Meadow Mist
by David
Bruce Albert Jr. Ph.D.
Copyright © 2005 by David Bruce Albert Jr., Ph.D.
http://www.geocities.com/doctordruidphd
Table of Contents
Don’t write in
starlight, the words may come out real.
--
Ronnie James Dio
The wind howled in the trees as it whipped ice crystals
through the frigid air, lashing at the faces of the three hooded figures making
their way along the dirt path in the cold night. The two carrying burning torches hesitated as
they came to the bridge, but the third’s refusal to turn back prodded them
onward. Reaching the middle of the
bridge, the two torch bearers remained on the path, while the third approached
the bridge’s edge. Forming a cup with
its hands, the dark figure focused its attention, and from within its hands
emerged a blue glow. Growing brighter
and brighter, the blue light exploded with a brilliant flash, and then
condensed into a single point within the figure’s hands, leaving behind
darkness and a small round stone. The
dark figure parted its hands, and the stone fell into the water below. Staring into the darkness for several minutes
where the stone had fallen, as if saying a prayer, the dark figure then made
its way down from the bridge and back into the woods, with the two torch
bearers following close behind.
*
* *
This land belongs to my
people. It was once ours, taken from us
unjustly. It is rightfully ours for the
taking; mine to do with as I please . . .
As the two-masted schooner rounded the rocky point, an
unexpected gust of wind across the starboard beam broke the reverie of the
tall, dark haired woman. Despite its
intrusion into her private thoughts, the cool fresh breeze felt good, a welcome
relief from the relentless heat of the sun.
The sails caught the wind, now coming from behind the ship, and wood and
rope creaked under the strain. The black
hull of the Wizard’s Bane plowed
through the waves, sending spray and foam into the woman’s face. She tasted its saltiness, licking it from her
lips.
“Taste good?” came a voice from beside her. Giving the large wooden wheel a full turn,
the helmsman looked toward her with a mischievous grin. Unlike the woman, who wore the brightly
colored clothing of a gypsy dancer, his clothing was much more subtle -- simple
browns and a plain shirt, something like a homegrown Benjamin Franklin. His long hair was tied behind his head; hers
was not, and another gust of wind blew her shiny black hair straight into his
face.
“Mmm, sort of like potato chips,” she replied, “without the
potatoes.”
“Mmm,” came the
mocking retort. “
“Thank you, Phineas, for such a wonderful thought,” said the
woman, resisting the momentary feeling of nausea.
“My pleasure, madam,” said the helmsman. “Sorry if I interrupted your meditation. Just seemed like historic words were in order,
or better yet, out of order, as we so
quietly sail unnoticed into the bay.
Like the black freighter.” Her
perplexed look prodded him to explain.
“The Black Freighter, a play by Brecht.
A huge black ship sails into the bay, and levels the entire town with
its guns, except for one cheap hotel.
The ship lands, and the crew rounds everybody up and brings them to the
hotel maid, who orders their execution.
The ship sails away, with her on it.
The glory, and inherent tragedy, of revolution.”
“What’s tragic about it?” asked Robinia. “It seems to me that there can be only glory
in the oppressed overcoming the oppressors.”
“True, it is a glorious thing,” said Phineas, “but the
tragedy is that even though the town is laid to ruins, the house maid is still
a house maid. Changing the circumstances
does not undo the oppression; that’s the tragedy of nearly every
revolution. It’s like musical chairs: no
matter which chair you sit in, you’re still playing the same game. Rearranging the chairs does not change the
game; it doesn’t end the oppression.”
Rearranging the chairs, but not changing the game, thought
Robinia to herself, in a flash of existential angst. For life to have meaning, it has to change
the game, and not just play it. There
is a larger sense, too, in which the movements of the game change the world in
which it plays. There has to be. The energy of lives coming and going has to
do something. I am who I am, maybe, but
my coming and going changes the world around me. Else, there would be no reason for coming or
going.
“And so, like the black freighter with the fifty-one guns,”
Phineas proclaimed, “we sail into the bay, here to waste your town.”
“We don’t have fifty-one guns,” said Robinia, “and if we did,
I doubt they would make much progress toward leveling
“No but we do have a couple of guns, and can you imagine the
havoc if we did fire a couple of shots?”
Phineas thought for a moment, and continued: “Nahh, just like dropping rocks into an ant
colony, they push them out of their way and go on about their business.”
“People are not ants,” protested Robinia, “and I think it
just might do more than that. Who
knows? It could throw the whole mess
into turmoil. Maybe start a riot or
two?”
“Nope,” said Phineas.
“Things like that can’t happen, and when they do, they just get
ignored. That would be changing the
game; it’s not allowed. Ships don’t fire
on cities, at least not in this day and age, and not in
“Like the vampire,” said Robinia, “whose strength is that no
one will believe.”
“Exactly,” responded Phineas, “and it’s our most important
secret, too. You must never tell it to
anyone, including me. Everyone knows who we are, but no one will believe what we are, and so here we are.”
“And your black freighter?” asked Robinia. “When the black
freighter opens fire, no one notices?”
“That’s interesting,” replied Phineas. “In the play, they never ask who is on the
freighter, or why. They all just wonder
why that single hotel gets spared. Who
is so important here? Never ‘why is this
happening?’ or ‘what can we do about it?’
Just focusing on why someone there is different. Still thinking like social animals, yea,
verily, even unto the end.”
Another moment of existential angst. Was that the Great Secret? The best way to nuke the enemy is to fly low
under radar, and pounce unexpectedly.
All true, thought Robinia, but there must be more. Another secret, dark and foreboding. Something that would make sense out of it
all, out of the strange life she and her sea-faring comrades were leading. A secret that, if it ever became known, might
also end it all.
Sometimes, as Kierkegaard said, only silence can have
anything important to say. Once said, it
becomes somehow profaned, desecrated, emptied of its importance, and it empties
the importance out of the one who comes to know it, too. Or maybe not; maybe the secret empties out
the importance of everything else, elevating the knower to some state of
supreme existence.
“Interesting paradox,” continued Phineas, “that we have an
effect on the world by appearing to have no effect on it. Which reminds me of a little business matter
we have up and coming.” That mischievous grin again. “Yet another opportunity to be ourselves, yes?”
“Yeah, be ourselves.” Robinia threw her head
back and laughed. But as she looked
toward the bow of the boat, the laughter faded and the smile vanished, as she
wondered. Be ourselves? Who else could one be? If one is not being one’s self, then who is
one being? Some kind of image, maybe,
some kind of story the world tells you to be.
Like an actor filling an already defined role, in a story where somebody
else already knows the plot, and worse still, maybe the ending, too. Maybe that’s how it is for some people, for
the ‘social animals’, as Phineas always calls them. The ordinary people of the world, living
their lives safe and snug in their cities, everything laid out for them. Their lives, their thoughts, their futures
all happening within the framework of society.
Every possible action, every possible thought, already anticipated and
dealt with by rules of one sort or another.
Even those who break the laws, those who disrupt and don’t conform, all
do so in the framework of social relationships.
Like a nest of
cockroaches, teeming inside the walls; like rats scurrying about the sewers . .
.
Not us, though, we’re on the outside, continued Robinia to
herself. Living on a ship, sailing from
place to place, calling here and calling there, but never really being a part
of it all. Flying low, under radar,
doing as we please. As long as no one really notices, everything is OK. Like a dream.
A dream one hopes one will never awaken from. A dream for us, a nightmare for them, for all
the social animals trapped in their lives.
Ahh, the peculiarities
of a world where life is lived backwards.
The fantasies and possibilities of childhood traded for the dull
monotony of adult life. Should be the
other way around, you know; experience should create possibilities, not cut
them off. Eh, Robinia?
“Huh?” snapped Robinia, spinning on her heels to face
Phineas.
“Huh,” he replied, “I didn’t say anything. The voices again? The voices in your head?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Robinia, feeling uneasy with the
juxtaposition of her inner voice and that of her comrade. “But who says, they’re in my head? What if they aren’t, Phineas, what if they
aren’t in my head? What if they really
are someone’s voice, someone’s thoughts riding in when my mind wanders?”
“Heh,
heh. An idle mind is the devil’s
playground,” snickered Phineas. “Now you
know why.”
“Jealous, are you, because they don’t talk to you?”
asked Robinia.
“Uh huh, right. About
as jealous as when I don’t wake up with a hangover.”
Yeah, right, Robinia said to herself. It bothers him after all, because he’s not chosen.
Someone out there has something to say, and I guess I’m the only one
listening. Too bad, dear comrade; being
the fortune teller makes me the hearer of the voices, and not you.
She was, indeed, the fortune teller, among other things. Her Latin American ancestry gave her the dark and mysterious appearance that fitted
the part of the gypsy witch perfectly.
She had mastered the classical methods of ‘divination’ -- the crystal
ball, the cards, all of them -- and was frighteningly good at them, too. Besides instilling awe, and a certain amount
of fear, in strangers seeking her ‘advice’, she had provided insights that had
guided her comrades in difficult situations.
This strange ability earned the ire of the philosopher Phineas, who, at
bottom, thought that everything should be amenable to science or logic, with no
need for help from the outside, thank you.
The exhaustive dichotomy between empiricism and rationalism -- between
experience and reason -- left no room for the hearing of voices or the seeing
of visions. But he was forced to admit
that she had an uncanny ability to see into the unseen -- past, present and
future -- and was at a loss to explain how.
Then there was the other side of Robinia’s talents. Just as divination is taking in information,
there is also putting it forth: using one’s mind to mold the world, as well as
listen to it. For her, this was the art
of spellcasting. “Witch” was much more
than a metaphor, in her case. Her
training in these matters had been mostly on her own. She preferred to discover things by intuition
-- or be taught by the “voices in her heead”, whomever’s voices they might be --
rather than pay out money and time to quack “priestesses” and “teachers” who
were more interested in exploiting the weaknesses of their students than in
conferring any kind of wisdom -- if indeed they had any.
For a time, she surrounded herself with the playthings of the
spellcaster -- candles, oils, incenses, and so on -- and still used those
things on occasion, mostly to make an impression, or scare the hell out of
someone deserving such. Under the guidance
of her inner voices, she had learned more subtle ways of raising power,
however, and of directing that power toward the outside world. Exactly what that power was, where it came
from, or what it did, she never really understood; but it was clear that on
more than one occasion, it had hit the mark.
Robinia’s wandering attention was soon captured by things
other than voices and thoughts. As the
ship reached the anchorage at
With the ship securely at anchor, Robinia lay in her bunk,
staring out the porthole at the city rising from the beach. The setting sun cast a red glow over the
landscape, as though engulfing it in some great purgatorial fire. Orange and red waves washed up on a darkening
shore, from which rose buildings aflame in pulsating orange and yellow. No, not purgatory, but Hell itself rising out
of the flames. What miserable and
hideous beings could inhabit such a place?
What despicable horrors and unspeakable deeds could be committed within
the flaming towers and darkened streets that ran through the city like cracks
in molten lava?
And then, calm. Salvation. On the wings of angels, the fog drifted
toward shore, mercifully obscuring the horrid spectacle. First it transformed the glowing inferno into
a dull monochrome of grays, then covered it altogether like a cat covering its
waste. The silent, drifting mist brought
peace at last.
Why is it, Robinia asked the swirling void, that in stories,
fog always carries with it fear and dread?
Perhaps it is because fog is like a boundary, a point at which not only
water meets air, but the known meets the unknown. It always brings with it an element of the
unknown, a gateway to what lies beyond the ordinary. I suppose, she answered for the mist, that if
one really likes the ordinary world,
the fog would be a fearsome thing. If
one finds the unknown more appealing, however, then the fog is like good icing
on a cheap cake.
*
* *
One thing that cannot be denied is that the fog provides
cover for certain activities of an unscrupulous nature. To the seasoned navigator, it is like a cloak
of invisibility. So it was that a small
rowboat pulled away from the Wizard
under cover of mist, bearing its unscrupulous human cargo.
The two sailors in the boat made for an interesting
contrast. The somewhat stocky Phineas
came from a respectable academic background, having studied both the sciences
and philosophy in several major universities.
For him, however, the phrase “terminal degree” had taken on a
particularly bitter meaning. “This is
not philosophy,” snapped one professor upon reading one of Phineas’
papers. “This is not philosophy, it is
not science, it is not scholarship.” The
essential problem Phineas faced is that his work was in fact all three. He combined experimental observation and
theory with rigorous logical analysis, and formed them into carefully reasoned
insights that constantly ran afoul of academic indolence.
“You will never teach in a college or university,” his
graduate advisor had proclaimed, upon reading his doctoral dissertation. To the academic philosopher, the subject of
metaphysics no longer means what it used to mean. The study of the nature of reality had, for
the professor and his colleagues, been abandoned for the tamer, if less
fruitful, study of language. Philosophy
had moved away from the great questions of antiquity, to more mundane talk
about social condition. The
socialization of philosophy stripped it not only of its interest but also of
its importance, and philosophers did not like being reminded of that fact.
Phineas’ research focused on human consciousness, the ability
to understand one’s self as a unique individual, and how consciousness had
originally appeared among ancient humanity.
While many thought that the appearance of consciousness was closely tied
to civilization and language, Phineas worked with the theory that consciousness
represented an advancement beyond
civilization -- a way for individuals to survive when their social structure
collapses. Although the origins of
consciousness itself trace back in history to before the development of
urbanized societies, the appearance of consciousness in modern humanity signals
the ability of individuals to move beyond culture -- to live as individuals,
rather than as members of a society.
Instead of looking to language and culture for its source, Phineas found
the origins of consciousness in the dark world of magick, spirits and ancient
religions. The demands of modern
civilization had cut off humanity from consciousness, Phineas concluded, and
modern society had become the enemy of human evolution.
His work had done more to irritate, rather than interest and
intrigue, the members of his doctoral committee. He revived the old questions -- about the
nature of mind and being -- and largely ridiculed or ignored the contemporary
silliness that, in a nutshell, supposed everything could be understood in terms
of language. “We shall not have gotten
rid of God, as long as we still have grammar,” proclaimed the sarcastic
Nietzsche, and modern philosophy was deeply faithful to its object of adoration.
Despite this, Phineas had been granted his doctoral degree,
more than likely because his committee members either hadn’t read, or were
ashamed to admit they couldn’t understand, what he had written. But with typical academic cowardice -- which
the academic community proudly, if paradoxically, calls “academic freedom”
-- they had written him bad letters of
reference, ensuring that his advisor’s threat would be realized. So he had turned to other pursuits, each a
more miserable failure than the last, until by chance he stumbled across something
that allowed him to use his keen sense of reason, and his ability to quickly
understand and learn from experience.
Even if it wasn’t exactly what he had prepared for, it suited him well.
In contrast to the philosopher, no one knew much about St. Joe’s
background, much less what his real name was, or if he even had one. Tall and lean, he fashioned his appearance
after the philosopher Descartes, with beard and long, flowing hair. Descartes had fathomed the world of dreams,
and it was in the dream world that St. Joe was most at home.
Like Phineas, he had come up through the traditional ranks; unlike
Phineas, he had graduated from the seminary with honors, had been accepted into
the Orders, and had begun his career as a parish priest. Then fate dealt the trump card. From the members of his parish, located in
one of the poorer sections of a New England town he never mentioned by name,
came fearsome tales of inexplicable happenings -- things that held his parishioners
in utter terror of what each night would bring.
