Step into the occult underworld of Edwardian London in Young Aleister Crowley and the Magicians’ Revolt and follow Crowley as he plunges into the secret society of the Golden Dawn.

The year is 1900, and this isn’t just a new club; it’s a war zone. Crowley, a rebellious genius, an aspiring magician, and an acclaimed poet, unwittingly arrives amidst a power struggle as the formidable magicians of the Golden Dawn revolt against their leaders, MacGregor Mathers and his wife, Moina Mathers.

Empowered by an ancient Arabic grimoire, the Mathers pair claimed contact with “Secret Masters,” but now their influence is waning. As historical figures like William Butler Yeats and Bram Stoker populate the ranks, Crowley finds himself caught in a magical crossfire. His naive pursuit of enlightenment accidentally ignites an all-out wizard war with magical attacks recoiling upon his adversaries. Young Aleister Crowley and the Magicians’ Revolt culminates in a climactic magical showdown, where Crowley’s self-realization becomes his ultimate weapon.

Between the darkness and the light stands Aleister Crowley.

Excerpt

Chapter 1: Funeral and Fairy Tale

The funeral had been the strangest any of us had ever attended. The tiny cemetery chapel was rented for only an hour and stood almost empty. I counted only fifteen mourners. We were joined by three members of the press eager to squeeze one last drop of scandalous blood from the black turnip of England’s most notorious character.

Unlike the turbulent life of our departed guest of honor, the brief ceremony was quiet and respectful. Louis Wilkerson read “Hymn to Pan,” my favorite of the old boys’ poems; three old friends said a few words; and then that was that. Predictably, the next day’s newspaper headlines couldn’t have been more luridly inaccurate.

Aleister Crowley—Worst Man in the World Dies

Cremating “Great Beast”

Desecrated by Black Mass

It hardly seemed a fitting goodbye to a genuine holy man, Logos of the Aeon, Prophet of a New Age. But then, perhaps it was perfect.

I returned to London by train with Lady Harris, who invited me to stay at her home in town for the few days that remained before I sailed back to New York. I eagerly accepted her offer. It is not every day a green Hollywood scriptwriter is invited to unpack his toothbrush at the home of the artist-wife of an influential member of parliament.

I was especially keen to attend the lavish “curry wake” that Lady Harris was scheduled to host the next evening in honor of our departed master. He did so love his curry—the hotter the better. However, it was the guest list of this most esoteric of soirees that made my mouth water—one guest in particular, Sir Francis Bendick. This would be perhaps my one and only chance to meet and interview this legendary film director.

Bendick was one of only a handful of British filmmakers to resist the lure of Hollywood throughout his long and distinguished career. He was a bona fide genius who helped give birth to the industry at the turn of the century. He would go on to elevate the silent medium from inane shorts and melodramas to serious literary theatre. He wrote, he

Adapted, and reprinted with permission from Weiser Books, Young Aleister Crowley & The Magicians’ Revolt written by Lon Milo DuQuette available wherever books and ebooks are sold or directly from the publisher at www.redwheelweiser.com or 800-423-7087.

Excerpt from Young Aleister Crowley & The Magicians’ Revolt Written by Lon Milo DuQuette

directed, he edited, and he occasionally appeared in the films that continually reinvented the state of the art.

Most remarkably, he worked his magic throughout the bloody madness called the Great War. His propaganda efforts for king and country were powerfully inspiring, poignant, and breathtakingly honest. He was knighted for his wartime efforts by George V during the exuberance of the roaring twenties—a time when sound was giving a voice to Bendick’s genius of touching souls in the darkness.

During the Second World War he was consulted regularly by the Joint Intelligence Committee; offering vital intelligence concerning the Third Reich’s influences in the British and American film industries.3

Only a handful of extraordinarily discrete individuals were aware that Bendick was also a devoted disciple and benefactor of Aleister Crowley and had been since 1907. He knew more about Crowley and his work than any other living human being. The fact he could keep such devotion a secret from the public and three wives for over forty years was truly amazing.

At the request of Lord Harris, he did not attend the funeral. But nothing short of death would keep him from Frieda Harris’s Crowley-curry wake.

