Evocation of Aratron:
I was pretty worked up for this ritual, since it was the last in a series I’d conceived of doing over half a year before that. Our daughter was born a week before — a few weeks earlier than we had expected — and I knew it would be a while until I’d have the time or luxury for such rituals again. And, of course, there is all the hype surrounding how heavy and consequential Saturn evocations can be. The black candle and the black talisman made for the occasion looked quite ominous.
The “creative touch” for this ritual was the huge basalt paving stone I’d dragged up from the street. There are still quite a few stone streets in this part of Budapest, and one is only a block from our apartment. In all countries, the craft of building roads from stone is a lost art. So when they tear up a street to repair the pipes or lay cables, when they try to put the jigsaw puzzle back together again, there are inevitably a few pieces left over.
Every day as I walked from home to the tram stop along this street, I’d see this nice cube of basalt about 18 centimeters tall resting quietly against the base of a tree, minding its own business. Its heaviness and blackness struck me as saturnian the moment I noticed it. This encounter occurred daily for months. “Good morning, stone,” I’d say as I passed. “Mmm,” it would mutter laconically. At first it was only a passing fantasy to haul this thing up four flights of steps to our apartment to use for my evocation, knowing that Very Aries would be convinced I’d finally gone off the deep end. But every day it seemed like a better idea.
When I did haul it into our apartment and wash it in our bathtub, VA could only shake her head in disbelief. But that stone on the altar really lent the ritual,… er… gravity.
Again, I left the charge general. I wanted to learn, to be taught. Aratron, says the Arbatel, teaches magic. OK. Teach me magic. Give me wisdom.
When I asked if there was anything he should tell me, I saw a clear vision of a building and the neighborhood it was in. This image has still not revealed its meaning to me.
I can’t really say anything heavy or hard-to-bear resulted from the evocation of this “malefic” spirit.
The only other thing to be said about this particular evocation is that I was walking on the streets of downtown Budapest on my way to work two days later, when I was struck by a strong scent of patchouli. I looked around me, and I was the only person on this particular stretch of pavement for quite some distance. I thought it peculiar, but decided that someone wearing lots of patchouli must have passed by recently and the scent was still hanging in the air. But then the same thing happened several more times that day, on different streets, with and without the presence of other people.
“Aratron! Is that you?”
I consulted Liber 777 on a hunch, and sure enough, patchouli is listed as a perfume of Saturn.
You don’t have to hit me over the head with a stick — or a pavement stone (at least not too often)! The following day I bought some patchouli oil for the next time I ever do any work with saturnian spirits.
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