The frightening tales of his parishioners included hauntings, strange
noises, eerie lights, windows shattered, furniture smashed, and even mysterious
wounds in human flesh that would not heal.
The police had ruled out the more obvious explanations; even the lowest
of thieves and criminals feared the place, and would not go into that section
of town. Only those who could not afford
to leave remained, trapped by their poverty in some bizarre theater of horror,
without the exit token.
The parish priest was naturally skeptical, for the teachings
of his faith had moved away from such things.
Evil, according to the enlightened theology, no longer wore the mask of
the devil, but rather hid behind human frailties such as fear and
jealousy. The wrongs of the world, he
had learned, are rooted in the thoughts and conduct of people, and not in the
presence of malevolent forces or entities -- or so the “new” teachings
proclaimed. Religion thus moved, under
the guidance of these ideas, from the realm of the spiritual to the realm of
the social. It had become the province
of culture, and not of God. The
socialization of religion left no room for the interference of beings outside
the social framework. And, like the
harbor town besieged by Brecht’s black freighter, when such beings -- who had
never really accepted any theology anyway -- made their presence felt, orthodox
religion was unable to resist them.
The priest thus found himself unable to either explain, or to
resolve, the situation that was causing so much pain and fear among his
parishioners. In desperation, he turned,
not to the social and psychological sciences to which the “new” theology
appealed, but to the teachings of his own faith from ages past. From things written when evil was spelled
with a capital ‘E’, he learned of possessions, of hauntings, of demonic beings
and their frightful activities. He
studied the rites of mysterious occult societies, and their methods for
dispersing such powers. In the end, he
turned to the method traditionally favored by his own faith -- exorcism. He performed a series of exorcism rites
throughout the haunted section of town, which succeeded in banishing the
ghastly occurrences, and relieved the suffering of his flock.
They also succeeded in drawing the anger of his Church
superiors. Called before his bishop, he
was ordered to recant his beliefs and apologize for his conduct. He refused, arguing that his mission as a
priest was first and foremost the care of souls, and not the enforcement of
dogma. For that, he was stripped of his
Orders, ejected from his parish, and warned never to speak of matters relevant
to
It was said by those privy to the darker secrets of the
Church, however, that during his studies of ancient rites, St. Joe had
discovered coded messages suggesting the existence of a certain secret Order,
and those messages had enabled him to contact a member of that Order. Now this Order -- spoken of only in rumor --
was not exactly within the Church,
but secretly existing alongside
it. Its members were drawn from the
Church and elsewhere, and they kept the ancient teachings -- and practices --
alive. It was even said -- quietly and
under the breath -- that one of his accusers, a high officer of the Church, was
actually a Secret Chief of the Order who had supervised his training in the
forbidden arts. This secret Order did
not recognize official Church excommunications, and St. Joe continued as a
member; a fact attested to by the ruby-jeweled ring he never removed,
signifying not only some arcane level of initiation, but also proficiency in
the Order’s most secret and powerful rites.
While the philosophical Phineas was always quick to offer his
opinion on nearly everything, St. Joe for the most part preferred to remain
silent. His intense, dark eyes belied
his indifferent silence; he had an opinion on almost everything, too, but kept
it to himself. His secret training had
taught him that speaking and doing are opposite ends, and idle chatter not only
empties the thoughts from one’s mind, but empties them of their power. Power is one of those traits that
distinguishes the truly wise from the frivolous know-it-all and the trivial
babbler, and he had worked too hard to lose that power. Spewing forth one’s thoughts into the air
also makes one vulnerable to malignant spirits, and an exorcist must avoid
unnecessarily exposing himself to these dangers.
When he did speak, it was from the pulpit with the full
authority of tradition behind him, or such was the air he effected. His manner would have seemed trivially
boring, save that, coupled with his appearance, it seemed to activate some
latent fear in his listeners. For those
who heard him speak, every word carried the weight of sacred prophecy. For that pomposity, his comrades ridiculed
him mercilessly. The ridicule was only
skin deep, however, for all too well did they know his abilities. On more than one occasion, one of them had
crossed into that other world that
the exorcist calls home, and owed their sanity, or perhaps more, to his skill
and determination in bringing them back.
*
* *
Emerging from the swirling fog, the boat quietly approached
the dimly lit wooden pier, with St. Joe at the bow, sitting erect and proud,
and Phineas straining at the oars. As
they tied up at one of the docks, they instinctively looked to see if they were
being observed -- a quite unnecessary precaution in the thick evening fog. Silently, the two walked along the pier
toward the shore.
The sounds of the waterfront -- the foghorn, the waves gently
splashing on the beach below -- the smells, and the storm-battered shops along
the pier all stirred old memories for Phineas.
This was the place that he, as a child, had spent most of his time. Here, he had wandered in and out of strange
waterfront shops that sold hand-blown glass trinkets and other junk no one
could possibly want, and through the marine junkyards that had the really good stuff -- pieces of rusted metal and
broken glass hauled up from sunken ships, each of which had a real story to tell.
He remembered the hours he had spent sitting in the old
ship’s store, where sailors from wars past told tales that really were true, or so they said. Listening to the ships’ radios, where voices
from people he would never meet told of disasters and other events too far away
to imagine. Walking along the pier that,
even back then, looked as if it would fall into the water at any moment. Watching as children pointed at the tanks of
live lobsters in the fish markets, chuckling with anticipation as they
inevitably got too close. He remembered the greasy, wax-paper wrapped
hamburgers and soft drinks that, no matter what he ordered, always managed to
taste like root beer, devoured as the sun set into the slowly advancing fog
banks.
Best of all, though, was the relentless sounding of the fog
horns. Some close, some distant, but
always those repeating, deep tones from deep within the wet, gray mist that
framed and authenticated life at the waterfront. Was it the reassurance and guidance they
provided, that made the sounds so intriguing?
No, more than that: it was a calling
forth that the sounds signified, a calling forth into the unknown. The foghorns stood as beacons at the edge of
the invisible and the unknowable, guiding travelers both ways. The sound of the
foghorn proclaimed the limit of the mundane world, and the beginning of that
strange waterfront world, situated at the borderline of reality. A place where the familiar world of the city
and the unknown world of the fog-shrouded sea coexisted and intermingled; a
place where the unwary and the daring could slip easily between the two.
Therein lay Phineas’ fundamental frustration with life, and
the tension between himself and the other members of the group. Each of them was what he or she wanted to be;
St. Joe had always dreamed of being a priest, and a priest he was, even if an
excommunicated one. Robinia had
fantasized about being a witch and fortune teller throughout her childhood, and
that was what she had indeed become. And
so on for the others on the ship. Except
for Phineas; he was the one whose inner being was at odds with what he had
become. He had always really wanted to
be a lighthouse keeper; to be a keeper of the beacon, denizen of the fog,
dweller in the space between land and sea, between sight and invisibility. To hear the foghorns was one thing, but to
actually be the one in control, the guy with the switch -- well, that must be a mystical experience to surpass
all others.
The world had denied him his wish. The “modernization” of the lighthouse service
had resulted in the selling off of many of the landmarks, and the replacement
of keepers in those remaining with computers and electronics. Being thus robbed of the future he had dreamed
of, his life had taken on a morose tone that occasionally emerged in anger and
frustration. In his darker moments,
Robinia tried to console him that his philosophy was indeed a beacon in the
darkness, but the attempt was futile.
The rift between what one has become, and what one at some very deep
level is, is not a wound that heals
with time, but one that cuts ever deeper and deeper into the soul. The old ways -- the ones replaced by
“modernization”, be it in the lighthouse service, in philosophy, or elsewhere
-- had left room for the imagination.
The trademark of the
modern world: utter dehumanization, robbing the human mind of the thing so
essential to its existence -- the soul, which speaks through the imagination. All gone, forever gone, life forever a
wasteland of shallowness punctuated by idiotic babble and boredom.
Yuh huh! I’m getting
to be like her, hearing those damn
voices, thought Phineas to himself. He
catapulted out of his mental soliloquy as the wooden pier abruptly ended at the
concrete sidewalk. St. Joe, walking in
front, had not noticed his self-conversation, but he dropped back next to
Phineas as they entered the city. They
came to the spot where the old ship’s store had been; in its place was a new
building, all concrete and glass, but still a ship’s store. Inside, the old wooden shelves had been
replaced by steel and plastic. No table
and rickety chairs in the corner, no old sea dogs and their tales of far away
and far awhen; this place was all business.
Interesting, nonetheless. Glass
cases with rockets, flares, smoke bombs, and other such toys that could prove
entertaining in the wrong hands.
St. Joe had remained outside, while Phineas browsed the
aisles; this was more for old time’s sake than for business. Rows of shelves stacked with gleaming chrome
hardware and sterile white plastic parts, neatly arranged plumbing and
electrical equipment. It was while
examining an oddly shaped piece of pipe that his concentration was interrupted.
“Hmmm,” came a dry voice from behind him. “Everything so complicated, nowadays. One can only wonder, what such things can
be.” The voice belonged to an elderly
man, somewhat thin and of average height, who seemed healthy in every way, but
gave the impression that he should
have been bent and decrepit. His clothes
radiated a similar aura: though his coat and pants seemed quite clean, they
gave the impression that they should
be dirty. His unkempt long, gray hair
and beard did not help the image much.
It’s for hooking up a toilet, you idiot, thought Phineas
under the guise of a polite grin. Though
the old man’s manner was friendly enough, Phineas resented the intrusion into
his private meditation. He had come to
reminisce, not to converse. “Yes, everything
is complicated,” he said, “but someone knows what it is. I suppose if it’s the thing you’re looking
for, well, it’s just what you want.”
That should hold him for a while, he hoped.
“Ahh,” came the reply, “if one knows what one wants, then one
knows when he has found it?”
Oh God no, no bag man philosophy, please. Phineas grinned, gave a polite “Humph,” put
the pipe back on the shelf and walked away.
Not looking behind him, he hoped he was not followed. As he entered the next aisle, he froze in his
tracks, as his eyes met those of one of the most stunning women he had ever
seen. Orange-red hair framing a face of
pure white, and a thin, tight green dress; but it was her eyes, those riveting
green eyes, that held him motionless.
“Are you looking for something?” Her tone, while not hostile, suggested that
trying what could be a very short temper would not be a good idea.
“Umm, yeah, well, mostly just looking around.” Realizing he probably didn’t impress her as
being an intelligent being, he turned and made his way out of the store.
Outside, St. Joe was waiting; one of his virtues was
patience, infinite patience. Phineas
just stood there with him, looking around, until a voice caught his attention.
“What is it you’re
looking for?” The red haired girl, along
with the old man, had both come out of the shop. He noticed on her finger a ring that, oh horrible thought, suggested she just might
be married to the crazy man. Another
fantasy bubble popped in an instant.
“Books, books on celestial navigation,” said Phineas. “There used to be a bookstore here.”
“Not in the last twenty years or so,” she replied. She couldn’t have been twenty years old, let alone know what this place was like
then.
“Ahh, the art, or is it science, of knowing where one is by
the stars. It’s always good to know
where one is, yes?” asked the old man.
The last thing Phineas wanted was to hear from him again; the irritation
over the old man’s interruption of his reverie had not faded.
“Have you tried the Bronze Lion?” asked the girl. Phineas’ puzzled look answered for him. “The Bronze Lion, the bookstore in the new
After a polite thank-you, Phineas and St. Joe turned in the
direction the girl had pointed. Almost
in mockery, or so Phineas thought, the old man called after them, “I do hope
you find what it is you want.”
Done with that most
unpleasant encounter -- unpleasant for a variety of reasons -- Phineas and St.
Joe walked along the waterfront street, until they arrived at their
destination. Rising from the street with
walls of concrete and glass, like some fantasy fortress, the
Inside, the Palace was all bustle and business. People moving everywhere, a chaotic mass of
swarming humanity. Shops, restaurants,
various kinds of entertainment, banks, jewelry stores . . . Most interesting to the two sailors, though,
and what commanded their attention, was the large canal running down the length
of the building, branching into each of the building’s sections. A strange thing to have, a waterway in a
place where people walk, but there it was.
They nodded to one another, St. Joe going off to investigate
the canal, while Phineas looked for the bookstore. An interesting place it must be, Phineas thought,
if it really had every book one could possibly want. That he had to see. It was not long before he found it: with a
bronze lion displayed in a glass case in the front, the bookstore seemed
huge. It was not, however, in the best
of order; it looked as though the books had just been shoved onto the shelves
with no particular organization. Titles
on every subject imaginable were intermixed: books on gardening next to H.P.
Lovecraft, medical textbooks mixed in with children’s comic books. What a mess!
There were shelves of books everywhere, hardly room to move. Nonetheless, the store was quite crowded, and
Phineas had to push and shove just to get from one shelf to the next.
After several minutes of fruitless searching, Phineas found a
woman whom he deduced must work there, because of her brown leather apron. She was shoving books onto an already filled
shelf, but he managed to get her attention across a customer-crowded aisle.
“Books on celestial navigation?” he shouted.
She looked up, pointed in a direction to his right, and went
back to what must have been an impossible operation, getting more books onto a
shelf already jam-packed. Maybe that’s
why she had to work so hard at it.
He made his way in the general direction the woman had
indicated. There, he found yet another
overfilled shelf. Books with
disintegrating covers, papers shoved in every which way. Hmm, he thought, maybe they’ve got a first
edition Bowditch in there somewhere. To
his amazement, he pulled a volume with a rotting cover off the shelf, and there
it was! A first edition of Bowditch’s American Practical Navigator; not in the
best of shape, but there
nonetheless. Maybe there’s an original
Chapman in there, too, he thought. No
sooner was the thought complete, than a large volume on top of the shelf caught
his eye: a first edition of Chapman’s Piloting.
This was too weird. He
“found” a few more books, books out of print for at least a hundred years. It seemed that as soon as he thought of a
book -- not in general terms, but a specific book by a specific author -- it
somehow appeared on the shelf, among the mess of other books and papers. It must be a trick, he thought. Maybe the girl and the old man had something
to do with it; they knew what he was looking for. So he decided to try another subject. The shelf behind him appeared to hold books
on the occult. His comrade Erika had
mentioned a certain book by Aleister Crowley, the Blue Equinox, and she had said that the original edition held
certain information not available in the reprints. No way, he thought, they could have that one.
Wrong. Parting a group
of brittle, yellowed papers, there it was.
Blue cover, gold inlaid letters, the word EQUINOX. It was the real thing, all right. Oh man, this was too strange. What the old man had said, about knowing when
one has found what one wants . . .
Phineas had the sudden urge to get out of the store, not only because of
its stuffy overcrowding, but for more unsettling reasons. This just couldn’t be happening.
He came to the cashier, and put the stack of books in front
of him, realizing at that point he hadn’t bothered to check the price.
“How much are these?” Phineas asked.
“Used books. Dollar
fifty,” replied the cashier.
Huh? Impossible! Any one of these could have gone for
hundreds, some for thousands, he thought to himself.
“They’re used books,” the cashier repeated impatiently. “A dollar fifty each. You want ‘em?”
“Yes! Yes of course!”
answered Phineas. Just the kind of
bargain one could only dream of. Insane,
even if somewhat logical. He paid for
the books, and met St. Joe, waiting for him in front of the shop.
“You won’t believe that place!” Phineas was so excited he could hardly catch
his breath. “It’s some kind of trick,
has to be. Every time you think of a
book, it’s there on the shelf. And the
prices . . . ”
A motion of St. Joe’s hand cut off his comments.
