Machmout, who says he thinks he is twelve, but does not know for
certain, is kitchen-maid, groom and gardener, and has to an
extraordinary degree some occult power resembling clairvoyance. Weston,
who is a member of the Society for Psychical Research, and the tragedy
of whose life has been the detection of the fraudulent medium Mrs Blunt,
says that it is all thought-reading, and has made notes of many of
Machmout’s performances, which may subsequently turn out to be of
interest. Thought-reading, however, does not seem to me to fully explain
the experience which followed Abdul’s funeral, and with Machmout I have
to put it down to White Magic, which should be a very inclusive term, or
to Pure Coincidence, which is even more inclusive, and will cover all
the inexplicable phenomena of the world, taken singly. Machmout’s method
of unloosing the forces of White Magic is simple, being the ink-mirror
known by name to many, and it is as follows. A little black ink is poured into the palm of Machmout’s hand, or, as
ink has been at a premium lately owing to the last post-boat from Cairo
which contained stationery for us, having stuck on a sand-bank, a small
piece of black American cloth about an inch in diameter, is found to be
a perfect substitute. Upon this he gazes. After five or ten minutes his
shrewd monkey-like expression is struck from his face, his eyes, wide
open, remain fixed on the cloth, a complete rigidity sets in over his
muscles, and he tells us of the curious things he sees. In whatever
position he is, in that position he remains without the deflection of a
hair’s breadth until the ink is washed off or the cloth removed. Then he
looks up and says, “Khalás,” which means, “It is finished.”

We only engaged Machmout’s services as second general domestic a
fortnight ago, but the first evening he was with us he came upstairs
when he had finished his work, and said, “I will show you White Magic;
give me ink,” and proceeded to describe the front hall of our house in
London, saying that there were two horses at the door, and that a man
and woman soon came out, gave the horses each a piece of bread and
mounted. The thing was so probable that by the next mail I wrote asking
my mother to write down exactly what she was doing and where at half
past five (English time) on the evening of June 12. At the corresponding
time in Egypt Machmout was describing speaking to us of a “sitt” (lady)
having tea in a room which he described with some minuteness, and I am
waiting anxiously for her letter. The explanation which Weston gives us
of all these phenomena, is that a certain picture of people I know is
present in my mind, though I may not be aware of it,--present to my
subliminal self, I think, he says,--and that I give an unspoken
suggestion to the hypnotised Machmout. My explanation is that there
isn’t any explanation, for no suggestion on my part would make my
brother go out and ride at the moment when Machmout says he is so doing
(if indeed we find that Machmout’s visions are chronologically correct). Consequently I prefer the open mind and am prepared to believe anything. Weston, however, does not speak quite so calmly or scientifically about
Machmout’s last performance, and since it took place, he has almost
entirely ceased to urge me to become a member of the Society for
Psychical Research, in order that I may no longer be hidebound by vain
superstitions. Machmout will not exercise these powers if his own folk are present, for
he says that when he is in this state, if a man who knew Black Magic was
in the room, or knew that he was practising White Magic, he could get
the spirit who presides over the Black Magic to kill the spirit of White
Magic, for the Black Magic is the more potent, and the two are foes. And
as the spirit of White Magic is on occasions a powerful friend--he had
before now befriended Machmout in a manner which I consider
incredible--Machmout is very desirous that he should abide long with
him. But Englishmen it appears do not know the Black Magic, so with us
he is safe. The spirit of Black Magic, to speak to whom it is death,
Machmout saw once “between heaven and earth, and night and day,” so he
phrases it, on the Karnak road. He may be known, he told us, by the fact
that he is of paler skin than his people, that he has two long teeth,
one in each corner of his mouth, and that his eyes, which are white all
over, are as big as the eyes of a horse. Machmout squatted himself comfortably in the corner, and I gave him the
piece of black American cloth. As some minutes must elapse before he
gets into the hypnotic state in which the visions begin, I strolled out
on to the balcony for coolness. It was the hottest night we had yet had,
and though the sun had set three hours, the thermometer still registered
close on 100°. Above, the sky seemed veiled with grey, where it should
have been dark velvety blue, and a fitful puffing wind from the south
threatened three days of the sandy intolerable khamseen. A little way up
the street to the left was a small café in front of which were glowing
and waning little glowworm specks of light from the water pipes of Arabs
sitting out there in the dark. From inside came the click of brass
castanets in the hands of some dancing-girl, sounding sharp and precise
against the wailing bagpipe music of the strings and pipes which
accompany these movements which Arabs love and Europeans think so
unpleasing. Eastwards the sky was paler and luminous, for the moon was
imminently rising, and even as I looked the red rim of the enormous disc
cut the line of the desert, and on the instant with a curious aptness,
one of the Arabs outside the café broke out into that wonderful chant--

    “I cannot sleep for longing for thee, O full moon
     Far is thy throne over Mecca, slip down, O beloved, to me.”

Immediately afterwards I heard the piping monotone of Machmout’s voice
begin, and in a moment or two I went inside. We have found that the experiments gave the quickest result by contact,
a fact which confirmed Weston in his explanation of them by thought
transference of some elaborate kind, which I confess I cannot
understand. He was writing at a table in the window when I came in, but
looked up. “Take his hand,” he said, “at present he is quite incoherent.”

“Do you explain that?” I asked. “It is closely analogous, so Myers thinks, to talking in sleep. He has
been saying something about a tomb. Do make a suggestion, and see if he
gives it right. He is remarkably sensitive and he responds quicker to
you than to me. Probably Abdul’s funeral suggested the tomb!”

A sudden thought struck me. “Hush!” I said, “I want to listen.”

Machmout’s head was thrown a little back, and he held the hand in which
was the piece of cloth rather above his face. As usual he was talking
very slowly, and in a high staccato voice, absolutely unlike his usual
tones. “On one side of the grave,” he piped, “is a tamarisk tree, and the green
beetles make _fantasia_ about it.