communicates with secret depths, but to be able to see it one must have superhuman vision. Who is not an expert naldjorpa (a Tibetan yogi) must avoid venturing into those places. So get on the road today. It takes four days to reach the hermitage of the powerful Indian ascetic; when you see him, you will lay my body, my word and my spirit at his feet."

“Let's go see a holy anchorite,” Garab said to his friends when he joined them. “His blessing will drive away the demons that persecute us and protect us from all evils.”

The young chief also advised his men not to pick herbs along the way since the ngagspa she had told him that the region was full of poisonous species.

Wangdzin's guide to the small group stopped at the entrance to a valley; he reminded Garab that he had to pray to the yogi to show him the way to his hermitage, then he prostrated himself before the young man in homage and left.

The travelers began to go up the valley enclosed between the steep slopes, on which there was no trace of paths. After a few hours of walking they saw in the distance a glittering chain of snow-capped peaks. They were the mountains that the Lama Wangdzin had spoken of. Should the travelers keep moving forward? Or maybe they had already passed the path to the hermitage? Yet no sign had yet appeared to the small caravan and so Garab decided to continue along the road. The chain of mountains became more and more visible, white but of a whiteness different from that of the snow.

Suddenly a bird gave a screeching cry and everyone turned to its side. On a rock, he beat his wings. The animal screamed several more times, always in the same way, then flew off and landed on another rock, where it began to scream again and beat its wings. There was no trace of a path that way, but the slope could be negotiated without any difficulty. Garab thought that the bird might have been sent by the hermit and moved towards him. The cute little beast flapped its wings again and perched on a higher rock than the one it had left.

Garab hesitated no more.

“Put the tents here,” he told his men. “I will follow the bird and see where it leads me.”

From rock to rock, the bird guided the young man higher and higher up the mountain. For some time Detchema and the two brigands managed to follow the retreating leader with their eyes, but at a certain point the young man went out of their field of vision, they were able to hear, increasingly faint, the cries of the bird; finally even that sound could no longer be heard.

Garab prostrated himself before the ascetic, a stout-looking old man, completely naked except for a piece of red cotton around his loins which formed a tiny gifts.

“What is the reason for your visit, my son? What do you want from me?” asked the yogi kindly. “And first of all, who are you?”

Garab confessed to the ascetic all that referred to his mother's humble condition, to her birth, to the mystery about his father's true identity, but said no more.

“These things are part of your past,” the wise old man pointed out. “Tell me: what is the story of your life? What did you come to Kailas for? A pilgrimage? You are not alone, you have companions with you. You are rich: where does your possession come from?”

Garab knew that the hermit's questions were aimed at testing his sincerity and that the man already knew the details he was questioning her about. 

“You already know what you are asking of me, my hermit lord (jowo gomchen),” he said humbly, “I am a great sinner.”

“It is not my job to set you on the right path,” said the ascetic. “Later you will meet a wise man from your country who will try. Try, when that time comes, to take advantage of his help. You are frightened by your visions, aren't you? Now listen carefully: you are the son of an Indian. Your father was one of those Bhairavis with loose habits who practice black magic to ward off the moment of old age, not to consume the body and finally to achieve immortality.”

And he continued:

“Know that a magician expert in this cursed science can take possession of the life breath of human beings by aspirating it from their mouth and that, with an even more mysterious technique, he can absorb from the woman the energy that feeds all forms of life, through sexual intercourse . This is a prodigious secret and the evil initiates who use it are responsible for many misfortunes, as their prey perish within a short time. But few of these wizards can sustain the effort necessary for their purposes for long. For the ritual to be successful, however, the practitioner must be able to remain impassive and overcome any temptation to enjoy sexual pleasure.

And he added:

“Impure men, those animated by selfish motivations, are not able to submit to such a difficult discipline. Most succumb some day to the cravings of the senses and when they do they are lost. The vitality they have stolen from others escapes them through all the pores of their bodies and they soon perish. So your father died, because he gave you the life he was to keep for him. He died far from his native country and, since he had no other descendants besides you, no one celebrated for him the rites which give the disembodied spirit the new body it needs to enter the world of the ancestors. Due to not having been able to obtain the essential elements for the constitution of the new body, your father's spirit has become a ghost still thirsty for the sensations experienced when alive and for the evil instinct that animated him even then. He strives to support the existence of his subtle 'double' and to feed it by resorting to the techniques he practiced when he was alive."

Then he said:

“When you arrived at Kailas your thoughts of your birth attracted the spirit of your father. He recognized his blood in you and attached himself to you to take back the life he had given you. Your desire for the woman who accompanies you fueled her desire as well and so she sought to possess your mistress in order to appropriate her life force and the psychic energy that you communicated to her. You both had to become victims of him, but don't worry, I will save you. The funeral rites in use in India cannot be celebrated in these circumstances. However, it will be sufficient to complete the essential part of it. As sannyasins, I have renounced all religious practices, but as a Brahmin I can always celebrate them and tomorrow I will do it for you.”

The hermit then gave Garab some flour biscuits for dinner and invited the young man to spend the night in the hut.

The following morning, the yogi prepared a few balls of rice. Then, after having invoked the deceased, he offered them to him, recommending that he gather strength to cross the rivers and hills of the mountain that he would encounter on his journey to the world of his ancestors and begging him not to deviate from the right path so as not to get lost.

"My son," he said to Garab, "your father wants something from you: give it to him so that he won't bother you again."

He therefore commanded him to pluck a few threads of his garment and some hair, and to place them among the offerings while pronouncing:

"Here is a suit for you, father, take nothing more from me for your use."

When the ritual was over, the ascetic threw the balls of rice, the threads of cloth and the hair of Garab into the fire.

“None of this should remain in the vicinity of my abode,” he said.

Finally he ordered Garab to make a broom out of herbs and to carefully sweep the place where the offerings and their earthly author had been placed. The traces left by the offerings and by the ghost who had come to take possession of them had to be erased so that he could not recognize the place and be tempted to return instead of following the road to the realm of the ancestors, where he would rest until he was reincarnated in honorable conditions , mediocre or painful according to his previous actions.

“Now you no longer have to fear your phantom yogi,” said the hermit to Garab as he dismissed him, “but you still have to fear the fruits of your past deeds. I repeat, one day you will come within sight of the way to salvation: then know how to recognize it and never stray from it again".

During the following weeks, the young chief and his companions circled the mountain, finally left Khang Tise and turned back eastward to the distant country of Kham.