“That is commonplace, quite easily believed, compared to what
I have found out. That canal, it goes
throughout the mall, and opens directly out to the ocean. No gates, no grating, no nothing. Wide open.
No security whatsoever.” Despite
his low, quiet voice, St. Joe was clearly excited. “The bank, right down that branch there. No guards.
The other way, jewelry stores, a coin shop. No safes, no cameras, no nothing. This place is a visitation waiting to happen.”
They left the mall and made their way back to the dock,
Phineas having forgotten the bookstore, his mind absorbed in planning. They climbed into the boat and pushed off
from the dock, this time with St. Joe at the oars, and Phineas staring out into
space as he calculated. As the boat
approached the Wizard, Robinia and
Erika caught the boat’s ropes. St. Joe
and Phineas both reached for the ladder at the same time, and grinned to one
another, sharing in that moment the same thought: Damn good thing, there’s no
such thing as pirates!
That night, seated around a wooden table in the main cabin,
the five members of the group had a converging of minds. St. Joe’s diagrams of the Palace were spread
out on the table, while Phineas drew lines and discussed the various aspects of
his plan.
“OK, everything’s planned for tomorrow night, so the best
time to do this is just before things get started,” said Phineas. “There will be thousands of people, mostly in
the auditorium, which will be a big concern for security. The rest of the place will be deserted, so
we’ll have free movement. We’ll go in on
the boat, right up to the front door.
When we get in the bank, look for gold, silver. Forget the paper, we want metal.”
“What makes you think there’s gold in there?” asked Robinia.
“I saw this thing in the newspaper, about them holding chests
full of gold coins, old French franks, I think.
Also, they have a shipment of bullion being transferred to some overseas
company. Like I feel real bad about
that.”
“Gems,” said the red-haired Erika. “I need gems,
Phineas. Need them bad.”
“OK, there’s no obvious security at the jewelry stores, so we
can hit them in the confusion after the bank itself. Robbi, you’ll handle diversions?”
“As usual. I’ll take a
12-gauge,” said Robinia, casting a glance toward Erika and the grenade launcher
equipped M16 rifle she was holding.
“Along with my, uh, specials.”
From a box beneath the table, she pulled out a round, black plastic
object, with an ominous looking circular wire pin sticking out.
“Erika, you’ll do firepower.
Scare the shit out of them,” said Phineas, as Erika snapped a magazine
into place. “And try not to scare it out
of me in the process. Roweena, Roweena
dearest. Saint says there aren’t any
safes, so I don’t know if we’ll need your, uh, locksmithing talents this time.”
The girl with the darkly tanned skin and long, sun bleached
yellow hair looked up from the table. “Oh, there’ll be a safe,” said
Roweena. “They won’t have that much gold without one. Besides, I can back up Erika, so I’ll need
one of those firesticks, too.”
Phineas glanced around the cabin, nodding in
satisfaction. “Saint, you and I will
bag. Could be some heavy hauling this
time. Save room for the gems. If everything goes well, we’ll be right on
time for the other thing.”
*
* *
So the plan was done.
With a night to sleep on it, Phineas drifted into a haze-filled
dream. Out of the haze appear three
ships: black hulled, three-masted sailing ships with blue and white spinnakers
billowing in the wind. Sailing into the
harbor, they lower their sails, and turn broadside toward the city. A signal is shouted, and cannons open
fire. Salvo after salvo of flaming
cannonballs rain down upon the city, as skyscrapers collapse and buildings
explode in clouds of fire. For an hour
the rain of terror continues, pulverizing the city into a pile of burning rubble;
there is no hotel spared, no hotel maid, no chosen savior. Out of the clouds of gunsmoke surrounding the
ships emerge rubber rafts filled with black-clad pirates, carrying machine guns
and rocket-propelled grenades. They land
on the beach, crawling on their bellies up the sand, toward the flaming city,
with the sounds of whistling cannonballs coming from overhead as the gunners
adjust their aim, spreading the flaming destruction deeper into the city. When they reach the street, they are puzzled
to see that there are no panic-stricken crowds, no police force, no armed
citizenry to shoot it out with. Only a
glassy-eyed, suit-and-tie clad populace, wandering aimlessly, zombie-like
through the streets; oblivious to the pirate force, and to the destruction
around them. The pirate leader radios back
to the ships: “You can stop shooting now.”
Phineas awoke from the dream, realizing what had been
bothering him about his plan: the absence of any noticeable security at the
Palace. The turn of the century was a
time of unprecedented urban violence: gang wars, random shootings, and all
types of theft. The Palace should have
been teeming with security troops and surveillance, but they were nowhere to be
seen. Why had the shooting stopped? Why were large security forces not needed in
places like the Palace? At one time, in
the not too distant past, they had been -- the malls had been crawling with
armed guards. But now they were
gone.
Remembering his research on consciousness and ancient
civilizations, Phineas realized that modern society had taken a hint from the
past -- they had learned how ancient societies controlled the behavior of their
members. Ancient cities did not have
massive police forces. They didn’t need
them. Those civilizations existed before
the appearance of human consciousness, and their well-ordered social patterns
were enforced by a neurological mechanism within the brain that psychologist
Julian Jaynes called the bicameral mind.
According to Jaynes’ theory, the right brain unconsciously
perceives the patterns of behavior in a society that are necessary for its
members to follow in order for that society to survive. The right brain then transmits commands to
the left brain, perceived as voices, that control behavior so that the individual
functions as a member of the group. Hence, the bicameral
mind: the right and left brains working together to produce socially
conforming behavior. In those times,
behavior was controlled not by reflection and reason, but by the voices of the gods, which were really
the society-sustaining commands of the right brain. The characters of the Iliad, for example, did not contemplate or cogitate upon their
actions. They acted in response to
commands from god-voices -- voices originating, according to Jaynes, in their
own brains, reflecting socially acceptable behaviors.
When human consciousness arose, it fractured the bicameral
mind, and the ancient societies disintegrated.
The voices disappeared as conscious individuals began to think and
evaluate their behavior in terms of their own selves, rather than following the
brain’s commands for social order.
Consciousness evolved specifically to break the rules of social order;
its purpose is to allow the individual to survive in situations where the
social order fails. The evolution of
consciousness meant that human beings had evolved beyond social order.
Humanity’s refusal to abandon the urban paradigm left the conscious
individual hopelessly at odds with society, and both struggling relentlessly
against each other for survival.
The problems of modern society could be solved, or so some
might have thought, if individual consciousness could be pushed out of the
picture and the world could return to the domestic tranquillity of the
bicameral mind. Quite unconsciously,
without any awareness on the part of individuals, social pressures began
suppressing individual consciousness.
Consciousness requires privacy to exist and function, and in recent
years, privacy had all but been destroyed by surveillance technologies such as
drug testing and video cameras. Endless
social chatter about individual private matters, emanating from television and
radio talk shows and working its way into the fabric of individual lives,
obliterated the private mental space of the individual so necessary for
consciousness to exist. Social chatter
about morality, and its constant prying into the most private matters of the
individual, feeds the very pattern-finding mechanisms the bicameral mind needs
to operate. Hiding behind their veil of
pompous righteousness, moral crusades appeal to unconscious mental processes,
demanding automatic responses and shunning reflective examination.
In the absence of privacy and critical evaluation, the mind becomes society, and that is what the
bicameral mind needs to function.
Without knowing it -- without any conscious awareness on anyone’s part
-- the old brain had moved against indivvidual consciousness, and the bicameral
mind returned -- the mind of the individual had been recameralized. Though the
voices were no longer heard, the control mechanisms were still there, working
through subtle feelings and behavioral
cues.
Without a single shot being fired, society succeeded in
turning its members into unconscious robots.
Continuing to believe the myth of personal freedom, the members of society
became slaves to social norms, their behavior controlled by society
unconsciously. The shooting stopped, at
least in places like the Palace, when consciousness lost control of behavior,
and society took over. The gut feeling,
the unconscious urge and the desire for social approval took the place of
conscious control over behavior.
While consciousness still continues to exist, it is no longer
in control. More often than not, it
creates problems for the member of society, often coming to the surface as
pathological behavior or depression. The
root cause of depression is not “chemical imbalance.” Depression is the despondency of the
individual struggling for survival against overpowering socialization pressures
-- it is consciousness at war with the bbrain and its socially-driven behavior
patterns. The “cure” for depression is
therefore “therapy” to “integrate” the individual into society, and where that
fails, “medications” to suppress the mechanisms in the brain from which
consciousness arises, and strengthen the bicameral control system.
Society learned to manage social violence, Phineas realized,
by pushing consciousness out of the picture, and recameralizing the mind --
bringing forth the old social and neurological behavior control mechanisms. They had, in other words, succeeded in
pushing evolution backwards, and in doing so had brought the social problems
caused by the evolution of consciousness under control. While sporadic and spontaneous violence
continued to plague the cities, organized violence -- sabotage, well-planned
robberies, and other social disruptions -- had all but disappeared, as the
consciousness necessary to break the rules of the social order and plan them
vanished from the world. The omnipresent
rhythmic, thumping music that so thoroughly pervades modern society --
especially in places like the Palace -- energizes the neurological control
mechanisms, strengthening the world’s hold over the mind. The music is not there to entertain, thought
Phineas; it is there to control, to generate and reinforce unconscious
behavioral control mechanisms that ensure “proper” behavior. Where the boomboxes thunder, the guns are
silent.
What had been lost in the bargain was irreplaceable. The disappearance of individual human
consciousness means that individuals as unique entities no longer exist;
everything is understood in terms of relationships and society. When individuals cannot think for themselves
-- cannot even think as themselves --
their thoughts and actions become prisoners of social norms; they are reduced
to being gears in a machine. When the
machine breaks, as a result of either internal or external circumstances, there
is no mind outside the social milieu to fix it.
The greatness of humanity lies in the greatness of the individual: in
the greatness of unique points of view, unique talents and actions, unique
feelings and thoughts. Without
consciousness, there is no individuality; trading consciousness for social
peace trades greatness for an insect’s quality of life. Trading consciousness for wired-in social
behavior trades away humanity’s ability to survive beyond its own social
circumstances.
There had, for a time, been a movement against this mass
neuralization of behavior and suppression of consciousness. In a revival of the Luddite anti-technology
movement, guerrilla cells had formed, and had carried out strikes against drug
testing and media facilities; “Smashing the Machines”, they called it. The anti-technology philosophers had
predicted that if mainstream culture collapsed, consciousness would arise
spontaneously in individuals, and humanity would continue in small enclaves
governed by self-organizing principles, and not urban population centers
governed by rigid social order. Such
small enclaves, of maybe a few hundred people, could exist without depleting
the natural resources upon which they depend.
They would exist without government, without laws, without authority:
life in a truly chaotic system, a
self-organizing social system without rigid rules, based upon self
respect and the respect for others it engenders, which are possible only for
conscious beings. It is an arrangement
that is unthinkable, however, for beings under social-neurological control --
those who have fulfilled the description of “social animal.”
It had also been discovered that certain drugs -- the
“psychedelics” like marijuana, magic mushrooms and LSD -- had the power to
reverse the socialization process. By
producing unique mental experiences in those who used them, they led to individuation -- the breaking of the
individual off from the social environment -- and individuation often led to
the spontaneous appearance of individual consciousness. It had even been argued that such drugs were
the means by which consciousness had originated in antiquity, and that
religious, paranormal, and other “mystical” experiences represented the
reaching of the human mind into consciousness, and into the strange world of
Spirit accessible only to consciousness.
The movement had been short-lived. Machines were smashed, television schedules
were disrupted, the busses didn’t run on time.
But it was too late, too much suppression of individuality had already
happened, consciousness had already receded too far into the background. The nonconformists fled the social milieu,
living outside of the “civilized” world.
Some living in the mountains, some as scavengers in the desert or the
frozen poles, and some in small social enclaves in isolated places without the
“benefits” of modern technology. Living
close to the earth, the ancient religions and practices had begun to re-surface
among the social outcasts, and also some of the ancient ways of living. Such as those of the pirate . . .
*
* *
They had met at a gathering of the Mountain Militia, an organization
dedicated to preserving whatever was left of individual rights. The five of them had engineered an assault on
a manufacturing facility that produced machines used in drug testing. The assault had been so successful in halting
production that the government had declared all drug testing facilities, and
facilities that made instruments for that purpose, national security sites, and
staffed them with the same security troops that guard nuclear weapons
facilities. But by then it was too late
for the assaults to have any major effect anyway. No one noticed. The voices did not speak to the average
person about such things, and the pirates slipped into oblivion. Not, however, into non-existence.
That is how modern pirates survive. They are not a part of the social pattern;
flying low and under radar, they move through the culture without
detection. No one notices blocks of ice
falling from the sky, and no one notices the nonconformist; not because they
are hidden, but because the mind refuses to acknowledge their existence. They don’t fit the norm, therefore they don’t
exist. So, no need for security, no
cameras, not even any locks or safes.
*
* *
Phineas’ philosophical musing gave way to anticipation with
the approach of late afternoon, and the slow drifting toward shore of the
silent, gray fog. Quietly, the boat with
the five pirates aboard slipped away from the Wizard into the mist. The
calm waters enabled them to follow the compass directly into the opening of the
Palace’s canal. The narrow
concrete-lined canal entered the Palace through a huge, gaping dark maw that
made for an interesting metaphor of consciousness entering the civilized
world. Bracing for that event, Robinia
slipped a large, brass and red buckshot shell into her shotgun. Erika pulled back the bolt on her M16, while
Roweena, having changed her mind, had opted for a gleaming, four-foot-long
steel sword, and now fingered its hilt nervously. St. Joe and Phineas, at the oars, stopped and
looked for a moment, as the boat crossed from the gray light of day into the
dark mouth of the Palace.
They resumed their pulling as the bright lights and music of
the mall engulfed the small boat. Past
sidewalk cafes, the boat slid silently into the bowels of the Palace. Despite the lights and music, and shops
tended by efficient-looking salespeople, the mall seemed empty. Where the day before the walkways had been
packed with human traffic, today there was no one. No one to chatter, no one to buy, and more
importantly, no one to notice, as the boat slipped into the first left branch
of the main canal. A hundred feet or so
down the canal, and there it was: the Business Bank. As the boat slowly floated down the canal,
the pirates carefully studied the front of the bank: glass doors surrounded by
concrete colored brick red. Quietly,
they alighted from the boat onto the canal’s concrete side, moved quickly
across the walkway, and pressed themselves up against the building on either
side of its glass door. With Robinia
remaining outside, the other four slipped inside.
The bank was deserted, save for a lone teller and another
woman in an upstairs office. The four
jumped the counter, Erika landing on her feet, her rifle pointed at the chest
of the terrified teller.
“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” commanded the
red-haired gunner, “and take us to your gold.”
The girl was nearly frozen with fright; she inched backward,
stopped by Roweena. The girl spun
around, stopping with the point of Roweena’s sword at her neck.
“The gold, sometime today, if you don’t mind too much,” said
Roweena.
“I . . . I . . . It, it’s in the safe,”
“There is no safe,” said St. Joe, pressing his face into
hers.
“Y . . . yes, there
is. Around behind that wall.” She jolted, turning to face the upstairs
office. “The manager!” she shouted.
Erika spun around on her heels, to see a heavy, unattractive
woman emerge from the glass office.
