Low Magick by Lon DuQuette (little red riding hood read aloud TXT) 📗

this pillar of piety would ask me to do anything of a black magick nature. Because he said he was familiar with my work, I assumed he was also familiar with the doctrines of esoteric Judaism. After all, nearly all the most popular systems of Western magick have as their foundation the Hebrew Qabalah. The term black magick wouldn’t necessarily strike the same irrational terror in the heart of an esoteric Jew as it would in that of a mainstream Chrislemew.

I was intrigued, so I cautiously e-mailed him back and inquired about the details of his problem. His response was immediate and poignantly candid. His only son, David (who himself was a rabbi), had been married for nearly two years and had not yet become a father. David and his wife, Sarah,82 had been examined by physicians who found them both to be in good health and capable of conceiving a child. After giving me a short and breathtakingly politically incorrect lecture on the religious and cultural importance of his son having a child (especially a boy), he repeated his offer to immediately bring me to the East Coast and pay me to do whatever was necessary to make his daughter-in-law pregnant.

After I banished from my vulgar comedian’s brain a thousand crude and sophomoric possible responses to this statement, I took a day to gather my thoughts and ponder how I should respond to this offer. I hope the reader appreciates the fact that I am not a wealthy man. I connive and struggle day-to-day and month-to-month, just to pay the rent for our little duplex and pay the extortion fees to the blood-sucking organized crime cartels that pose as American health insurers. Try as we might, in our forty-two years of marriage, Constance and I have never been able to rise above the station of genteel poverty. I confess the thought of taking financial advantage of this situation did indeed cross my lumpen­proletariat mind.

The next morning I wrote back and answered as honestly as I could. I insisted it would not be necessary for him to bring me to the East Coast or for him to come to California, and that I would be happy to freely offer my magical advice. I frankly stated, however, that I thought it would be unwise for me to attempt to magically intrude in the lives of his family in this manner.

He responded within minutes insisting that, on the contrary, he most certainly did want me to magically intrude—specifically, he wanted me to call up a demon of the Goetia and command it to make Sarah pregnant.

I replied to the effect that even if I were willing and able to raise a fertility demon, and Sarah did become pregnant and give birth to a baby boy, there would be serious and unavoidable psychological consequences for both the child and his family. I asked him to realize how, like in a fairy tale, the blessing would soon turn into a curse—how the happiness that would first accompany the child’s birth would soon be overshadowed by the nagging fear that every illness, every accident, injury, or misfortune visited upon the child throughout his lifetime was somehow the evil result of the demonic black magick operation that had engendered his nativity.

The rabbi coldly responded, “I am willing to take such a curse upon myself.”

I had to admire the depth of this man’s resolve. Such fearlessness and focus may characterize a fool, but are also the mark of a natural magician. I was beginning to realize Ezriel had already set into motion the magical forces that would make Sarah pregnant, and that my participation had already become in his mind a factor in the equation. I resigned myself to try to help him in any way I could. I was sure, however, that raising a Goetic spirit was not going to be the way to do it. I wrote him back and told him so, adding that I was prepared to consult with other spirits to determine the facts of the matter and how best to proceed. He seemed satisfied with that, and thanked me.

I don’t know how he would have felt had he learned that the “other spirits” to which I referred were those who oversaw the operations humanity’s oldest83 continually consulted oracle, the Chinese Book of Changes, the I Ching.

For those of you not familiar with this marvelous oracle, I must apologize for being unable to offer a proper introduction. Instead I must direct you to the many fine translations of the text, which can be found in bookstores worldwide. My favorite is one by Richard Wilhelm and rendered into English by Cary F. Baynes. It has an excellent foreword by Carl Jung and is a real treasure for lovers of Eastern mysticism in general and the I Ching in particular.84

I have been an I Ching dilettante since the late 1960s. I am not being overly modest when I stress my amateur status; for me to suggest otherwise would be a most outrageous presumption. It is said the great Confucius waited until he was ninety years old to study the oracle, and wrote that if he had another ninety years to devote to its mysteries, it would not be enough time. I have discovered, however, that even a superficial familiarity with the images suggested by the ever-changing lines of its sixty-four hexagrams can provide profound insights into questions and issues ranging from the mundane to the sublimely spiritual. For the answer to the rabbi’s dilemma, the I Ching was to be the only “spirit” I would trust with this most personal and sensitive issue.

Before dinner that evening, I showered and put on my most comfortable magical vestments (clean black sweatpants and sweatshirt). I took my Wilhelm/Baynes translation from the top shelf of my bedroom closet and unwrapped it. (Tradition suggests that when not in use, the oracle should be stored high above one’s head, and wrapped in white silk.) I placed it on a small