Page 59 of The Messengers of Magic

The Hidden Journal of John Dee

E dward Kelley has returned, and the moment I had been anticipating has come to pass.

He began his scrying session this afternoon, his gaze fixed on the obsidian disc, his voice soft as he began his incantations.

As the minutes passed, I could sense the energy shift in the room, a subtle tension hanging in the air.

Then it happened, Kelley’s eyes rolled back in his head, and a voice that was not his own spoke through him.

It was deep, resonant, and filled with a power that shook me down to my very bones.

The voice, it was not human , I am certain of it, told me what I had feared: the ritual had not fixed the rip permanently.

The work we did was only a temporary bandage, a fleeting solution that would not withstand the ravages of time.

The being told me that the Astral Synchronum, if it is to keep the tear in time from widening, must not remain where the rip first began but near a line of energy in the ground.

To my surprise, and dismay, their revelation did not point to Dunblane Cathedral, where we had so carefully performed the ritual, but to a small village near Gare Loch, in Scotland.

There, it must be kept bound in a building, sealed away, and never again used or moved.

If it is disturbed, the seal that we placed on it might fail, causing the rip to grow larger, the consequences even more dire.

The divine being, through Kelley’s lips, made it clear that the consequences of our actions would echo far beyond my own lifetime, as it was my idea originally.

My name and bloodline would be forever tied to this task, punished for disrupting the natural order of time.

A weight, a dreadful burden, pressed upon my soul in that moment.

I begged the being to tell me a way to permanently fix it, saying I was willing to sacrifice my own life if it meant I could seal the rip.

It laughed a dark and foreboding sound that seemed to resonate into the walls of the small kitchen where we sat.

It said the only hope of permanent repair lies in a being of mixed blood, one who is neither fully human nor fully divine.

Before I could question the being further, Kelley’s body gave a violent shudder, and the voice that had spoken through him withdrew, leaving its words hanging heavy in the room around us.

Kelley collapsed, his breathing shallow and labored, as though he had expended all of his energy in that brief moment of divine communion.

We sat in silence for several minutes, the reality of what had been said sinking in.

There is no answer yet, only more questions, and no certainty in the path forward.

But one thing is clear: our work is far from over, and the task before us has grown infinitely more complicated.