“What’s going on down there?” shouted the woman.
“Get down here, get down here now,” shouted Erika. The woman moved only her head, trying to get
a better look. Erika pulled the trigger,
about a second and a half of automatic fire, the shattering of glass and whine
of bullets ricocheting off metal. “GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE NOW!!”
The woman jerked her hands over her head, and clumsily made
her way down the stairs. Erika kept her
gun trained on the woman, as the other three, along with the teller, made their
way back toward the safe. It was locked,
and the door wouldn’t budge.
“It’s a time lock. It
won’t open till tomorrow morning,” said the teller.
Roweena sheathed her sword, and moved to the front of the
door. She held out her right hand,
spreading her fingers apart, and moving her hand sideways and up and down,
until she stopped at a point just above the lock itself. She closed her eyes, thinking of a giant oak
tree she had climbed as a child; climbing to one of the lower branches, finding
a clump of mistletoe, running her fingers through the plant. As she felt its stems and leaves in her mind,
her fingers moved, as though manipulating, by some unseen strings, the
mechanism within the door. After a few
seconds, she said, “There,” and turned her hand to the right. A loud thunk! came from within the door. Phineas turned the handle, and slowly pulled
the massive steel door open.
The four slipped inside, and there, on the floor before them,
sat a wooden chest. Roweena’s sword
reduced the lock to pieces, and Phineas slowly opened the lid. The open top revealed a layer of lead foil,
with half-dollar sized lumps beneath it.
Slowly pulling back the foil, light fell upon bright gold coins. Phineas and Roweena looked at each other,
smiled bright
“You’re militia, aren’t you?” whispered the teller, grabbing
St. Joe’s arm.
“We’re acting on our own behalf, at the moment,” he replied.
“It doesn’t matter.”
She turned around, and from the
shelf behind her, picked up three paper wrapped bricks, and handed them
to St. Joe. “It’s gold, bullion,” she
continued in a whisper, “it's for bailing out some whaling company, keeping
them out of bankruptcy.” St. Joe started
to speak, but cut himself off; her Greenpeace pin did the explaining. “Just get it out of here.”
St. Joe obliged, gently lowering the bricks into one of the
sacks. Phineas and Roweena finished
loading the coins, hauled the sacks over their shoulders, and headed out of the
safe. As he passed through the door, St.
Joe turned toward the teller.
“Put her in here,” said the teller, looking toward the
manager, “and close the door. It’ll lock automatically. We’ll be OK.
The time lock will open in the morning.”
He took a breath, as though beginning to ask if she wanted to
come with them, but once again she cut him off.
“Mojave Militia, fourteenth cell. I can do a helluva lot more damage
here.” Her hand clasped his tightly, for
just a moment, and then she disappeared into the safe. Erika pushed the manager in after her, amid
grunts and other guttural sounds of displeasure, and shut the door. They made their way to the front of the bank,
and saw through the glass, the boat still in the canal, awaiting their return.
Outside the bank, Robinia waited. There had been no one on the walkway, no sign
of anything unusual, until something caught her attention from above. A yellow strobe light over the bank’s door
began to flash, an alarm evidently having been triggered in some way. Moments later, from around the corner, came
sounds of rapid footsteps, as a half dozen gray-uniformed security guards
appeared on the walkway, running at full speed toward the bank. Robinia reached into the bag slung over her
shoulder, pulled out a round black object, yanked out its protruding circular
pin, and tossed it down the walkway toward the advancing troops. The grease grenade exploded, covering the
walkway with shiny black ooze. The
guards couldn’t stop in time, and among curses each fell and slid in the muck,
unable to stand or maneuver, writhing like pigs in mud.
From the opposite direction appeared another squad of guards,
rapidly advancing, with steel batons drawn.
Robinia slipped a white and brass shell into her gun, pointed upward,
and fired. She gave a painful sigh as
the gun’s recoil slammed her backwards into a concrete pillar, over which was
plastered posters for the rock group playing that night. It was worth the pain; the double-magnum Brenneke slug found its
target, knocking a stone statue of some pompous idiot off its shelf high above
the bank. It hit the walkway and
exploded like a land mine, knocking the advancing guards off their feet.
Robinia leaped across the narrow canal, onto the opposite
walkway, darting between the pillars and storefronts, fast enough to avoid a
clean shot, but slowly enough to keep in sight.
Looking over her shoulder as she rounded a corner, she saw that it had
worked. All eyes were on her, and none
on four figures emerging from the bank, or on a small boat quickly making its
way back through the canal. She led the
contingent of guards down hallway after hallway, always keeping a safe but
visible distance, passing poster after poster for the soon-to-begin music
performance.
Then, the music began.
First drums, then bass guitar, then rhythm; the performance was
beginning. The music thundered
throughout the Palace, as Robinia headed for a steel-doored elevator at the end
of the walkway, guards in close pursuit.
She bolted inside just as the doors slammed shut, only to find herself
in the company of four teenage girls.
“Oh we saw you,” they giggled. “We know who you are.”
“That’s nice,” replied Robinia. “Know what this is?”
She reached into her pouch, and in one smooth motion pulled
the pin and tossed the black ball into the middle of the group. Quickly, she pulled her cape over her head,
covering as much of herself as possible.
“Eeeuwwh! What is
it? What do we do?” Robinia heard under
her cape, as they juggled the ball between them. “We’ve got thirty seconds, right?” one of the
squeaky voices asked.
Yeah right, thought Robinia to herself. Thirty, two, one . . . SPLAT!
The grease ball exploded, coating everything in the elevator with a
smelly black goo. The door opened, and
Robinia bolted out, tossing her cape aside.
She didn’t look back; didn’t need to, the rain of chatter told the
story.
“Eeeuwwh!” “It’s going
down my dress!” “My hair, look at my
hair!” “I gotta get a new dress, you got
the credit card?” “Yeah, but it's up to
the limit.” “Where’s the bathroom?”
Must be what they call “valley girls”, thought Robinia. Outside the elevator, a row of teenagers, mostly
boys with greased hair and various colors of face paint, stood in line, waiting
to get into the auditorium. Looking like
idiots, but nonetheless paying idiots, she thought. From the end of the hall, Robinia saw more
gray uniformed security guards, rushing directly toward her. Think, think fast. Aha!
The music was in full swing now.
Pulling a wireless microphone from her pocket, tall Robinia bent over,
leering into the faces of the boys.
The song that you hear
comes from inside your ear,
Rage at the cage in
your heart!
Into the faces of the onlookers, Robinia shouted the lyrics
that had made the rock group so famous.
“Cool! Cool man! Way cool!”, came voices in return, as gray
uniformed guards raced behind Robinia’s back, ejecting the grease-girls from
the elevator into the line of boys.
Someday, thought Robinia, they’ll grow up. Mongoloids mating with valley girls. Must be justice in that somewhere.
Robinia turned and raced for the end of the hall. A few feet away from the steel door blocking
her way, she jumped, hitting the door, and the poster proclaiming the
performance of the rock group !PIRATE, feet first. The door swung open, Robinia rolled inside,
and the door as quickly slammed shut behind her. She followed the music through the dimly lit
room, to its opening onto the main stage.
She stopped, took a deep breath, fingered her microphone, and spun out
onto the stage.
Pain is the price of
trying to be sane,
Rage at the cage in
your heart!
Breaking the news when
life comes unglued,
Fearing to be what you
are.
So there they were, in the glare of colored spotlights, up on
the stage before thousands of screaming fans.
Robinia shouting Erika’s existentialist lyrics, St. Joe’s lead guitar
holding the crowd entranced, Roweena’s rhythm and Erika’s bass guitars shaking
the very walls. Robinia glanced quickly
behind her. Phineas at the drums,
smiling like a Halloween pumpkin, nodded downward toward piles of gold coins,
bullion and gems strewn about the floor.
Standing in the limelight, the best hiding place of all.
The enigmatic !PIRATE, top selling rock group of the
decade. Appearing out of nowhere for
their performances, disappearing just as mysteriously afterward. No one knows whence they came, or where they
went. Or maybe no one could bring
themselves to believe.
Shadows danced on the walls like figures in some primitive
dance, as the candles atop the crude wooden table flickered in the frigid,
blowing air. As the breeze blew the
window closed with a loud thump, the black-robed figure turned the latch.
“It is as we thought,” he said, “if not worse. There is imminent danger; the signs are all
there.”
“You mean the prophecy?” asked the gray-haired man seated at
the table, pulling his thick black robe tighter around himself for warmth.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” replied the standing man. “It is not a matter of what was predicted
coming true; it is a matter of what has been seen becoming reality. We knew it would happen, but we did not know
when. Now, it seems, is the time.”
“I did not mean to imply fate,” responded the seated man,
“only to indicate that we were right in our assumption. Have you given any thought to . . . ”
“She is being recalled,” interrupted the standing man,
“though it may take some time. That will
not be the end of it, though. There are
others. It will not be done as easily as
we had hoped for.”
“No,” said the man at the table, “but it will be done. That much does appear inevitable now.”
*
* *
“Hah, hah hah hah! Yahhh
hah hah!” Phineas threw his head back,
laughing maniacally. On the wooden table
in the Wizard’s main cabin, gold and
gems were piled high.
“What the hell is so funny?” asked Erika.
“Oh, about three and a half million for the show,” replied
Phineas, “and a fraction of that in gold and gems. Hardly seems worth the risk.”
“Yeah,” said Robinia, “except that when the world falls
apart, that three and a half million is dollars, which will be worth its weight
in fly specks. This gold, this is real
currency. In the end, it’s the only real
payment we get, the only payment guaranteed to mean anything tomorrow.”
“I know that,” said Phineas.
“It’s just pretty ironic, that we take a big risk for a relatively small
payoff. But, as you said, it’s the only
one that comes with a guarantee.”
The ship rocked gently as wave after wave passed on their way
toward the beach. Outside, a cool breeze
blew through the ship’s rigging, setting ropes into vibration, bouncing against
the masts with a clanging sound. A smell
resembling that of shoe polish drifted through the cabin, as Roweena pushed a
solvent-soaked cleaning patch through the barrel of her disassembled rifle.
“Makes me feel like some kind of parasite, though,” said
Roweena. “We just drain away the
resources, without giving anything back.
We get paid for the shows, but the other stuff -- the real payment, as you call it -- we don’t
really give anything back for it. It does carry something of a bad karma.”
“More like parasitic oscillations than parasites, I would
think,” said St. Joe.
“Parawha?” asked Robinia.
“Parasitic oscillations.
It’s a phenomenon that occurs in radio transmitters. In a properly operating transmitter, all of
the power is released at the specific wavelength to which the transmitter is
tuned. But as the power is increased,
the transmitter’s electronics try to take off on their own; the system starts
sapping some of the power to operate at some other wavelength. It’s as though the system wants to go off on
its own, and as more power becomes available, it starts sapping away energy
from what it is told to do, into what
it wants to do. At first, it takes
away so little power as to be unnoticed.
Unless something is done to correct the situation -- something is done
by someone -- the parasitics build in
strength, and eventually take over the transmitter, taking all the power to
themselves. When that happens,
boom! The circuitry that normally
channels the system’s power out to the antenna doesn’t work with the
parasitics; the energy just builds and builds, until the system blows itself
up.”
“The metaphor, I take it,” said Robinia, “is one of a culture
that operates according to a rigid system of rules. The bigger it gets, the more energy it
consumes, the more likely it is to generate these parasitics, things that feed
off its energy sources, but don’t contribute to its overall operation. At some point, the parasitics overwhelm the
whole system, and destroy it.”
“Yes,” replied St. Joe, “but the thing to remember is that
the parasitics are an inherent part of the system itself. In chaos theory, any system with sufficient
energy, and meeting certain other conditions -- which both electronics and
cultures do -- can take off on its own.
It assumes its own identity, behaves according to its own rules, as
opposed to rules imposed by the outside.
When that happens, the character of the system changes, and it’s no
longer recognizable as what it was before.
It becomes something totally new and different. The ability to do this is inherent in the
structure of the system. It doesn’t mean
that something has gone wrong, it’s just the way things in the world work.”
“Yes, this is also a problem for people who work with
magick,” said Erika. “When we do things
that involve magickal energies, very often some of that energy gives rise to
unanticipated phenomena, or to other unexpected results. Which often winds up sending business your
way, Saint.”
“Training and experience are supposed to limit that, to keep
that sort of thing under control,” said Robinia. “But it still happens. Sort of like, any time you make waves, they
wash up on some shore or other you weren’t expecting. It’s a part of the process itself, not so
much what you do with it.”
“Right,” said St. Joe.
“Our actions, maybe even just our being
creates certain kinds of waves in the universe, that push everything around,
whether we want them to or not.”
“So, in other words,” said Roweena, “we aren’t so much bad
karma, as just plain old karma itself.
Whatever happens, creates the possibility of something else happening on
its own, by its own rules. The inertia
of culture itself creates the possibility for something like us to happen. We move in and fill the space, sort of like
species filling an ecological niche.”
“The problem with that whole metaphor,” said Erika, “is that
society doesn’t blow up. It’s still
there, and so are we. It isn’t falling
apart as a result of what we do. With a
radio transmitter, someone adjusts it to get rid of the parasitic
oscillations. Someone from the outside, someone who is not a part of
the transmitter. Otherwise, they would
just compound the problem. In the case
of culture, there would have to be someone outside
of the culture itself to keep it from blowing up. An agent, if you will, someone not a part of
the system who watches over it, and keeps it working within the rules. There is no such person for culture, no
outside agent, except of course ourselves and those like us. But if we’re the parasitics, the karma of
organized life, then we can’t be the ones who adjust society.”
“There is an agent,” said Phineas, “a controlling agent for
culture, and it doesn’t come from the outside, it comes from the inside. Radio transmitters use robots, or automatic
electronics, to monitor and control the transmitters, so they don’t take off on
their own. There is a similar kind of
robot for human culture.”
“Oh boy, the bicameral mind again,” said Robinia. “The voices in the head.”
“Yes, but not the same as your voices, Robbi,” replied
Phineas. “Your voices are harassing, coercive
and argumentative. Bicameral voices
aren’t like that, they don’t speak to a conscious mind. They are
the mind, for unconscious beings. See,
just like a radio technician -- be it human or robot -- watches the transmitter
for signs of misbehavior, and applies corrective measures when it occurs, the
bicameral mind, a part of the neurological wiring of the brain, watches over
human behavior. When it detects
misbehavior, which to it means behavior that disrupts society, it applies
corrective measures. In ancient times,
those measures were voices, commanding the person to do or not to do certain
things. Nowadays voices are no longer
heard. Instead, the bicameral mind
asserts itself through emotional reactions, knee-jerk type thinking such as
‘moralizing’, and unconscious behavior -- things people do that they can’t
explain.”
“So,” said Roweena,
“when someone tries to take off on their own, to do their own thing, so
to speak, the brain says, ‘No, no,’ by making them feel guilty, or just making
them do what they’re supposed to do without knowing they’re doing it?”
“Yep, that’s basically it,” replied Phineas, “except that,
more often than not, the ‘No, no’ comes from someone else. Individualistic behavior generates the
bicameral reaction in others, who then apply social pressures -- which can be
anything from dirty looks to lynchings -- to the person in question. That person’s brain gets the message, and
they get back in line. The pain of
social rejection is too strong for a person whose mind just is society.”
