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Taken From “The Deadman’s Almanac.”
Page 111.
You should be familiar, for I’ve made mention of this before, of the frozen, chained casket that had been unexpectedly delivered to me that one fateful September morning. If not, please see the previous passage*. It would be enlightening to discuss what was to happen next within this story.
John Dee - Alchemist (1608)
*Author’s Note: Please see previous passages in “The Shadow of Saint Nicholas; Part 1.”
Page 112.
As mentioned before, the chained casket was placed within the parlor, at the far end of my house, September 5th, forty-years ago. Upon reaching the casket and feeling the icy presence of its touch, something happened that was completely unexpected to himself and possibly any gravedigger or funeral director within London at the time—the casket had shook. Previously before that, a noise broke from within the shallow box. It sounded like a cough—to which I instantly thought myself to be mad with senility. But it happened again, and shaking of the casket became prevalent.
From here I continue my tale with slight hesitation. Though this might not be the strangest story within these pages (one in-particular comes to mind, where “my friend and yours”—Faustus Kain tells of an altercation he’d dealt with regarding Mountain Trolls, when he was a crusader during the Holy Wars), this next part might just seem as strange to you as it still does to me. Still, I’ve lived with the reality of all this for the last forty-years. Dear reader, which I’d hope to be no one by the spirits of the dead and God to absolve me of my sins, here is how the rest played out with a particular chained casket.
John Dee - Alchemist (1608)
Page 113.
The shaking and thumping of the frozen casket had grown significantly louder. By then, I had concluded that what whoever, or whatever, was inside had to be alive—but for how much longer, that I could not surmise at the time.
“Hold on—whatever you are,” I called out to the casket, as I looked to retrieve a hammer or some sort of object to break the chains wrapped around the box. “I’ll get you out of there, you strange fool, as soon as I can. I’m going to look for something to break the locks!” I frantically checked my surroundings and found nothing of use to me.
“Oh, goddamn it all! Why can’t you ever find something when you need it?” I said, starting to panic, as the thumping and now forceful grunts of anger took hold from within the casket; to which then, that’s when I saw the top of the box begin to crack open.
The lid upon the casket then began to splinter and bend—both in-wards and out, to which I then knew what needed to be done. I grabbed the wooden mallet meant for tenderizing meat from a nearby cabinet and went to work on the warped casket lid.
John Dee - Alchemist (1608)
Page 114.
“Shield your eyes!” I called out. “I’m going to try to widen the seal!”
By the time I had found a wooden mallet, it would seem that I likely would have no real use for it now. What I saw first was a fist; or what I later realized, was a semi-gloved gauntlet of the purest iron-cladded metal. I’ve never seen anything like this in my lifetime, and relatively, the view of seeing this placed me in a sort of momentary shock. As the hand finally reached through, and small spouts of blood then began to line from wrist down, I could see that this authentic armor was actually attached to a human counterpart. I say “authentic” as by then the idea of seeing a knight in fully-cladded armor wasn’t necessarily unlikely, but instead mostly unheard of. It's not like they didn’t exist, it was just unheard of; especially since the style of this armor that was placed upon the cladded hand, did indeed look ancient—a relic of sorts, that had been placed from time long past.
With the hammer in hand, I thought that I might use it now to open the locks on the casket. Seeing the blood and hearing the groans from the person within, I began to think otherwise. I now held the meat tenderizer in both hands, thinking if I might have to use it for a weapon instead. Then I heard a voice that came from within the box. It sounded angry, while also at the same time, all I heard was the cry of a man letting out every and any words of profanity it could possibly think of. This, as I would later learn, was naturally just him—the swearing was something as common to him as flying was for a sparrow. Regardless, it did not take long for him to rip through the lid of the casket thereafter, and soon, a malnourished, scraggly-bearded man, half-dressed in the garb of a holy crusader was sitting upon the table within my parlor room.
As he made eye contact with me for the first time, and I saw what was to be the reminiscence of his life’s most epic tragedy crucified across his face, the crusader glared at me with an untrustworthy demeanor and said the only thing that came to him at that moment;
“Tell me,” he said. “What year be this?”
With my hand raised above my head, holding the wooden mallet within my grasp, I replied to the mysterious Templar’s question. I can say in retrospect, that I was still in shock. For what I did next should not come to any surprise to no one, if you were me, you’d probably had done the same.
“The year of our lord,” I replied, “1568.”
I then struck the crusader across the head with the wooden mallet, knocking him out cold.
John Dee—Alchemist (1608)
Page 115.
In reality, I didn’t mean to hit him so hard. I was frightened, like I said, and what I did was out of impulse to say the least. But upon a further look of this man, sitting within the casket unconscious, I found from what he’d seem to say to be true. A pendant of gold hung around his neck, the sign of a knight’s Templar forged upon it; or at least something that seemed similar and or recognizable was placed indented within the gold. Something like this could not be easily replicated, not in the same efficient manner or craftsmanship shown on the pendant, – possibly, late or early twelfth-century, at the very least.
I then remembered reading, within a few of my own text (large volumes collected over the years from various scientific studies and first-hand accounts from historians), about different sects of Templars and crusaders that went on, as first, violent messengers for the church and to fight in their holy war, to later becoming warriors that were basically work-for-hire—common agents for one that was willing to offer the most gold. The pendant around this man’s neck did not look as to be of the typical variety (it’s almost hard to describe what it really looked like), but it was definitely otherworldly, within the barriers of the time period he had come from.
Seeing that I had no choice in the matter—I was indeed stuck with him, and I was curious to know what this fellow knew about what I had just surmised, I thought it best to take him from the box and bring him down to the study from which I did most of my own personal work. He would likely wake up within an hour or two, I thought then. When that happens, he as well as I will have many questions to ask from each other. (Some of those questions still go unanswered even today.) I suppose, and I know this to be true, that they will never be answered within my lifetime.
John Dee - Alchemist (1608)