The face, its eyes without lashes and set wide apart, was fixed beyond description. There was something fearful, paralysing, deadening and yet shatteringly sublime in its gaze which froze me to the bone. I could not see Jane, she was blocked by the figure of the Angel, but Talbot and Price seemed corpses, so deathly white were their faces.
The lips of the Angel were red as rubies and formed into a strange smile, turned up at the corners, where they tapered to a delicate point. The child before had seemed unnatural in its flatness, this gigantic creature was stupefying in its corporeal presence, which surpassed all earthly measure: there was not the slightest shadow cast by its garments to give it emphasis or perspective. Yet in spite of – or perhaps because of – that, it made me feel that until that point I had in my whole life on earth seen nothing but flat surfaces, when compared with the sight of this being from another world.
Was I the one who asked, “Who are you?” Or was it Price? I cannot say. Without opening its lips, the Angel said, in a cold, piercing voice that sounded as if it were an echo from deep within my own breast:
“I am II, the messenger of the West Gate.”
Talbot wanted to ask a question, but all he could bring out was incoherent babbling. Price pulled himself up straight; he wanted to ask a question but all he could do was babble too! I gathered all my strength to raise my eyes to the Angel’s countenance, but I had to let them drop; I sensed I would die if I insisted. My head bowed, I asked in a stuttering voice:
“Il, All-powerful Being, you know that which my soul longs for. Grant me the secret of the stone! I would give my heart, I would give my blood – so fervently do I desire the metamorphosis from a human animal into a King, into one that has risen from the dead both here and beyond. I would understand St. Dunstan’s book and its secrets! Make me into the one that I ... was destined to be!”
Time passed – it seemed an eternity. Deep sleep threatened to overcome me but I fought it with all the strength of my longing. The room resounded with words, as if the floor and walls were joining in:
“It is good that thou hast sought in the West, in the Green Realm. I am well pleased. It is in my mind that I shall grant thee the Stone.”
“When?” I screamed, almost consumed in wild, nameless joy.
“The day after tomorrow!” came the answer, syllable by syllable.
“The day after tomorrow!” My heart leapt up. “The day after tomorrow!”
“Dost thou know who thou art?” asked the Angel.
“I? – I ... am John Dee.”
“You are? You are ... John Dee?!” the apparition repeated. The Angel said it in a piercing voice, even more piercing than before. I felt ... I dare not even think it: ... as if ... no, I will not let it pass my lips as long as I have power over them, nor will I let my quill write it down whilst I have the strength to control it.
“John Dee thou art, Lord of the Manor of Gladhill and Master of the Spear of Hywel Dda, oh, I know thee well!!” came a shrill, mocking voice from the window. I sensed it was the spectral child outside speaking.
“He who has the Spear is the Victor!” – the words echoed from the mouth of the Green Angel. “He who has the spear is called and chosen. The Watchers at the four Gates are all subject to him. But thou, follow ever thy brother Kelley. He is my instrument here on earth, he is appointed to lead thee over the abyss of pride. Him thou shouldst obey, whatever he demand. Inasmuch as the least of these my brethren demand it, grant it him, for I am he and thou grantest it unto me. Then I can be with thee, in thee and around thee until the end of time.”
“That I solemnly swear to you, Blessed Angel!” I replied, struck to the very marrow and trembling in every limb. “I raise my hand and swear to you, even should I thereby perish!”
“Should ... perish!” came the echo from the walls.
There was a deathly hush in the chamber. I felt as if my oath were resounding through the depths of the cosmos. The candles flared up; the flames were horizontal as if in a blast of wind.
An icy cold that froze my fingers came from the Angel. With numbed lips I asked:
“Il, hallowed spirit, when shall I see you again? How can I see you when you are far from me?”
“Thou canst always see me in the coal-glass, but I cannot speak through it.”
“I have burned the coal,” I stammered, and I regretted that I had destroyed the skrying crystal in the presence of Gardner, my cursed assistant, for craven fear of Bartlett Greene.
“Shall I return it to you? John Dee ... heir to ... Hywel Dda?”
“Give it to me, mighty II!” I beseeched him.
“Put thy hands together in prayer. To pray is to receive if ... a man ... has learnt to pray!”
“That I have,” I rejoiced. I placed my hands together – an object swelled up between my palms, pushing them apart. When I opened them, there was the coal skrying-glass!
“Thou hast burnt it. Through that it lost its old life; now it has thy life in it, John Dee. It is reborn and risen from the dead. Just like men, things live on too.”
I stared at the thing, full of astonishment. How marvellous are the ways of the invisible world. Not even the devouring fire of earth can bring destruction! – – –
“I ... thank you ... II ... I thank you!” I was about to stammer,