“Or they make the break,” added St. Joe, “and give up on
society. Like us.”
‘Like us,’ thought Roweena to herself. How many people out there really are ‘like
us?’ The ringing sound of a bell buoy
drifted into her ears, as a series of deep waves jerked the ship up and
down. Roweena caught the empty magazine
as it slipped off the table, shoving it into the rifle’s receiver with a loud
click.
“What do you mean by ‘a person whose mind is society’?”
protested Roweena. “People are people --
individuals who think for themselves, when they want to at least.”
“From your perspective, that might be true,” answered
Phineas, “but from the perspective of a social animal -- a person under the
sway of neurological control mechanisms -- a person is a place holder in a
social order. They are their relationships, they are
what society says they are; there just isn’t the individualistic perspective.”
“What you’re saying, then, is that all those people out there
in the world, the people who live in society, who live in cities, who are born,
grow up, get jobs, have children, and so on; all those people aren’t
conscious?” asked Roweena.
“That’s right,” replied Phineas, “surprising as it may seem. Well, let me back away from that a bit. They may have the capacity to be conscious; evolution has seen to that. But consciousness isn’t what controls their
behavior or their thoughts. For most of
them, they follow the rules laid down by the world. They don’t step back from the world and ask
themselves whether they want to do this or that, they just follow the patterns
laid down by culture. There are moments
of consciousness, moments in which the real self
emerges, but for most people those are moments of pain and anguish, and they do
whatever they have to do -- crank up the stereo, pop the pills, watch the
talk-shows -- to ease the pain. In other
words, push consciousness right out of the picture.”
“Oh come on,” said Roweena, somewhat agitated. “That’s not even close to believable. There are people out there in the cities like
us, artists, musicians. Even business
men and politicians, they all have ideas, they all exhibit creativity of one
sort or another. They aren’t just blind
and dumb robots.”
“All true. But the
living of life in a society, and the advancement of that society, are not
things that require consciousness. Most
of the things people do don’t require consciousness. Solving a problem, for example. You think about the problem, forget about it,
and the solution then comes to you out of nowhere. That’s an unconscious mental operation. Playing your guitar is another. You don’t think about each finger movement
when you play, do you? If you did, you’d
screw it up. You play without being
aware of individual finger movements, which means it’s not a conscious
process. Even using language; you don’t
stop to think about which words to use, or how to put them together, they just
come out. All unconscious. You can
be conscious of these things, and usually learn them that way, but when you’re
actually doing them, you’re pretty much on autopilot.”
“If all that’s true,” asked Roweena, “then just what is consciousness, what makes it so
special, and what is it good for, if it doesn’t do anything?”
St. Joe spoke up. “Consciousness is not primarily a doing thing, it’s a being thing. That’s
something this world has lost track of.
Nobody cares what or who a person is,
all that matters is what they do. Whose butt they kiss, whose toilet they
clean. This world is a world of doing,
but never finishing; a world of becoming,
as Plato called it. Having descended to
that level, it is not surprising that consciousness has become devalued,
ignored, and finally suppressed. Which
means that the world has lost a valuable resource.”
“The value of that resource,” said Phineas, “is precisely the
ability to break rules, to break the
rules of the social order. For the
social animal, experience is always immediate,
meaning that what happens in the world is not separated from the person it
happens to. Consciousness just is the
creation of the individual person as a unique being, separate from the world,
so that everything that happens gets observed,
gets watched from the perspective of that person. So consciousness can decide when to follow
the rules and when to go its own way. The
value of that is that following the rules is not always a good thing to
do. When something happens to the
society -- it gets invaded, natural disaster, anything that disrupts the normal
patterns of life -- the social animal in a very real sense loses its mind. It can’t think, because the social behavior
patterns by which the neurological control mechanisms orient themselves aren’t
there anymore.”
“What happened to the ancient Egyptians, the builders of the
pyramids?” asked St. Joe. “Where did
they go? What about the Mayans? All of these civilizations that lived in these
magnificent cities, accumulated great learning and wealth, and so on? What happened to them? Poof!
Gone from the face of the earth, that’s what happened. Those people just were their culture, and when something happened to their culture,
everything they accomplished went to dust.
The people went back to living in the jungle or the desert or wherever,
and their cities rotted. That’s what
happens to a world without consciousness.”
“Exactly,” said Phineas.
“When the rules don’t work any more, the rule-following mind grinds to a
halt, just like a computer when you press the wrong key. What consciousness does is to provide a
buffer zone between experience and the individual, so the individual can
formulate his or her own strategy for survival.
Consciousness, in other words, is not rule-following. That is why it’s so disruptive when it
emerges in civilization, and has to be suppressed. Civilizations exist by following rules, and
consciousness is there specifically to break the rules.”
“Well, that’s an interesting paradox then,” said Roweena,
“because consciousness seems to be essential to survival, yet also inimical to
the survival of civilization.”
“It’s a paradox only if one assumes that civilization, and
specifically urbanized civilization, which requires extensive sets of rules in
order to exist, is essential to human survival,” answered Phineas. “If the only way people can live is to live
in cities, then there is indeed a
paradox. However, it is unlikely that
nature had nothing better to do than put the world together as a paradox; what
is more likely is that urban civilization is not the best survival mechanism
for humanity. In evolution,
consciousness came after the
bicameral mind; it follows that the survival strategies appropriate to
consciousness are things that go beyond mere social life. There was a time, indeed, when man was a
social animal, but evolution has moved beyond that. What culture is doing is trying to suppress
evolution in the interest of its own survival; a situation which, as you
observe, is not in the best interest of the survival of humanity itself. People are not their society, at least not since the appearance of
consciousness, and if they want to survive in an evolving world, they had
better wake up to that. If not, they
will get a wake up call from the outside, from the world that has passed them
by, and it won’t be a ‘good morning’ when that happens.”
“If you’re right,” said Erika, “then we’re all doomed. Society has a strangle-hold on evolution, it
keeps consciousness out of the picture.
The theory, as I understand it, is that disruptive events give
consciousness the chance to overcome these ‘neurological processes’ as you call
them, but the suppression of consciousness by culture has pushed that
possibility out of the picture. So when
some kind of disaster occurs, then Poof!, end of humanity. You’re talking fate at this point, something
inevitable, because unpredictable events are inevitable. I can’t really accept that.”
“You don’t have to, and neither do I,” said St. Joe. “Consciousness doesn’t come from evolution,
it isn’t a physical part of the brain.
It requires something outside the brain to get going, something from
Spirit. At least, that’s what Jung said;
you can only get consciousness when the hand of Spirit reaches into the
mind. And it can do that reaching on its
own, whenever it so pleases. That is
why, from the human point of view, consciousness arises spontaneously, as Phineas calls it.
It arises because of the activities of the Spirit world, which we do not
directly sense or understand.”
“So we are to be saved by the hand of God, then?” asked
Robinia. “That’s an uncomfortable
feeling; what if He’s busy elsewhere when we need Him the most? Or if He has given up?”
At this, Phineas groaned uncomfortably, and took a breath as
if to speak. St. Joe cut him off. “This is a point upon which Brother Phineas
and I disagree. Phineas has this elegant
proof for the existence of a universal consciousness: an entelechy, as he calls it, a vital force that animates the
universe. It’s always there, and through
evolution, according to his argument, the brain has developed the capacity to
gain access to it, originally through drugs and religious rituals, and now
through its own internal complexity. At
this point, the brain is sitting there, capable of going conscious
spontaneously, like a pile of oily rags going into spontaneous combustion.”
Phineas broke in: “I meant the metaphor to compare with
spontaneous human combustion. Something
the world won’t acknowledge as being true, but which nonetheless is, and can happen at any time. But you’re basically right, the brain can have access to the universal vital
force, and thereby become conscious on its own.”
“Yes, and that’s where we disagree,” said St. Joe. “Jung said that Spirit creates consciousness
through archetypes. Now Phineas’ theory is that the archetypes
are a kind of border phenomenon called a fractal,
an interface where Spirit meets mind.
Sort of like rain on an oily pavement; rainwater is pretty much
invisible, and oil on the pavement is black muck, but when the two meet, you
get an explosion of rainbow colors. Not
from the oil, not from the water, but from the boundary between the two. The point where water meets oil takes on a
character of its own, different from either thing out of which it arose.”
“That’s right,” said Phineas, “and further, that fractal is a
chaotic system that takes on its own identity.
It’s a good metaphor for consciousness.
The brain is the oily muck, and what we call Spirit is the water -- the
medium through which universal consciousness touches the mind. The result is an explosion of color, a
rainbow of consciousness, not bound by the rules of the body, and capable of
reaching beyond the body into universal consciousness.”
“I believe, however,” said St. Joe, “that the archetypes are
not these impersonal forces coming from some universal consciousness. Whether there is such universal consciousness
or not, I cannot say. But I do think
that archetypes are actual spiritual beings, individuals just like us, although
living much higher on the energy spectrum than we do. They have being, individuality, and most
importantly, wills of their own. They
reach out to us because it is their will to do so; whether conditions here on
earth help that meeting or not is irrelevant to what they are. The important difference between our ideas
about archetypes is that on my theory, archetypes have will, make choices, have
lives of their own, so to speak.
Phineas’ theory smacks of a kind of fatalism, a direction toward which
the universe must inevitably travel, and robs both consciousness and Spirit of
the ability to control their own destinies.”
“I never said that universal consciousness does not have
will,” answered Phineas, “and I certainly don’t think that it is mindless or
powerless. Hell, it’s consciousness, the essence of will and
thought in itself. Of course it has the
power to make choices, as do those of other conscious minds, since they are its
creations, ‘in its own image,’ if you will.”
“Well,” said Roweena, “I’m inclined to go along with St.
Joe. One thing that is well known from
the works of Jung, Campbell and others, is that mythologies around the world
share certain themes in common. If this
universal consciousness of yours, Phineas, just reached out and touched people,
there is no reason to assume they would be touched in the same way; the images
should be different in at least some cases.
Since they are not, since the images are pretty much the same, it argues
for forces with actual identity, with some nature unto themselves, that do the
touching.”
“I’m surprised you would think that,” said Erika, “for your
Old Religion teaches, does it not, that Spirit is imminent in nature -- that
everything that exists is animated by Spirit.
That would say to me that it is certain features of the world that are
the same for pretty much everyone -- seasons, weather, and so on -- that
provide the form for the archetypes. So,
really, it wouldn’t matter much where the archetypes come from. They take a form appropriate to the
conditions under which they appear.”
“That’s almost true,” replied Roweena, “except that Spirit
gets into the mind through what is called constellation. The mind sees things in the world, but other
things, spiritual things among them, get into the mind via those images. The eyes can’t directly see a spirit, whether it be a force or an individual; what they see
are stars, sun, trees moving in the breeze.
But the spiritual forces get into the mind along with those images, and
enliven them, so that other things are seen and felt. The images of things that are seen serve as a
kind of focal point, or a beginning point, for the understanding of the
spiritual.”
“Archetypes are always symbolic,” said Phineas. “For the reason you mention, they don’t have
any form of their own. They appear to us
as symbols, things that suggest other things, self-consuming artifacts, as they
are called. We know that an archetype
has made its appearance when things, such as trees and so on, take on new and
bizarre meanings.”
“That assumes that you are right about them, that they are
formless forces,” said St. Joe. “That’s
where I disagree, I think they already have form, being, an independent
existence on their own. There is a
difference between the constellation of spiritual forces, and the appearance of
an archetype. Constellation is seeing
into the world of Spirit; meeting an archetype is shaking hands with an
inhabitant of that world.”
“Then why,” asked Robinia, “if they are beings in their own
right, would they bother with us? If
they are ‘higher on the spectrum,’ whatever that means, then why stoop to our
level? And Phineas, suppose you are
right, suppose there is this universal consciousness; why get involved with
us? If it’s already everywhere, why does
it need us?”
Phineas replied first.
“It isn’t a matter of need, it’s a matter of completeness. The universe is evolving, changing, and the
universal consciousness gains in energy as the universe grows. To become truly universal, it must encompass
everything; it must become complete. It
must embrace the entire universe. It
isn’t that we are who we are, or that it wants us. The universe is moving, by its own inertia,
in a certain direction, and for that movement to be completed, we have to move
along with it. It’s like what you once
said, Robbi, that ‘as long as one person is enslaved, I, too, am bound by
chains’. Same deal; the universe can’t
become fully conscious until all its parts become conscious.”
“You are suggesting that the universe is tending toward
completeness,” answered St. Joe, “moving toward some goal of fulfilling itself
in some way, and I don’t think that’s the case.
The universe is being, not becoming; it isn’t necessary for it to do anything, there is no goal for it to
achieve. That’s why I think archetypes
are spiritual beings. Maybe they do
appear symbolically, or in different forms, but they are not here to push us in
some direction because of some grand, overall purpose. They are the energy sources that drive
consciousness, but it is willed energy, energy with individuality.”
Erika had finished sorting the booty: coins in one pile, gems
in another, and bars of bullion off to the side. She divided the coins into five roughly equal
piles, and distributed them to the pirates seated around the table. Robinia picked a pair of bright red rubies
out of the gem pile. Roweena looked
quickly through the gems; taking a gold ring with a small emerald, she tried it
on her finger, found it too small, and returned it to the pile. From beneath the table, Erika produced a
small wooden chest, into which she placed the remaining gems and jewelry.
The day had passed quickly, the pirates being mostly absorbed
in unwinding from the previous night’s activities. Discussion made the job of cleaning weapons
and sorting prize money more pleasant and relaxing, if not also more
timely. It was an excuse to do nothing
else.
The light in the ship’s cabin faded as the early afternoon
sun disappeared behind an approaching fog bank.
Erika rose from her chair, and lit the oil lamp hanging above the
table. It swung back and forth with the
motion of the ship, moving shadows in a rhythmic pattern over the walls of the
cabin. As the other pirates began
standing from their chairs, Erika interrupted their retreat.
“OK, hold it,” said Erika.
“In magick, we talk a lot about ‘energy’ and how we use it for various
purposes. You talk about it too,
Robinia, with spells and psychic forces, and you’re always talking about Earth
energies and Sun energies, Roweena. We
all talk about it, but what are we talking about? You say, Phineas, that energy is what makes
this universal consciousness go. What is
this energy, anyway?”
Phineas gave a shrug.
St. Joe answered, “No one knows what energy is. We see what it does; in each of the cases you
mention, certain things are done, and other things happen. But we do not know why. To say that the archetypes are higher on the
psychic energy spectrum than us, is to say they have more of something, or have
it in a higher form than we do, but we cannot say what that something really
is. Not to worry, though. As Richard Feynman said, physicists use the
concept of energy all the time, and they
don’t know what it means. They don’t
know, at bottom, what energy really is, but they can observe what it does,
calculate how much of it there is, and control how it works. It’s like what Jung said, a necessary concept
to explain observable phenomena. It’s just
there, but we know not what it is. But I
guess we’re in good enough company.”
“It was once thought,” added Phineas, “that energy had
something to do with causation, the idea that one thing compels another thing
to happen. It is, however, very easy to disprove
causation, both in physics and in terms of psychic phenomena; so causation has
little, if anything, to do with it.
There is another idea from chaos theory, called mode locking, which
basically means that one thing can influence another without causation, but it,
too, requires some interaction in terms of energy. It can explain what energy does, but at least so far it has not
been explained what energy is.”
