Rank: Marquis · Legions: 30 · Element: Air · Direction: West · Enn: Ayer avage Samigina
Samigina, more anciently called Gamigin, is the fourth spirit of the Ars Goetia, a great Marquis who commands thirty legions of spirits. He comes at first in a humble shape — a little horse or ass — and only at the exorcist's request does he put on the form of a man; and when he speaks, it is with a hoarse, rough voice. His offices set him at the meeting of two worlds. He teaches all the liberal sciences, the whole round of classical learning, and he gives account of the souls of the dead — especially of those who died in sin, and those who were drowned in the sea. In him the seeker finds both a patient schoolmaster and a speaker for the dead: the marquis who teaches the living and gives voice to the departed.
He is set down under several names — Gamigin, Gamygin, Gamygyn, and the form Samigina by which he is widely known today. He appears in Johann Weyer's Pseudomonarchia Daemonum of 1577, and was fixed as the fourth spirit when that material was gathered into the Ars Goetia, the first book of the Lemegeton or Lesser Key of Solomon. Jacques Collin de Plancy carried the Goetic spirits onward in the Dictionnaire Infernal of 1863. Across these sources the description holds steady: the little horse that becomes a man, the hoarse voice, the teaching of the sciences, and the account given of the dead.
His first form is among the gentlest in the whole catalogue. Where other spirits come crowned upon dragons or wreathed in fire, Samigina appears as a small horse or an ass — a low, earthly, almost humble shape. Only when the one who calls him requests it does he take on the form of a man, and it is in that human shape that he teaches and converses. Practitioners have long read this transformation as meaningful: the spirit who would teach must first be asked to put on a form fit for teaching, and the seeker who calls him learns at the outset that this is a relationship of request rather than command.
A small and curious detail clings to him across the manuscripts: he speaks with a hoarse, rough voice. It is the kind of particular that lends the old descriptions their strange authority, and practitioners take it as a practical note as much as a piece of lore. His speech is not always smooth or immediately clear; the one who works with him learns to listen carefully, to attend to a voice that comes rough and low, and to give it patience.
Samigina holds the rank of Marquis — a great Marquis, the grimoires say — and commands thirty legions of spirits. The marquis-rank places him among the noble powers of the Goetia, and the thirty legions mark a real authority, yet his bearing is that of the teacher rather than the warlord. His command is given over to instruction and to the keeping of the dead, not to conquest.
The first of his offices is teaching, and the grimoires give it in full: he teaches all the liberal sciences. In the medieval understanding these were the seven liberal arts — the trivium of grammar, logic, and rhetoric, and the quadrivium of arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy — the whole foundation of classical learning. To call Samigina for study is to call a master of the entire curriculum of the educated mind, and practitioners report that what he gives is not rote fact but genuine understanding, the kind that orders a subject and makes it one's own.
His second office sets him among the necromantic spirits: he gives account of the souls of the dead, and especially of those who died in sin. Where a practitioner would know the fate, the mind, or the message of one who has died, Samigina is the spirit called to give that account. This is among the most solemn of the Goetic offices, and the tradition treats it as such — the marquis does not trade idly in the dead, and the seeker who calls him to this work is expected to come with real need and real respect.
The tradition attaches to him a particular and haunting specialty: he gives account of, and can call up, the souls of those who were drowned in the sea, who are said to appear in aerial bodies and answer what is asked of them. Of all the dead, the drowned have always held a special dread in the old imagination — lost beneath the water, unburied, beyond the reach of ordinary rites — and Samigina is named as the one who can reach them and bring their account to the living. It is a power both sombre and merciful: a way to the dead who lie furthest from the world of the living.
His first form invites an old reading. The horse has long carried a chthonic and funerary symbolism across many traditions — the bearer of the dead, the mount that crosses between the world of the living and the world below. To meet a spirit of the dead first in the shape of a little horse is, for many practitioners, fitting rather than strange: it names him quietly as a psychopomp, a guide and carrier across the boundary, before ever he opens his hoarse mouth to speak. This reading is interpretive rather than stated in the grimoires, but it has become part of how he is understood.
What makes Samigina distinctive among the seventy-two is the union of his two offices. He is at once the schoolmaster and the speaker for the dead — the teacher of the living arts and the keeper of the accounts of the departed. The two are not so far apart as they seem: both are forms of knowledge drawn out of the unseen, the one from the body of learning, the other from the country of the dead. In him the pursuit of understanding and the consolation of the grave are held in a single hand.
Within the demonological literature Samigina keeps a steady and serious reputation. The grimoire compilers and the demonologists who copied them consistently give him his two offices and his gentle first form, numbering him among the teaching and necromantic spirits rather than the merely dangerous. The antiquarian and occult writers who followed preserved the portrait whole: the little horse, the hoarse voice, the seven sciences, and the account of the dead.
From the handwritten Lemegeton, through Weyer and de Plancy, to the printed editions that made the Goetia widely available, Samigina has come down with both his offices intact. The modern revival of practical Goetic work has found in him a spirit of unusual usefulness — sought by students and scholars for the clarity of his teaching, and by those who would speak with the dead for the gravity and care with which the tradition surrounds him.