Sir Francis and I had two things in common. We were both ceremonial magicians, initiates of Crowley’s magical order, Ordo Templi Orientis, and we were both in the movie business—he at the end of his illustrious career, I at the beginning of mine. Meeting him in person and having the opportunity to pick his brain was the reason I had traveled at my own expense to dreary old England in the damp December of 1947; he and my own dream of producing a proper feature film about Aleister Crowley, the man I considered the most important, the most colorful, and the most misunderstood holy man of the 20th century. If all went well, Sir Francis Bendick would help me write it.

The Harris’s home in town was located at Number 3 Devonshire Terrace, Marylebone High Street. It was a testament to the eccentric nature of its residents. Its exterior was modest and understated; a fitting façade for a powerful member of parliament, deputy leader of England’s Liberal Party, and his bohemian/artist wife.

Excerpt from Young Aleister Crowley & The Magicians’ Revolt Written by Lon Milo DuQuette

The home’s interior was furnished (as if by order of the studio prop department) with clichéd antique perfection. The walls, however, were bereft of the stodgy portraits of ancient ancestors and horses one might expect in such affluent British homes. Instead, they were festooned with Lady Harris’s abstract paintings of mystical and Masonic themes, a few of which, I confess, I found to be nothing short of disturbing.

I was billeted in a guest room large enough to engulf my Silverlake bungalow. I sank so deeply into the canopied bed that I felt I would be swallowed in the night like an insect trapped in a Venus flytrap, so I spent a chilly and restless night stretched out on two chairs that I pushed together near the fire. (Yes. The bedrooms each had a fireplace.)

The next morning, I was called downstairs to breakfast only to discover that I was conspicuously underdressed. I self-consciously hovered over the sideboard and scooped a pile of scrambled eggs onto my plate, hoping no one would mention the fact that I was not wearing a tie.

I completely panicked when Lady Harris announced, “We’ll be dressing for tonight’s wake, dear.”

If I wasn’t properly attired for self-serve breakfast, then I wasn’t likely to have full evening dress upstairs in my Gladstone bag. Over toast and marmalade, I confessed my predicament and threw myself upon the mercy of Lady Harris. She was neither particularly amused nor upset.

“You look to be about Percy’s size. I’m sure we can find you something, dear,” was her only comment.

After breakfast, she put me in the care of Archie, a frail and severely attired octogenarian whom I assumed had been in service to Harris family since before the Restoration. I spent the remainder of the daylight hours in his silent company trying on an array of His Lordship’s trousers, shirts, ties, stockings, braces, and shoes. What didn’t fit was soon whisked away to be duly and truly altered.

By 4:30 p.m., I had secured an entire ensemble and barely had time to bathe before the dinner guests (and Sir Francis) arrived.

Excerpt from Young Aleister Crowley & The Magicians’ Revolt Written by Lon Milo DuQuette

It was 5:00 p.m. and already dark. The Harris house smelled like an Indian restaurant. I was famished. I’d had nothing to eat since breakfast (I’d missed lunch in the fitting room with old Archie).

Lady Harris stationed me at her side like a Selfridges manikin and introduced me to the guests as they arrived. She obligingly rattled off a breathless summary of each illustrious life and their connection to Crowley.

I instantly recognized the first to arrive from wartime newsreels: J. F. C. Fuller, the greatest military mind of the 20th century and architect of modern armored warfare. Lady Harris grabbed his arm and pulled him near us.

“Milo Harland from Hollywood, this is Captain—forgive me darling . . . Major General Charles Fuller. He and Old Crow had a bit of a falling out before the wars, didn’t you Charles? Doesn’t matter now. We all did sooner or later. The general was an early disciple of the master. He edited and contributed to his ponderous Equinox magazine for a time. He also wrote that glowing paean, The Star in the West. Oh yes, and that marvelous Treasure House of Images. Oh Charles! I still swoon at that one . . .

‘I renounce unto Thee the kisses of my mistress, and murmur of her mouth, and all the trembling of her firm young breast; so that I may be rolled a flame in Thy fiery embrace, and be consumed in the unutterable joy of Thine everlasting rapture.’

“. . . Oh, darling, that one still makes me moist!”

General Fuller and I both squirmed a little at Lady Harris’s little performance. I tried to mumble my “how-do-you-dos,” but Frieda chattered on.