“All right, then,” said Robinia, “suppose you are right,
Saint, that archetypes are real individuals, spiritual but nonetheless
real. They have wills. Then why bother with us? They are further along than we are, more
highly evolved. What do they need us
for?”
“You are essentially asking why there is consciousness,” said
St. Joe. “Not from our perspective, where it clearly has survival advantages,
but from their perspective, from the
point of view of That, Whomever or Whatever It might be, that reaches out and
gives us consciousness. Phineas argues
that it is a kind of inertial process, in which case the why is simply a matter of it being there, and running its natural
course. I disagree, I think it is a
willed process; I think it is something that someone chooses to do. But I do not know why; I suppose we will not
know why unless they decide to tell
us.”
“Well,” said Erika, as she put her gem-filled chest inside a
leather bag, “it seems like every time we make a good haul, we get into one of
these discussions.”
“Nothing wrong with reaping things of the soul, as well as of
the world,” answered St. Joe.
*
* *
It was the custom among the pirates that after a show, they
would split up for several days following.
Partly to prevent them from being seen together in public, where the
more perceptive might make dangerous conjectures, but mostly because they were
individuals, and needed time to themselves.
Each had come from a different background, and each needed time to
pursue that background, giving life and strength to their inner selves. Conscious beings can associate with one
another and sometimes to common advantage, but the need for private space, both
mentally and in the world, cannot be denied if consciousness is to survive.
Over the next several days, the pirates went their own
ways. It was a time of unwinding. Since it was late October, the concert tour
season was over. The glitter and glamour
of summer had passed, and winter was the time of renewal. Fall sits between the worlds, a transition
between the end of summer harvest, and the darkness of winter’s long
nights. For the pirates, however, this
would not be the usual fall. None of
them would do much unwinding in the days that followed.
Excerpt from Meta-Consciousness:
The Not Philosophy of Phineas the !Pirate:
Each of us comes from a
different background, in terms of esoteric study and practice -- things that
deal with life beneath the surface, with what cannot be seen by the naked
eye. They are a part of the inner being
of each person, the beliefs and thoughts which make conscious beings
individuals. The one thing we all have
in common is that each of us has our own inner identity, developed through the
study and practice of secret arts. Such
is the stuff of which consciousness is made: it is the realm of the inner self,
always hidden from the view of others.
Its knowledge and experience can be shared, but its inner workings must
necessarily remain hidden.
*
* *
The afternoon was cut short by the early arrival of a
particularly dense fog bank, hiding the pirate ship from the city’s prying
view. While the others remained below
deck, Robinia sat quietly, alone in the mist.
She thought about the early days, the days -- well, nights mostly -- of
her early studies. The Craft of the
Wise, they called it -- witchcraft, really -- but “witch” was a name that never
set well with her. Historically, most
witches were hereditary, the knowledge being passed from one family member to
another. As with any other kind of
inbreeding, the tradition often became diluted by personal issues, and the
whole “witch” thing came to mean, at least for Robinia, a kind of degeneration
of a sacred art. She preferred to think
of the Craft in terms of its Germanic root -- Kraft, meaning force or power. The path of the Craft is the path of the
unseen forces and powers that lie beneath the ordinary world.
She had not been pushed into the path, she had chosen
it. She had chosen to learn it with as
broad a background as possible, always looking for the hidden meanings behind
what was taught. Through her studies,
she had become a spellcaster, a weaver of fates. Her psychic abilities enabled her to see
things hidden from view, whether in time, space or mind; and through magick she
had learned to pull the strings that connect the ordinary world with the
hidden. Such made for a very dangerous
combination, one that had earned her the fear of every group she had tried to
work with.
Still, they had been exciting times. Standing in the circle at the Feast of
Samhain, the cool night breeze announcing the arrival of winter. Candles burning, black robed figures in a
circle chanting. The smell of oils, the
glint of steel daggers in the bonfire.
Smoke rising from burning incense, coalescing into the form of a
familiar face, laughing and mocking . . .
“Dammit!” exclaimed Robinia, bolting out of her vision, to
find St. Joe standing before her. “Don’t
do that, god dammit!”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but it’s a natural talent. You are the weaver of lost dreams, I am the
reaper of lost souls. It is inevitable
our paths should cross, even on the other side.
May I join you?”
“Sure. I’m sorry, it’s
just a shock, when you appear like that.
Is that what an archetype is like, at least on your theory about them?”
“It is something like that, only far more intense. The appearance of an archetype signals the
flow of spiritual energy directly into the mind. It often carries with it physical
consequences. The person to whom this
happens may experience effects anywhere from the usual fright reaction -- a dry
mouth, shaking, hair standing on end -- to severe illness or even death. Those affects are mild, compared to the
mental consequences. In an otherwise
sane person, an archetype can shatter the person’s identity, reduce them to a
babbling idiot. Or, it can galvanize the
fragmented psyche of the lunatic into a person of strength and vigor. Mostly, though, archetypes sustain and
nourish consciousness itself. They
appear spontaneously, as Phineas says, and when they do they bring
consciousness with them. Whenever they
appear, they carry with them the force of Spirit; whenever they appear, they
will profoundly affect one’s life.”
“What is the difference between an archetype, and a divine
savior such as
St. Joe thought for a few moments. “According to Jung’s theory, archetypes exist
only in the mind. They are the
manifestation of Spirit, most often in the form of a symbol, which can be a
human form. An archetype may appear only
to an individual, or to an entire culture; indeed, mythologies are thought by
some to be records of just such appearances.
All the same, they are creatures of the mind; they live in that part of
one’s being that can span the distance between what is and what is not.” St. Joe leaned forward toward Robinia, and
spoke in a hushed voice. “But for all
that, if they really are spiritual beings, I see no reason why they couldn’t be
physical. After all, if I as a conscious
being can move my hand, a ‘lower’ function, then why can’t a higher being
become physical and do the same thing?
In which case, it is simply a matter of how they choose to appear -- in
the mind, or in the world itself. As
visions, angels, devils, or saviors; it’s their call, if I’m right.
“There is one difference, I guess,” said St. Joe. “With a savior of some type, the message
generally just is the messenger. ‘I’m
here’ is mostly what they’re about; the manifestation of the Divine in the
physical world. All of the doctrine and
other stuff that grows up around them dilutes that message. As Kierkegaard said, the essential truth of
Christianity could have been contained in one sentence: that in a certain year,
we believe that God became Man, that He walked and taught among us, and
died. The message just is the existence
of Christ, not whatever stories and other stuff grow up around Him. What matters is the faith required to believe
in the messenger -- to believe in the
Absolute Paradox, the thing that cannot be.
Christ is not something that happened in order for mankind to decide
whether or not they believe; Christ, and other saviors like Him, are the things
by which the faith of mankind is tested.
For an archetype, on the other hand, the messenger -- Spirit -- gets in
via the message; the symbol serves as a vehicle for Spirit to enter the mind.”
“If archetypes can
appear spontaneously,” said Robinia, “and according to their own will, then
they could choose to appear at any time.
That city out there, on the other side of the fog; suppose an archetype
chose to appear there. They seem to be
the bearers of consciousness; could an archetype create consciousness in the
‘social animals’?”
“Yes, I believe it could,” replied St. Joe. “Oh, it would be a horrible thing. The city as you have seen it could no longer
exist. A huge city like that can survive
only when its members live according to well ordered routines, like ants in a
nest. People can’t provide for their own
needs in a city like that, they have to depend on others, and that dependency
has to be very tightly controlled. The
appearance of an archetype would shatter the ‘neurological mechanism’ that
enforces those routines. The whole thing
would fall apart. That’s what the
modern-day Luddite philosophers predicted would happen: that archetypes would
appear in the world and the large cities would collapse. People would then live in small villages
where they can be closer to the means of their own survival. According to them, that’s the only way an
archetype-driven mind can survive, and that is what consciousness truly is -- a
mind imbued, as you say, with Spirit.”
“And that is what Phineas has lost hope in?” asked
Robinia. “That somehow humanity can be
saved?”
“He has lost hope in what humanity has become, and frankly so
have I,” answered St. Joe. “But I have
not lost faith in its potential, its inner being. I really do think that the appearance of an
archetype could bring the bicameral mind to its knees, bring all this crap
people call civilization down.
Civilization will go down anyway, either through the effects of nature
or Spirit. The difference is, if it is
because of an archetype, then there is room to rebuild; what is left is
conscious humanity. If it is natural
disaster, then what is left is mindlessness, people wandering around like
uncontrolled robots. I saw a cartoon
once: a city that had been nuked, nothing left but rubble, and this guy is
walking around with a television set, looking for somewhere to plug it in. That’s the post-catastrophic social world, if
there is no Spirit.”
“And if there is Spirit?” asked Robinia.
“Then all bets are off.
It’s hard to tell, maybe the Luddite thinkers are right, maybe not. There is an interesting piece in Dostoevsky’s
Brothers Karamazov called the ‘Grand
Inquisitor,’ in which Christ appears in the streets of
“A world without Evil?” asked Robinia.
“No, not a world without Evil,” answered St. Joe. “I really am not sure how Evil fits into all
this. It is a kind of being, it has
existence, individuality, will. Maybe it
is existence incompatible with human life, maybe it is just from another
dimension, somewhere the human mind can’t fathom. I tend to think the latter.”
“Why?”
“Because I have seen it.”
“You have actually seen
Evil? How can that be?” asked Robinia.
St. Joe looked down, then nervously around. When his eyes met Robinia’s, he was
shaking. Beads of sweat had formed on
his face, and his breathing was heavy.
He was very much afraid.
“Oh come on, what is it?” she asked, taking his hand. He gently pulled his hand away, composing
himself to tell the story.
“I do not know what it was,” began St. Joe, “but I know that
it is the worst thing I have ever seen, and I fear very much what it portends
for this world. I saw it only a few
nights after my first exorcism. I have
seen many things, some before this, and many after it, but nothing so
terrifying. The worst of it is, we may
have brought it upon ourselves. Mankind
may have brought its own death to this world!”
Robinia was more than a little shocked at St. Joe’s behavior,
for he was still shaking, and turning his head, as if watching for something
approaching from some unknown direction.
The sounds of a nearby bell buoy and the foghorns on shore emerging
unseen through the dense fog combined with St. Joe’s fearful expression and
manner in a collage of terror that suddenly gripped Robinia. She had to go on; like walking down a dark
path through a graveyard, she had to find out where it was leading. “What is it that you actually saw?” she
asked.
“It was, I believe, sometime during the year 1984. I don’t remember the date exactly. It is as if someone has wiped it from my
memory. I do remember that in the news
of the day, there was discussion about an underground nuclear test that was
going to take place that night. I
believe it was code-named ‘Mighty Oak’, or something like that. There was a lot of discussion about whether
such a test was necessary or safe, and whether or not it violated one treaty or
another. In the end, the king’s fancy is
above the law, and above reason as well, so the decision was made to go ahead
with the test.”
“There was something evil about this test?” asked Robinia.
“I’m not sure,” replied St. Joe. “It just seems that it was connected to what
happened. That night, I awoke into a
most vivid dream. A lucid dream, if you
wish. The kind in which one remains
fully conscious. It was nighttime, and
there was barely enough light to see by in the grayish glow of the
cloud-covered sky. It was raining
lightly, and I was cold and soaked. I
looked around, and there were others, wearing black robes mostly, but some in
the traditional clothing of other faiths.
There was a light breeze blowing, making our clothing flap about in the
wind. We were standing in a circle,
ringing the top of the hill. Something
in the middle of the circle caught my attention, and that is when I saw
it. To look at it, it drains away your
ability to think, sapping the very energy of your mind! It looked something like a loaf of bread --
‘bread sent from heaven,’ I thought in mockery -- but it glowed, a pulsating
glow of orange, yellow and white. As the
glow varied, it grew larger and smaller, like it was breathing or trying to
move. There were sparks shooting out
from it, disappearing into the air, and an ozone smell in the air, like that
around an electric arc. It had no face,
no discernible form, just a loaf of glowing, pulsating, flaming, sparkling metallic
goo.”
St. Joe took a deep breath, and continued. “There is a kind of sense you have when you
encounter something strange. It is like
fright, but it goes deeper than that. It
is more than just fear for one’s self, it is a kind of deep loathing and
repulsion, when one is in the presence of something that ought not to be.
In the kind of work I have done, one feels that often, and one must
learn to control it, and to tap into it as a source of strength. But that training was of no avail in this case;
the power of whatever it was paralyzed every mental process I had. I tried to quiet my thoughts, to find
something within myself to draw up against this thing. Something did emerge from within, at about
the same time in all of us standing there.
Functioning as one mind, each going through the motions of his own
training, we worked against the thing with united purpose. First, there was a calming chant, a kind of
slow, soothing sound. The effect of that
was to stop the pulsations in the thing.
It was evidently feeding off
our fears, and by calming our own fears, we calmed it. Then came a most
terrible exorcism, shouts and commands in some language unknown to me; my
impression was that it was something out of the ancient middle east. The thing began to shrink in size, and its
glow faded as that happened. We chanted
and shouted, louder and louder; I thought I would collapse at any moment. Finally, there was a flicker of light, and it
was gone. Nothing but silent, robed
figures, standing in the rain on a dark hilltop. Each of us turned, and began to descend from
the mountain in our own direction. There
was a feeling that we had done the job, had sent it away. But a most sickening thought lingered in all
of us: that this was only a temporary reprieve.
It would return, we would go through this rite again and again, and one
day, we would not be successful. We
would only be able to keep it out for
so long. And when we were no longer able
to do that, it would be the beginning of the end of the world.”
“And you think this had something to do with a nuclear test?”
asked Robinia.
“The next day,” replied St. Joe, “it was reported in the news
that there had been an accident during the test. The underground cave had collapsed, spewing
radiation everywhere, and there were injuries and fatalities. That was in the news; it happened. I suspect there is a relationship. Nuclear explosions alter the structure of
space-time, if only for a moment and only in the immediate vicinity. They involve things going at the speed of
light, maybe even faster; the intense energy warps the structure of the
world. Something got in, Robinia; the structure of our
space-time universe was ripped apart, and something got through. Whether the bomb
did it or not, whether it was waiting there for the bomb or not, whether it was
something else, I don’t know. But
something from the outside got in.”
“What do you mean, ‘the outside’? You mean something from the world of Spirit?”
asked Robinia.
“No, no, nothing like that,” replied St. Joe. “Spirit is a higher dimension of our own
world -- a reflection of the world we know at a higher level. This thing came from another world, another universe.
Quantum physics talks about parallel worlds, perpendicular universes,
superpositioned realities, multiple states of existence. Worlds,
with beings in them, just like us. Well,
not just like us, but not belonging
to our reality, either. Something ripped
open a hole between them, our world crossed with another, and one of them came through. It feeds on us, feeds on our thoughts, saps
the very energy out of the soul. It
knows we’re here now, it knows there’s food,
and it will be back. It will keep coming
back, coming and coming and coming, maybe more of them, until we are no longer
able to send them back.”
“How can you be sure about this?” asked Robinia. “That it wasn’t just a vision, or something
like one?”
“It was a vision,”
said St. Joe, “it was the state in which exorcisms are performed. It is as real as us sitting here now. I was fully conscious during the experience;
none of that weird, fuzzy dream stuff.
