Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

Chapter 1 The Magic Circle

So, here is how it happened.

I was returning from a snooker competition (it was really a pool competition, and I was the organiser). Unfortunately I had lost, and was feeling a bit sorry for myself.  On my way back to my Unit at School (I attend a residential school, which means I stay on campus), I noticed that my Religion and Philosophy (RMPE) classroom was open. There was yoga class on that evening. I wandered into the classroom and watched them for a moment or two. I used to do Yoga, but it clashed with pool and other clubs, so I quit.

On the teacher’s desk were books on this and that—an Arabic & English Koran, a Hebrew Torah, a Greek New Testament, the Egyptian Book of the Dead to the right; some books on philosophy and theology lying the middle; but lying on the left hand side were three books on Magic: The Kybalion, The Key of Solomon, and The Zohar.  I had long fancied the idea of learning a bit of magic, after all are they not always promising money, success and fame? Who doesn’t want that? I had helped my teacher draw some Pentacles from the Key of Solomon, which were put on display.  I had also learned a bit of Hebrew in my RMPE lessons as well. To top it all off, I had  seen a few re-enactments on of magic ceremonies on YOUTUBE. Now was a perfect opportunity for me to learn a bit more, and use it to my advantage. 

I decided to ‘borrow’ the books.  I had to be really careful with the teacher’s books as the last time I ‘borrowed’ one it had cost me £7!! (That’s another story, for another time.)

The yoga class never noticed a thing—they even said goodbye with a smile and a little wave from the teacher. As I left the room with the books in hand,  I thought that perhaps the magic had started working already!

Back in my room, I had to work quickly and return the books,  so as not to get charged a small fortune.

Then I realised my problem. I had no magic wand to ‘draw’ the pentagrams in the air. Of course, had I planned this out properly I would have purchased a magic wand from the witch in the village. Yes, it’s true—there is a genuine bona fide witch who owns a magic shop in the village where my school is located. Sometimes we go in for a browse or to buy a herbal potion. 

Quick as a flash (did I tell you I often have flashes of genius?), I took my snooker cue out of its case and examined it carefully. It was in two parts, like most cues, and screws together.  The top part looked just like the wands the magicians had used in the videos.

Yes, you guessed it—I used the cue as a wand.

I closed my eyes and  visualised the videos we had watched in class. I reenacted  the Goetia ritual in my head, but that seemed far too scary, being performed by ancient old men with long beards and in silly robes, chanting in creepy voices.

I dismissed it quickly, and when I opened my eyes, all trace of it vanished from my mind.

I shut my eyes again, and within no time, a new picture began to form, as I  recalled  another video. This time the ritual was performed by a young girl—Akasha, she called herself. About my age, she looked cute—not scary at all and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt just like me. This had to be  harmless enough, didn’t it? I thought that if a  girl could do it, then so could I.

To start with, I drew a circle on the floor using chalk I had ‘accidentally’ taken from the art class weeks earlier. I drew a triangle inside that. Skimming through the books, especially the Key of Solomon, I then drew the Hebrew words on the floor, around the edges of the circle, going over in my head how to say them as I drew.

Now, I have to be honest with you here, Reader. Sometimes in lessons I did not always listen as well as I should. So when the teacher was teaching us Hebrew, I did not pay quite enough attention, and never really learned the difference between a Shin and a Samekh, or an Ayin and an Aleph. Let’s just say, then, that my pronunciation was not all it could be. But to be fair, speaking Hebrew in a Moray accent was never going to be that accurate, was it?

I knew you’d see things my way!

For stage three, I got inside the circle and triangle and started to chant the Hebrew words, not too loudly, of course.  I didn’t want anyone hearing what I was doing. I turned clockwise on the four points of the compass as I spoke.

Nothing  happened.

I said to myself that it was all just rubbish, echoing a discussion about magic we had in RMPE.

I stood there like a fool. My eyes dropped to the floor. I gazed at my artwork, delight at my artistry turned to horror, as I wondered how I was going to clean it up. Then there were the books—how was I going to get them back unnoticed?

I wished that sometimes I would think things through properly before rushing ahead. I wished I hadn’t done any of this.  I just stood there feeling very sorry for myself.

Then, after a few minutes, something did happen.

My hand started to tingle—the cue felt like it was moving in my hand. It got stronger, and seemed to shock   my hand, a bit like the shocks I had gotten from the  Van Der Graph machine. I wanted to drop the cue, but couldn’t. I wanted to shout, but did not dare.

Suddenly, there was jolt.

Then there was darkness.

I woke up in a sweaty haze when one of the unit staff, Maureen,  came into my room to see how I was. What would she say? I panicked to myself, and frantically tried to wipe away the chalk-dust. There was nothing there. It was clean.  What on earth did I look like, on all fours rubbing at the carpet? What was going through her mind seeing such a sight?

She never did say.

I didn’t wait to find out. I leapt up and ignored the questions she was firing at me. I bolted over to the cue case. It was locked and when I opened it, the two parts of the cue were snugly fitted inside.

I scrambled around the room in, throwing over DVDS, emptying drawers, and storage boxes, but lo and behold, the books were nowhere to be found.

What was going on?

The staff wondered if I had some sort of seizure , or a nervous breakdown. Lacking in the necessary medical expertise, the staff rushed me to  the nearest hospital.

After an eternity of waiting, a doctor shined a light in my eyes, asked me a few questions, and then talked to a ‘consultant’, AKA a psychiatrist, on the phone.

Did they really think I was insane? Was I mad? Pictures of straight jackets and padded cells flashed in my mind. The other week, I had watched Mute Witness to Murder, an old horror about a woman imprisoned in a padded cell by a insane doctor, and  I didn’t fancy spending the best years of my life locked up as a mental case.

Left alone in an ER room, I tortured myself with these fears.

Relief came only four hours later, when the decided keep me in for observation. I was given a bed and was so exhausted by the events of the day, the time and my imagination, that I feel fast asleep.