A guard stood at attention outside the door. It was the woman who had accompanied Jutting when he visited me in the electrical room. I kept my head down, face shadowed by the cowl, and took short, hurrying steps like an older, less active man.
“They’re about to start,” she said, opening the door for me. I bustled through, not looking up until I was well into the nave where I paused for a moment, eyes adjusting to the looming darkness of the chapel. All the windows were draped with black tapestries. The only light came from the raised dais in the apse where giant candles glowing red on round stone plinths were arranged in a wide circle. From across the nave, the circle of candle flames had a hazy, dreamlike appearance. I could see shadowy figures in black robes moving slowly in what seemed to be a procession. Some were already stationed just inside the circle of candles. Others were taking up their places. I hurried forward, stepped up onto the dais, and crossed over the boundary of flame to join the round, finding an empty space with my back to the chapel. I had no idea what I was doing. I would have to attempt to follow along with whatever happened. My vision doubled for a moment and I could feel a vein throbbing in my forehead. I needed to sleep. Maybe I needed a doctor too. Letting my eyelids droop closed for a moment, I tried to pull myself together then opened my eyes again and examined my surroundings.
In the center of the circle was an altar like the one I had seen in Jutting’s basement—ancient looking stone, hand hewn blocks pitted with age, stacked into a low dolmen shape like some megalithic tomb transported from a mist shrouded moor. A primitive lamp—just a shallow stone bowl full of oil with a wick—burned with a guttering flame on the altar. A book, bound in leather with brass hasps, a gold chalice, a curved knife, and a wand of dark wood capped at both ends by silver ferrules were carefully arranged around the lamp. Behind the altar stood Jutting, the only figure with his hood down, bristly gray hair and oblique planes of cheekbone, forehead, nose like rough carved stone limned by the firelight. Harsh shadows gathered in the creases of his mouth and in the corners of his eyes. His head was slightly bowed and he wore a beatific expression that contrasted with and fought against the cruelty of his face, as if an internal struggle was animating him against his will, playing out across his features. We all stood silently, frozen in that tableau for nearly a minute. Finally, Jutting raised his eyes, focused, exerting control. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead.
"We call upon the horned god whose name is oak king, two face, hanged man, the frozen winter field, the ripe vine,” Jutting intoned. “Leader of the hunt. Lord of death and resurrection. Keeper of the summerland. Lord of the underworld. Cernunnos. Ammon-Zeus. We request a sacred space. We request a circle of protection. Let it enclose our company as a corral encloses cattle. Let it ensure our safety. Let a wall of power surround us. Let the hoard of your servants stand without. Let the forces of chaos be barred from our circle. We ask in your name, Baphomet.”
“Baphomet,” a whispered chorus issued from the assembly.
“Baphomet,” Jutting repeated.
“Baphomet,” they whispered again.
“Baphomet,” Jutting said again, raising his hands up in the air as if lifting a heavy ball of energy. He held the pose for a moment, then lowered his hands, reaching out and opening the book to a page marked by a red silk ribbon.
“Tonight, we gather to work magic,” Jutting continued. “An ancient magic. Passed down from Thoth to Hermes Trismegistus to Solomon to Pythagoras to Albertus Magnus to Benvenuto Cellini. This book, the grimoire of none other than Cellini himself, holds the ancient knowledge. It shows us the way to power. It allows us to open the gateway and command the forces of chaos. None shall stand against our army.” An answering murmur came from the figures around me but Jutting held up his hand. “Silence. I have given all of you the proof of this book’s authenticity. You know that Benvenuto Cellini called up an army of demons. Tonight, we will duplicate his great achievement. The enigma has been decoded. It points to this book. Chapter thirteen which is titled Negromanzia.” Jutting’s voice echoed through the chapel with an edge almost of hysteria. “Twelfth page. The invocation itself is written in no language known to man. Copied down by the hand of Cellini himself as he learned it from the cursed Sicilian priest. I have communicated with each of you individually. I have told you what is necessary according to the diagrams in the grimoire. Is there any man here who dissents? If so, you may leave the circle now.” Jutting paused, scanning the figures who surrounded him.
Feet shifted nervously. I heard a stifled cough. Jutting waited another thirty seconds. His face was damp with sweat now, shining in the candlelight.