And the absolute worst of it: the
next day, I asked one of the Brothers in the Order about it, one who had
studied ancient rites. He got very pale
and scared, like you see me now. He said
there were things written about some kind of being from the stars, something
that had come and tried to destroy the world in ancient times. The writings said it was expelled by the
power of the gods of the world, but only temporarily. It will return, these writings said, when
conditions are right. It will return
when men have lost faith in their gods, when there are none left to call the
gods forth, and the world will be defenseless against it. There were rites and rituals, incantations
for keeping these things at bay. But
they have been lost and forgotten, except by a few, who keep the ancient
rituals in secret. When those few are
gone, mankind will be defenseless. Then,
it is merely a matter of conditions being right, for it or them to emerge into
our world. That will be the end of
humanity, when it happens. And I think
that time might not be too far off.”
“There have always been omens of imminent destruction, in
every age,” said Robinia. “Always
reasons why people think the world is going to end tomorrow. The belief that the sun won’t come up is part
of what makes it come up, or so I have always thought. Why would you think this is any different?”
“Because Phineas is right,” said St. Joe. “People have lost something, the something
which drives faith and inner power. I’m
not talking about going to church on Sunday morning. That is a social activity, and has very
little to do with what faith truly is.
Faith requires consciousness.
Faith requires the ability to first see the impossibility of what is
believed, to fear it, and to overcome impossibility with the power of
will. Phineas is right, that kind of
consciousness has been lost in most of humanity. The gods have ceased to live for most of
them; it is only a matter of the stars being right, as H. P. Lovecraft put it.”
“Lovecraft’s ‘Great Cthulhu?’” asked Robinia. “Is that where he got it, from those ancient
texts?”
“Not necessarily,” replied St. Joe. “This thing, it is buried deep in the
unconscious mind of humanity. It is
something we once knew and understood, and the knowledge of it is still
there. It may be preserved in hidden
form, encoded in the world’s mythologies.
It might also be a part of the collective unconscious, the mental
structure common to all of humanity, partly through the activities of
archetypes. The memory of this thing
could live on there. I don’t know, but
the memory of it is preserved, and it comes to the surface once in a while,
such as in Lovecraft’s stories. He
didn’t necessarily have to read about it.
It may just have come up out of the collective unconscious, into his
thoughts on some dark, miserable night.
It isn’t just the memory of what was, it is the prophecy of what will
be. I really believe that; there will
come a confrontation in the present, between the past and the future, and the
outcome will decide the fate of the world.
That is not an uncommon belief among those of my background. The loss of spiritually driven consciousness,
the loss of contact with the archetypes and the collective unconscious, and
their replacement by spiritless social process, has cut us off from the
knowledge of this ancient thing. That
could well be the undoing of the world.”
St. Joe was getting nervous again, and Robinia decided it
would be good to shift the topic a bit.
“Among those of your background,” she asked, “are exorcisms
always performed in lucid dreams?”
“Well, there is an inside and an outside to the rites,”
answered St. Joe, “a side which is visible to the world, and a side which is
not. The outside part serves to comfort
and calm, and in many cases that is just as important as anything else. But the inside part, that is where the
spiritual energies are brought to bear.
It makes no difference what the circumstances are, or how that is
done. A lucid dream is just as good a
place as waking consciousness. A better
place, sometimes, because there are fewer distractions, and distractions can be
deadly. They can confuse and disturb
concentration, and concentration is essential to controlling the energies.”
“What was your first exorcism like? Was it in a dream?” asked Robinia.
“Yes, it was in the dream state,” said St. Joe. “It was after my initiation into the
Order. They had told me that the
ceremony was the outside effect, and to expect that, if I really was ready to
become an exorcist, there would be inside effects. I didn’t really believe that; I thought
exorcism was bells, books and candles.
Was I ever wrong.
“A couple of nights later,” he continued, “I awoke into a
lucid dream. I was standing on the
sidewalk of a tree-lined street, in front of a large, well-kept suburban
home. A member of the Order, in black
robes, told me that this would be my test.
I was told to knock on the door, that I was expected. It was up to me to figure out what to do with
the situation.
“I did as I was instructed.
I was greeted at the door by a man and woman, both in their thirties,
and neatly dressed. They thanked me for
coming so quickly, as they were nearly out of their minds with what had been
happening, and invited me inside. The
house was immaculately neat and clean, not the sort of place one expects to
encounter spiritual disturbances. I told
them I knew very little about their situation, and they proceeded to give me
the details: furniture moving around at night, lights going on and off, things
smashed, noises, smells -- the usual telltale signs of a haunting. I asked them when these phenomena had
started, and they told me it had begun about a week after the death of their
daughter. I knew nothing of this; they
showed me a picture of their daughter, a pretty girl of five or six, and told
me that they had been on a camping trip, and she had drowned in a nearby
creek.
“What happened next was very strange. I should have taken note of it, but I was too
nervous. I said, ‘A most tragic
accident,’ and the man got very agitated, and said, ‘Of course it was an
accident, Father!’ That should have
tipped me, but I thought nothing of it.
I replied, something like, ‘A terrible tragedy for your family. I’m very sorry,’ and continued asking about
the haunting.
“When I was done with them, I began examining the house. I could feel and sense nothing wrong in the
house. When there is a restless spirit,
or some such thing, one can usually feel a difference in the energy at some
point, but there was nothing. The house
seemed clean, from a spiritual as well as housekeeping perspective. Too clean, in retrospect; everyone and
everything leaves traces of its passing in the Spirit, but there was nothing
there. Another hint I missed.
“I was dumbfounded.
There just wasn’t anything in the house.
So, I decided to take a look around the outside. I checked the planters and the trees --
nothing. Then I looked up. The roof of the garage came to a peak, on top
of which stood a small cupola, of the type one often sees serving as a
ventilator. I found a ladder, climbed up
to the roof, and walked toward the cupola.
As I neared it, I heard something inside, which I took to be birds.
“As I examined it, one of its sides fell off, and I felt as
though I had been hit by a flame thrower.
The energy came out of that little box with such intensity that I had to
hang on, or be swept off my feet. I was
thrown into the maw of Hell itself: a deafening cacophony of screams and
shrieks, searing hot winds whirling about me, and a stench worse than can be
imagined, all pouring forth from the open side.
As I held on, I saw that at the center of the maelstrom was a large,
fuzzy stuffed animal -- a teddy bear -- glowing bright magenta. Tentacles of energy emerged from it, dancing
and whirling about like forks of lightning.
There was no doubt that I had found what I was looking for.
“I had to think quickly about what to do. The energy tentacles were getting very close
to me, and I knew that if they touched me, I would be pulled into the
apparition. I made a very risky
decision. There is a form of exorcism,
in which the exorcist does not try to drive
away the spiritual forces, but instead makes himself into a conductor for those forces, allowing
them to dissipate into the spiritual world through the exorcist’s own
being. It is very dangerous, because if
the exorcist does not channel the energy, but instead retains it, he can be
blown apart, burned to a crisp, or come to some even less desirable fate. One has to become completely passive in order
for this to work. I couldn’t think of
anything else, so I did it.
“I envisioned myself as a sort of spiritual lightning rod,
with my feet on the ground of the world, and my head in the world of Spirit. I tried my best to relax, as I felt the energy
enter my body through the feet. It was
like an electric current going through my spine. I was shaking in a convulsion, as I felt the
power surging upward through my body, and exploding out the top of my head.
“Finally, it was over;
calmness and quiet had returned.
I opened my eyes, and the hellish storm was gone. The stuffed bear had lost its bright magenta
color, and was now a beautiful blue. I
picked it up, took it off the roof, and placed it on the little girl’s
bed. I was quite confident, at that
point, that I had succeeded at my first exorcism.”
“And that was it?” asked Robinia.
“Unfortunately, no,” said St. Joe. “I awoke from the lucid dream to find my room
in chaos. Things moving around, falling
off shelves, and throughout the room a swirling, ice cold psychic power. I thought that maybe I had failed to
completely channel the energy. I
repeated the channeling procedure, feeling the energy once again discharge
itself through my body. Only this time
it wasn’t a dream. When I felt the
energy dissipate, I shut down the conductor.
The room was quiet, everything had returned to normal, and the energy
was gone.
“The next morning, I turned on the television to watch the
news. The news programs were all
carrying the tragic story of a couple who had been killed in an automobile
accident, hit by a train in their car at a crossing. Imagine the shock when they showed their
pictures, and I at once recognized them as the couple in the house I had
exorcised! The news mentioned that the
couple had recently lost their daughter in a drowning that, though the police
had their suspicions, was officially ruled an accident.
“It wasn’t long before I was standing before my
“Hmm,” said Robinia, “that reminds me of the tendency in
society today, that it is ‘politically correct’ to blame yourself for
everything that goes wrong. That is
crap; other people have free will, they choose to do what they do, and when
they choose to wrong someone, the victim has the right to dispense appropriate
punishment. People are taught that when
things go wrong, they should blame themselves.
That is absolutely wrong; people who spend their lives doing whatever
they want to whomever they want, deserve to have it back in their faces. Society has the victims bamboozled, teaches
them to blame themselves for it, to ask, ‘What’s wrong with me that such things
should happen?’ Women who are raped are
made to feel ‘unclean’, as though it is their fault. On top of that, society stigmatizes
self-defense and protection. People who
carry guns or other weapons for protection are ‘bad’ -- they are not supposed
to protect themselves against attack.
They ban guns and other weapons, preferring to console the victims with
‘therapy’, than enable individuals to protect themselves. One bullet can be worth an infinitude of
words. I say, if someone does you wrong,
return the favor, ten times over. What
goes around, comes around, and I don’t mind being the spinner of that
wheel. Justice is something that has all
but vanished from the picture; the idea that those who do wrong should be
punished gets swallowed up in self-blame.”
“Yes, the whole idea of self-deprecation,” said St. Joe, “is
central to the suppression of consciousness in civilization. Teach people to hate themselves, to detest
and surrender their own being, and to love the position they hold in the
world. Everything that goes wrong is
because of you, and look to society
to put you right. Get people to loathe
their individuality, to surrender it, to disdain it, and you have gone a long
way to pushing it out of the picture. It
is the individual versus the collective: learn to hate the individual and love
the group; lose yourself in the group.
“That is the whole point of touchy-feeley ‘therapy’, as they
call it. You see these idiots on
television, the ‘professionals,’ always wearing their neat suits and short
hair, always chattering about people who don’t have the proper ‘interpersonal
skills’, and so on. It’s trash. The whole motivation behind it is to push the
individual out of the picture, dissolve the person into the group. When their so-called ‘therapy’ and their
babble about social skills doesn’t work, they resort to drugs. Not the kinds you know about -- not the
psychedelics and hallucinogens, that energize and enliven consciousness. What they use are the kinds that dull
sensations, silence emotions, kill the very heart of personhood. All in the name of ‘being a productive member
of society.’ It’s utterly
sickening. They say the really big
chunks always float to the top in any cesspool, but all you have to do is
listen to one of these morons and you realize just how bad it is on the
bottom.”
“The whole idea of the individual versus the group reminds me
of my own initiation rite,” said Robinia.
“It happened in a dream, too. The
physical ritual had occurred a couple of nights earlier. It was in this person’s house, a ‘high
priestess’ she called herself. It was
pretty stupid, going through all these motions, with no spiritual depth behind
it. The height of the thing was some
weird sex-reversal fantasy, or at least I think that’s what was going on. Very messed up people. Anyway, I woke up in the dream. I was inside a large stone room. There was a magick circle cast upon the
floor, glowing a bright blue color. I
was inside the circle, along with two black-robed people on either side of me,
standing before an altar. Behind the
altar stood a lone figure, tall and thin.
The light was such that I could not see the face, only the black robes,
blacker than any black I had ever seen.
“The figure made some kind of gesture, and the two at my
sides put their hands on me, guiding me around the circle. Around the magick circle are what are called
the quarters, each representing an elemental force. First I was taken to the quarter of
Earth. There was a small altar there,
lit up bright yellow, upon which rested several herbs and other objects
connected with the Earth element. I
knelt in front of the altar, and took a deep breath, inhaling the smoke rising
from a censer placed upon it. I was
transported into a large hall. There was
a man, wearing a straw hat, laughing his head off. He had in his hand what looked like a fire
hose, except it was spewing out slimy grease all over the floor. There was another man there, all properly
dressed in a suit, who was asking me questions about various metaphysical subjects. I couldn’t stand up, I was sliding around all
over the place in the muck, and they just kept asking these obtuse questions.”
“I always wondered how you came up with the idea for the
grease grenades,” said St. Joe.
Robinia chuckled, and continued. “When it was over, I was back in the
circle. They took me to the Air quarter,
which had a glowing blue altar and burning incense. I knelt and breathed the smoke. Next thing I knew, I was back in my old
college. I was told that I had to follow
a certain person, dressed in bright green.
Then they put a sort of mask over my eyes, so that my vision was
completely blurred. The green figure
took off, and I had to follow it through crowds, in and out of doors, up and
down streets. Learning to see without my
eyes, I guess that was the point.
“When that was over, they took me to the Water quarter, which
was green. As before, I inhaled the
smoke. I found myself in a large
swimming pool, alone with another woman.
She motioned to me to come toward her, saying, ‘You have to do
this.’ I swam toward her, but as I did
so, she got farther and farther away.
Finally, I gave up, and drowned.
I felt the water move throughout my body, filling everything inside with
its coolness. I swam to the surface, and
I was in this beautiful fountain out in the woods, with flowers all
around. I realized that in some way the
fountain and the woman I had seen were one and the same. I really didn’t want to leave there, but I
was pulled back into the circle.
“Next, I was taken to the Fire quarter, bright red and
somewhat frightening. I smelled the
incense; it burned my nose as it went in.
I was wandering in the woods, and came to this very large tree, with a
dark archway in it. I entered the
archway, and there were steps leading down to an underground cavern. A stream wound its way in between the rocks;
everything was lit by an orange glow.
There were flames springing up from between the rocks. I reached down into the stream, catching some
of the water in my hand, sprinkling it where the flames were popping up. I
thought of that passage in the Oracles, ‘And so the priest who would command
the works of fire, must first sprinkle the waters of the loud resounding sea.’
“This was a lesson in controlling passion -- ‘Love under Will,’
as they call it -- and I found myself back in the circle. They took me back to the central altar, from
which there were emerging flashes of white and purple light. If they wanted to scare me, at this point it
was working -- I was scared as hell. The
quarter of Spirit, I thought to myself, and this one is going to be rough. The priest raised his massive hands, and held
them over my shoulders. I felt myself
falling, and my feet gradually came to rest, with the same sort of feeling when
a downgoing elevator comes to a stop. I
was in the house where the ritual had been done two nights previous. They had my friend Angela, who I had studied
and practiced with, tied up with ropes and fastened to the wall somehow. She was absolutely terrified, sobbing and in
tears. The so-called priest of the group
was standing next to her in his cheap, dirty black robe; his bloated, grimacing
face emerging from beneath his hood like a poisonous mushroom from beneath a
dung pile. He handed me a heavy sword,
and said, ‘This is your final test. You
have to kill her.’
“Over your dead ass, I thought to myself. With every ounce of strength I could muster,
I rammed that sword right through that sonofabitch’s heart, pinning him to the
wall. His lifeless body hung there, like
a jackass with its tail pinned right through the middle. I have to admit, I was pretty pleased with
that sight. I untied Angela, and we
walked together out the door. As we went
through the door, I could feel the priest, the real priest from the circle, towering
behind me. He said, in a voice that
shook the foundation of the house, ’What you have brought yourself into is
something far higher than these could ever have given you.’ After that, I never really saw any of those
people from that group again, except for Angela.”