“Quite the military mind, too, aren’t we Charles? Invented that dreadful blitzkrieg thing. You are a naughty boy Charles—and those ponderous tank books of yours. Such unpleasantness. But Hitler just loved you before the war, didn’t he darling?—only Englishman he ever praised in public. I think he wanted you on his team. Can’t blame him. Invited you to his birthday party, as I recall. Thank God, you didn’t go, old chum. I dare say, m’ husband Percy still thinks you a bit of a fascist. But then he says that about everyone in uniform these days. But we love you, don’t we. It’s so sweet that you came tonight. The master thought the world of you. I know he did.”

Excerpt from Young Aleister Crowley & The Magicians’ Revolt Written by Lon Milo DuQuette

Lady Harris rattled on like that about every guest who came through the door. She had a photographic memory and a biting wit. She told the guests remarkably little about me, however—that is, until Sir Francis arrived.

After greeting the old man with a kiss, she grabbed me by the arm like a proud mother and introduced me to him.

“Francis, dear, I would like you to meet Mr. Milo Harland who traveled all the way from Hollywood, California.” She lowered her voice a little. “He’s a ninth-degree member of our Agape Lodge, O.T.O. and is in the movie business. He sailed over to attend the master’s funeral yesterday, and he’s staying with us for a few days more. He’s—”

“Your wife, sir! Your wife! Is she well? When is she due?” The old man blurted out the words without shaking my hand. It was obvious he was hard of hearing and shouted as if everyone else in the room was deaf as well. His question surprised me. How on earth did he know Jean was pregnant? We hadn’t even told our families yet.

“Yes sir . . . she’s doing fine . . . very well indeed. The baby is due in July.” I didn’t know why, but I took curious pleasure in sharing this information with him.

“Do you know shorthand?” was his next question. At first, I didn’t quite know what he meant by the word “shorthand.” After all, at a gathering like this, the term might be esoteric code for some exotic sex ritual.

“Shorthand?” I awkwardly responded.

“Yes, boy! Shorthand. Gregg. Do you know shorthand? Are you fast?” he bellowed.

I then realized that he was actually referring to shorthand dictation, a skill that I’d mastered years ago when I worked for Hal Roach.

“Why, yes sir—as fast as you can talk.”

“Good! You’ll need to be fast!” was his curt response. “Frieda! Frieda, old girl! Where in your lovely home can this young man and I be allowed to work undisturbed for a day or so?”

Excerpt from Young Aleister Crowley & The Magicians’ Revolt Written by Lon Milo DuQuette

I couldn’t believe what was happening. It was as if he had read my mind. I had barely spoken two words to the man. I hadn’t even asked him for an interview, and now he was arranging all of it. It was a dream come true.

Lady Harris seemed as surprised as I at the old man’s request. “Of course, Francis. You two can use the library. It’s quite warm and comfy. Archie will settle you in right after dinner.”

Dinner! I thought. Thank the gods! I was near fainting from hunger.

“No time for dinner, old darling!” he shouted. “I plan on dying this Friday. The boy and I can’t wait.”

Now there’s an announcement you don’t hear every day. Naturally, I thought he was joking. Even had I taken his words seriously, the gravity of his statement was completely eclipsed by my hunger. I panicked at the thought I might actually miss the spicy feast I’d smelled cooking all day. The other guests overheard his death declaration and reacted with a stunned silence.

Harris started to speak, but the old man silently hushed her with a slight elevation of his left eyebrow. A moment later, we were alone in the spacious library—Sir Francis Bendick and my empty stomach.

“Sit, boy. Sit.” He pulled his chair directly opposite mine and studied me for what seemed an eternity. I tried to study him right back. He didn’t look well. In fact, it appeared that the stiff texture of his jacket was serving as an elegant black and white exoskeleton sheltering a frail lifeform. Oddly enough, at the same time, I sensed I was in the presence of someone more alive and vibrant than anyone I had ever encountered.

The space around us felt softly illuminated by warm, indirect lighting that seemed to radiate from every pore of his exposed skin. I forgot my hunger and felt nourished by this man’s presence—fed upon his light. This is magic, I thought. Real magic. Magic isn’t something you do; it is something you are. This man was the real deal.

He ignored my thoughts.

“You think you want to produce a movie about the infamous magician Aleister Crowley, do you not?”