In contemporary working Samigina is invoked for two great purposes: the deepening of study and understanding across any field of learning, and the solemn work of communicating with the dead — for closure, for hidden knowledge, or for a message from one who has passed, with a particular association with those who died tragically, in sin, or by water. Practitioners describe him as patient and willing, though his rough voice and his necromantic office ask for care and a steady mind. His Enn — Ayer avage Samigina, a phrase from the modern demonolatry tradition rather than the medieval grimoires — is used to call and attune to his presence.
What endures is the doubleness of him, held without strain: the humble little horse that becomes a teaching man, the hoarse voice that gives both the seven sciences and the accounts of the dead. Samigina is learning and remembrance together — a marquis who asks to be requested rather than commanded, who teaches the living patiently and speaks for the dead gravely, and who rewards the seeker that comes to him with seriousness, respect, and a real question.
Samigina appears first in a humble, earthly shape — a small horse or an ass — and takes on the form of a man only when the one who calls him requests it; it is in that human form that he teaches and converses. His voice is described across the manuscripts as hoarse and rough. Practitioners read his lowly first form as that of a psychopomp, the horse that carries between the worlds, and find his human aspect to be that of a sober and patient master. He is gentle in bearing for a spirit whose office touches the dead, and shows nothing of menace, though the gravity of his necromantic work lends his presence a weight of its own.
Enn: Ayer avage Samigina
Working with Samigina is a relationship of two distinct kinds, for he is at once a teacher of the sciences and a speaker for the dead, and the seeker should be clear which work is sought before calling him. He is a great Marquis who comes first in a humble shape and must be asked, not commanded, to take a human form; his voice is hoarse, and his necromantic office is solemn. To those who approach him with seriousness, patience, and respect he is a patient master and a willing guide. What follows is a guide to that relationship: how to call him, how to learn from him, and how to seek through him the account of the dead.
Samigina is owed the respect due a great Marquis, and his manner asks for a particular courtesy: he comes first as a little horse and takes a human shape only when requested, so the right approach is one of request rather than command. Come with a clear purpose — study, or the dead — and with the gravity that each deserves. He is willing, but he is not to be summoned idly or for show.
Choose a quiet place and a settled hour, and make the space clean and orderly. Set Samigina's seal at the centre of the working as the single focus. For study, the tools of learning — books, paper, the subject itself — are fitting near at hand; for the work of the dead, keep the space sober and respectful, with a single light and, if you wish, a token or the name of the one you would reach. Still your mind before you begin, for his voice is low and easily missed by a restless attention.
Open the way by reciting his Enn — Ayer avage Samigina — slowly and steadily, letting the words call his presence near. Repeat it until you feel the air of the room settle and attend. His coming is gentle; you may sense the humble first form before the teaching one, and there is no need to hurry him toward speech.
The tradition is plain that Samigina appears first as a little horse or ass and takes human form only when asked. Make that request courteously once he is present, bidding him put on the shape of a man so that he may teach and speak clearly. This small rite of asking is part of working with him, and it sets the tone of the whole relationship: he gives his higher form, and his teaching, to those who ask rather than demand.
To learn from him, name the subject plainly — the art, the science, or the field you would master — and ask not merely for facts but for understanding. He teaches the whole round of the liberal arts, and practitioners find that he gives order and depth to study rather than mere information. Keep your own work going alongside the petition; he rewards the diligent student, sharpening and deepening the effort that is already made rather than replacing it.
For the necromantic work, come with real need and real respect. Name the one whose account you seek, and ask plainly what you would know — their state, their message, or the truth of some matter that died with them. This is solemn work; approach it as you would approach a grave, with sobriety and without idle curiosity, and let Samigina give the account in his own measure.
Calling the Souls of the Drowned and the Sinful Dead
His particular office reaches those who died in sin and those drowned in the water, who the tradition says appear in aerial bodies to answer. To seek such a soul, name it as clearly as you can and state your purpose with care — for closure, for knowledge, or for a message — and let Samigina be the one to reach and to bring the account. Treat the dead who answer with the same respect you would give the living, and more, for they come from far.
Remember that his speech is described as hoarse and rough, and that the messages of the dead he carries may come broken, partial, or strange. Listen with patience and care; record what comes exactly, in image, word, and impression, and do not paper over the gaps with your own guessing. Understanding often settles after the working rather than during it.
Samigina asks for sober and fitting offerings: clean water, dark or earthen-coloured candles, quiet incense, and — for the scholar — the honest fruit of study itself, a question well-formed or a subject genuinely pursued. For the work of the dead, a respectful token and sincere remembrance suit him better than anything lavish. Give thanks for both teaching and account.
His signs are quiet and sober. There may be a settled, attentive presence, a sense of a low rough voice at the edge of hearing, or the sudden ordering of a subject that had been confused. In the work of the dead, the signs may come as images, names, knowings, or dreams in the hours that follow, when the one you sought seems to draw near.
Trust deepens with a steady and respectful relationship. Return to him for your study over time and let him become a familiar master of your learning; and where you call him to the dead, do so with consistent gravity, so that he comes to know you as a serious and respectful seeker. The student and the mourner alike are best served by patience kept over many workings.
The necromantic office asks for special care. Do not call upon the dead idly, to satisfy curiosity, or to disturb those who are at rest without true need; treat every soul that answers with respect, and let grief and reverence, not appetite, guide the work. In study, do not seek to have his teaching replace your own effort — he sharpens the diligent, not the idle. And as with all the spirits, be honest in what you ask and sober in what you do with what you are given.