By Allen Greenfield
Having spent the day musing over the origins of the modern
witchcraft, I had a brilliant dream. It appeared to be a chilly January
afternoon, and Aleister Crowley was once having Gerald Gardner over
to tea. It used to be 1945, and speak of an early finish to the warfare was
in the air. an environment of optimism prevailed within the "free
world" , however the wheezing outdated magus was once having none of it.
"Nobody is drawn to magick any more!" Crowley ejaculated.
"My acquaintances at the Continent are useless or in exile, or grown old;
the circulation in the USA is in shambles. i have visible my best
candidates flip opposed to me....Achad, Regardie -- even that
gentleman out in California, what is - his - identify, AMORC, the
one that made all of the money.."
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Extra info for A True History of Witchcraft
His right eye was open, the left half closed as always, and he was drooling, as always, but obviously he was having one of his good spells, and Shandie was glad, glad, gladlthey were so rare now! It was as if the old man had gone away, like Aunt Oro, and it made Shandie feel all cozy—nice to see him come back, although it would only be for a few minutes. And Grandfather had noticed Shandie! He smiled down at him. “You’re toga’th come looth, tholdier,” he said quietly. But he was smiling, not angry at all!
But until then—” “No! Until the news reaches Hub! ” The pale-skinned old man leered down at the consul, and his manner was so like the one Ythbane himself used on Shandie that Shandie almost disgraced himself by giggling. Ythbane would kill him if he did that. Ythbane swung around and whispered for a moment with Lord Humaise, and Lord Hithire, and a couple of other new advisors Shandie didn’t know; then he turned around to confront the ambassador again, his face dark as a postilion’s boot. “The wording of the memorandum was very specific.
He was still sore from last time. Grandfather snorted and snuffled in his sleep. Lucky Grandfather! One day I will sit on that throne, and be Imperor Emshandar V. Then I will kill Ythbane. That was a wonderful thought. What else should an imperor do? First, have Ythbane’s backside beaten—right there, on the floor of the rotunda, where the fat delegate was still kneeling, reciting his nonsense. In front of the court and the senators. Shandie caught himself about to smile, and didn’t. Then be merciful and cut off his head.