Excerpt from Young Aleister Crowley & The Magicians’ Revolt Written by Lon Milo DuQuette

I started to answer, but he already knew the answer.

“My boy, I believe you’re sincere. I believe you’re talented. I believe you’re capable of writing a tolerably good screenplay. But I know for a fact if you try to produce the kind of film you envision, your project will flop miserably. You will flop miserably. The world is not ready for your story, and it certainly cannot be told as the shallow-potted biographic drama you envision.

“Listen to me, young man. I will be dead within the week. Half the ancient buggers down there in the dining room will be prancing naked through the Elysian fields with me before decade’s end. Before the cock crows thrice, those that remain will deny the master and attempt to quietly move on with what’s left of their lives. Our master and his sacred work will be nearly forgotten for the next twenty years, and there’s nothing you or I can do about it.”

I was stunned. These were the words of a depressed and bitter old man. I wasn’t going to let this old fool with no future tell me about mine. I wasn’t going to tell him so, but that’s what I was thinking.

He paused a moment, then leaned forward in his chair—his face inches from mine. I squirmed a little, realizing he’d heard my thoughts.

“I’ve seen how the future will unfold. The master and I discussed it in great length—discussed you in great length—a fortnight ago. Hear me now, Milo Harland, for I’m only going to say this once.

“You will write a screenplay, and a marvelous work it will be, because I will help you write it. Tonight, and tomorrow, and tomorrow night, I will help you. It will eventually be made into a feature film, and it will be an immediate financial success for nearly everyone involved in the project. But more importantly, as years pass, it will become a classic. It will endure. It will succeed in introducing Aleister Crowley to a larger audience than a handful of cloistered occultists. It will do what it must do—capture the spiritual imagination of generations of those who are poised to accept the truth when they hear it. It will become the wonder-story of a new era of human consciousness. It will tantalize future generations and encourage them to seek out the serious works of the master. But, for that to happen, the seed of the master must be planted in their imaginations!”

Excerpt from Young Aleister Crowley & The Magicians’ Revolt Written by Lon Milo DuQuette

He sat back in his chair and smiled warmly. “Unfortunately, my friend, neither you nor I will see that film made—at least not in our present incarnations.”

That did it. I didn’t care if this old husk could read my mind. I didn’t care if he glowed like a Roman candle. He was barking mad! I now only hoped I’d be able to scrape together a usable interview out of the ramblings of this old codger before he dropped dead. I cleared my throat and tried to sound like a studio executive.

“Yes. Well. Be that as it may, Sir Francis, I need to ask you a few questions about Crowley’s life to help me get some facts straight. I want my work to be as historically accurate as possible.”

“You haven’t heard a word I said, Thrice Illustrious Brother Harland.”

This was the first time he’d addressed me formally. As we both were Ninth Degree initiates of the Sovereign Sanctuary of the Gnosis of Crowley’s magical fraternity, I was obliged by the magical decorum of our order to respect his entreaty and hear him out.

“This story is bigger than the life of just one man,” he continued. “This story can’t be told as a history, because truth is never revealed in histories. Objective reality is a very small reality, my boy. This is an epic that spans multiple lives, multiple dimensions, and centuries of time. It has to be told as a fairy tale—a myth! Because fairy tales and myths are truer than history, truer than objective reality! They outlive history; and we will need our story to endure.”

He leaned forward and placed his hand on my knee and gently patted it.

“Please, Brother Harland. Consider this a deathbed request from one Initiate of the Sanctuary of the Gnosis to another. Fetch your pad and allow me to tell you a fairy tale.”

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Audible | Paperback | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Authors: Lon Milo DuQuette is a bestselling author who lectures worldwide on such topics as magick, tarot, and the Western mystery traditions. He is currently the US Deputy Grand Master of Ordo Templi Orientis and is on the faculty of the Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, New York, and the Maybe Logic Academy. His books include The Tarot Architect, The Magick of Aleister Crowley, Understanding Aleister Crowley’s Thoth Tarot, and The Chicken Qabalah. Visit him at londuquette.com.

Jim Bratkowsky is executive vice president of American Media Group and has over twenty-five years of experience in writing for television with credits for shows such as Max Headroom, Perfect Strangers, Alf, Knots Landing, ThunderCats, and Full House.