“Hmm. Remind me to
steer clear, anytime you have a sharp object in your hand,” said St. Joe. “I sometimes think of myself as a sort of
spiritual janitor -- a cleanser of filth, a disposer of excrement. But you, my dear, you’re a crusader. You’re out for the kill.”
“Oh not me, I’m as gentle as a lamb,” said Robinia.
“Yeah, right. The Lamb
resurrected as the flaming Lion,” said St. Joe.
“Well,” continued Robinia, “there was a strange thing that
happened after that. I guess it was my first
experience as an initiate, but it’s the only vision I’ve had that I never
really figured out. Sort of like your
Thing vision, it came after the initiation.
But I’m still baffled by it.
“I was lying in bed, a couple of nights after the initiation
dream. I was reaching over to turn off
the light, when the vision appeared. It
pulled down over my eyes, like someone pulling down a window shade. I was in the tower of a castle, in a
wood-paneled circular room. The floor
was of marble tiles, alternating black and white. There was a large wooden table in the middle
of the room. My attention was drawn to
the room’s only window. It was made of
colored panes of glass. I opened it, and
saw the most beautiful meadow, surrounded by snow-capped mountains. The day was bright and sunny, though quite
cool; the cold, fresh air felt good as I pulled it deep into my lungs. I noticed something out of the corner of my
eye. Upon the table, a podium had
appeared. Behind the podium stood a
black-robed figure wearing those same, thick blacker-than-black robes as worn
by my initiators. Upon the podium rested
a large book. It had a dark brown cover,
with some kind of gold-inlaid engravings.
The pages were in disarray, as though some had just been shoved in, or
were in the process of falling out. The
figure was slowly thumbing through the pages, scanning them carefully.
“It looked up from the book, and motioned for me to approach
the table. As I did so, it turned the
podium, so the book was facing toward me.
It began turning the pages faster and faster, pointing to them. It was trying to get me to notice something
about them; not so much read them, as it was turning the pages way too
quickly. I did catch glimpses of words,
and I took the writing to be in German, because of the lettering and the words
I could see. Then I evidently saw what I
was supposed to see. At the time, I had
been playing around with calligraphy, for making spell scrolls and so
forth. I had developed a certain style
in my letters, with little tails coming off some of them, which I hadn’t ever
seen in anyone else’s writing; a sort of personalization. Well, in the writing in that book, the
letters had those same little tails. I
saw that, and jumped back in shock. Next
thing I knew, the window shade went up, and I was back in my bed.”
“Well, that’s quite a riddle,” said St. Joe. “We do have copyright laws here. Maybe someone’s upset that you’re copying
their style? No, I don’t really think
so. It is a mystery. Does it mean that you are the author of this
book? That you have a past you need to
find? Does it mean that you have already
laid down a future that you are supposed to make real?”
“I’ve thought about all those possibilities,” said Robinia,
“and none of them work. I don’t think
it’s a fate thing; magick and fate are really at odds with each other. I call myself a weaver of fate, but I mean
that only half-way. Fate is only
inevitable to those who are blind to other possibilities. There are riddles about time it suggests;
maybe time travel, or maybe time doesn’t work the way we think. Maybe, in some strange way, I am the author
of this book in the future, the future is the past in some way. Like a circle, some bizarre circle of being
that spans across different worlds, different dimensions.”
“Ahh yes, the future perfect imperative,” said St. Joe. Robinia gave him a very puzzled look, and he
explained. “Linguists say there is no
such thing as the future perfect imperative, a grammatical construct that would
be a command for something to have already happened at some point in the
future. Sort of a point in the future,
from which you look back, and things have been commanded to be a certain
way. No such thing, say the
experts. Of course they are wrong. Prophecy is always written in future perfect
imperative. It always ordains what will
have been the case at some point in the future.
It necessarily implies a kind of circular, non-causal relationship between
events across time, and hence people who wish to promote a non-thinking culture
avoid it like the plagues it foretells.
Perhaps your vision is in the future perfect imperative, a kind of
circle between what was, is and will be.
“Which raises a question, one that has always bugged me,”
continued St. Joe. “Both you and Roweena
refer to what you do as ‘the Craft’, yet you are so very different. Why is that?
What is the difference between you, really?”
“She’s a blond, I’m a brunette,” replied Robinia. “OK, OK.
As you said, I’m a crusader, of sorts.
I’m in it for the magick. The
sight of candles flickering about, the smell of burning incense, the
incantations, the psychic powers. That’s
my side of it. Though I do often use
god-names, words of power, and so forth, those are just devices to get the job
done.
“Roweena is a mystic, a pagan mystic. She’s in it for the religion. She sees herself as a kind of channel for the
forces of nature, which, for her, are also god-forces. Human consciousness is the transition point
between physical and spiritual existence, and pagans like her see themselves as
gateways or portals between the worlds.
I guess, at some level, we share similar beliefs, but we manifest them
in different ways. Put Roweena on a
fairy mound, with little people running around, and she’s happy. Me, I want my magick tools, my books,
darkened rooms, black robes, strange chants, oils, and talismans. Do not, however, make the mistake of thinking
that Roweena cannot wield the sort of power I do. Far from it; she is on a first name basis
with things I only see on occasion. She
can bring the force of the entire universe to bear on someone’s sorry ass, if
she has reason to do so.”
“I wasn’t suggesting crossing her in any way,” said St. Joe,
“I just don’t fully understand what makes you so different.”
“Maybe, underneath it all, we are of the same stock. We just walk different paths through the same
woods. I am the crusader, she is the
healer. I guess that’s the best way to
put it.”
“And your friend Angela, is she ‘of the same stock’?”
“There is something about her,” replied Robinia, “that is
very special. I love her dearly, but I
know there is something about her I can’t touch. There is a psychic barrier, a kind of lead
shield, around a part of her that I can’t get through, and honestly she can’t
get through either. A part of her is
hidden from view, but comes through on occasion, nonetheless. When things are going badly, magick wise, she
only has to think about it, and everything goes smoothly. If, that is, it’s something she approves
of. They hated her in that group; she
thought they were bumbling idiots, and every time she came around, things would
fall apart for them. But the strangest
thing is, learning about the Craft, for her, is more like remembering. Like she already knows all of this stuff, at
some very deep level, and reading about it just jogs her mind. I don’t know where it comes from. She doesn’t come from a ‘witch’ family, or
anything like that.”
“Will you be seeing her tomorrow at the psychic fair?” asked
St. Joe.
“Oh yes, I certainly hope so,” said Robinia. “In her last letter, she was very excited
about something, something she didn’t want to write down. That means Craft secrets, usually. You should come along. You’d like meeting her.”
“Wish I could, but I can’t,” replied St. Joe, with a mischievous
grin. “I have, shall we say, a little
service call to make. Business of the
Order, and all.”
“Now why is it, that I sense something burning, somewhere?”
asked Robinia.
St. Joe responded with a chuckle. He rose from his seat to go below deck, thought
for a moment, and said, “You know, it’s a good thing you broke off with that
group. You’d have wound up an occult
shop psychic if you hadn’t, you know.”
“Yeah, right,” replied Robinia. “I can just see myself sitting in some dirty
little corner with a crystal ball, the ugly and the downtrodden coming to me to
create a love life for them. Consoling
the dregs of the world, as they go down the drain. It just gets me too angry. If you have money, good looks, or a big
mouth, you get what you want in the world; if not, you’re just thrown
away. Society doesn’t give a damn about
what people are, only what they can do.
The losers who come for psychic readings are better people than the
‘beautiful people’ ever could or will be, but they’re just trashed by the
world. Gets me too mad to deal with it.”
“Hmm, thrown to the dogs.
Or maybe food for the starborn?
Could be an interesting inversion there, should the stars ever be
right.” With that mischievous grin
again, St. Joe disappeared into the fog.
*
* *
Robinia sat for a minute, thinking to herself. The phrase population inversion drifted into her thoughts. That’s the way lasers work: low energy atoms
outnumber high energy ones, then the power is applied, and the high energy ones
all of a sudden outnumber the low energy ones, and an intense beam of light
pours forth. What if that were to happen
in the world? What if all of a sudden,
the social animals woke up to find that the outcasts and the bums and the ugly
and the unfortunate had the power,
and the ‘normal people’ were nothing more than animals in cages?
Robinia.
She stood up from her seat, turning to go below, when she
heard a voice call her name. A powerful,
crushing feeling took hold of her head, as though some great hand was trying to
crush her skull. She grabbed one of the
railings to steady herself, and as she did so, her field of vision split into
two halves, much like going cross eyed.
In the left field, she could still see the fog-bound ship. On the right, she was looking into a dimly lit
room. She saw a figure, tall and thin,
in black robes standing before her.
Around the outside of the figure was a thin, purplish-blue glow, like
some kind of electrical discharge. In
its right hand, the figure held a strange object. It was round and shiny black, about the size
of a billiard ball. It tossed the ball
into the air and caught it, repeating the motion twice. Each time, as the ball rose into the air, a
trail of white sparkles followed it. The
effect was much like one of those glass Christmas decorations that one shakes
and the snowflakes move around, except these sparkles were outside the sphere
itself. The figure turned slightly, and
next to it appeared a green-covered pool table.
The black-robed apparition placed the ball on the table and rolled it
toward the opposite end. It landed in
one of the pockets with a thunk.
Eight ball in the
corner pocket, Robinia. Game over.
The vision vanished, and along with it the pressure in her
head. Her sight returned to normal. My god, she thought, now I’m seeing them, as
well as hearing them. Maybe there is
something wrong with me after all. No,
no, the self deprecation again. It’s
nothing wrong with me; it’s them.
They’re getting closer, coming through stronger and clearer.
There is a kind of feeling one gets when one encounters the
unknown, and especially a being from
the unknown -- a mixture of fear and exhilaration. Robinia felt that, as she climbed into her
bunk. They were getting closer, the ones that had really initiated her. She would,
sooner or later, meet them face to face.
What that could mean, and what changes it would bring, she could not
begin to guess. It had been a long and
strange path into the unknown, one that she had walked mostly alone. She had the feeling that she was about to
meet those who had walked, or perhaps blazed, that same path.
Excerpt from Meta-Consciousness:
The Not Philosophy of Phineas the !Pirate:
In days of old, the
village entertainment was the traveling carnival. For those who seldom left the confines of
their ancestral homes, the carnival provided a glimpse into a world otherwise
unseen. Strange animals, and even
stranger people, with their games and sideshows, brightened eyes that were
otherwise dulled by the toils of routine existence. Amid the commotion, it was often the fortune
teller and the psychic reader that commanded the center of fascination. Their dark and mysterious tents and wagons
were gateways from the bizarre world of the carnival into an unseen world: the
world of dreams, of magick, of the divine and of the dead, that answered to no
mere mortal.
In the modern,
urbanized world, the traveling carnival has been replaced by the Renaissance
Fair. These modern attractions attempt
to mix the gaiety of the carnival with the character of the village
market. The whole effect is to create
the same atmosphere of the traveling carnival of times past. But there is an important difference. The traveling carnivals of history brought
forth from the isolated villagers a part of their humanity that seldom had the
chance to find expression. The modern
city is not a village; it does not have the personality of life in years
past. The city of today is not the sum
of its members. It is an entity in its own
right, a machine in which its inhabitants are mere teeth in its gears. The Renaissance Fair must therefore not only
bring forth, but first instill, in its visitors a part of humanity that has
been lost in the modern world. Perhaps
that accounts for their popularity -- they give life to a part of the human
being that cannot live in the modern metropolis.
What one sees at such
Fairs are the food stands with beer, beef, and other offerings that in the
world of the past were delicacies, but to the urbanized palette seem rather
bland. Theater companies with their
puppets and plays. “Where are the special effects and computer graphics?” asks
the city dweller. And the shops, filled
with trinkets and doo-dads, and even books written in unintelligible languages
-- meaning, to most modern fair-goers, ppreceding ASCII. The casual visitor does not notice that the
small jars of jams and jellies, the candles and leather purses -- all of them
are the results of the toil of some soul somewhere. They are the heart and the mind, the soul and
the life, of those who live outside the steel and concrete of the city. So it was in times past, and so it still is
today. For less than the price of a cellular
phone call, one can share in the very heart of another being. For those of the city, those with no heart,
it is all lost -- there can be no sharing, only phone calls to the office.
As it has been in the
past, so
it shall be in the future, or so some prophecies have ordained. The city exists because it has no heart. It is a machine, a working of parts, in which
each contributes to the overall motion.
The parts of an automobile engine can no more step out of the car and
enjoy the fair, than the members of society can step out and view the course of
their culture. Hence, society is
mindless. Its parts merely function,
with no sense of direction and no awareness that really, there is no direction,
only mechanical motion. This blindness
conceals a tragedy, for it is not the parts, in the end, that will fail, but
the whole structure itself. When that
happens, there can be only parts mindlessly moving about, until their energy
runs out, and then there is nothing but bodies in the sand. The alternative is the world of the past,
the world of the Fair, the world of the heart, in which each is not a part of
the whole, but the whole is a part of each.
A world of individuals who carve and mold and cook and write the very
destiny of the world.
Perhaps that is one of
the lures of the psychic reader. Outside
the stream of the common, away from the shops and the buzz of the Fair, the
tents and wagons of the seers stand on the threshold of what might be, or what
the world might become. The crystal ball
may not only bring forth what is unseen in the world, but what is unseen in the
soul as well. Within the unknown lies
the promise of fulfillment of what has been lost in the world -- what cannot be
in the ordinary world may be given life in the world of the fortune teller.
*
* *
Surrounded by brightly colored rugs and drapes hanging from
the walls of her tent, in her brightest gypsy clothes, sitting before her table
with tarot cards and crystals, Robinia was in her world. The world that
lies between the world of the seen and the world of the unseen, keeper of the
gateway to the unknown. This was Robinia
in her element, and she loved it, every minute of it. No matter how stupid the question, or how
dull or drunk the patron, each provided her an opportunity to see into the
darkness -- each vision made that darkness all the more real.
More often than not, it is not the truth the visitor to the
fortune teller seeks. Rather, it is how
to avoid the truth. How to attract the
man or woman who has no interest, and will never have any. How to achieve wealth and stature within the
confines of one’s dilapidated apartment.
What one can do to get a job, without the need for schooling or
training. It is not the truth about
these things one wants to know, for they are all impossible. It is how to live with the truth that one
wants to know. The fortune teller
responds with transcendence: one must see a higher purpose in one’s failures,
one must seek release in resignation.
The Knight of Resignation must live with his sorrow; the loser must
learn to accept his loss as his lot.
But what of the Knight of Faith? What of he who refuses the truth, who will
marry the princess or burn in the flames of Hell trying? The Knight of Faith has something the Knight
of Resignation does not -- the armor of his inner passion, and the sword of a
soul aflame. He will not be told “no,”
he does not care about “interpersonal skills”,
and will cut off his ears before he will hear it. Though the world may deny his every wish, he
will remain the believer in himself, for he has something the social animal
does not: a self in which to believe.
For this Knight, the fortune teller has a different answer. In the crystal appear visions of a world
transformed, a world in which truth is made through the strength of
belief. The cards show a world of
struggle and of victory; for those in whom the inner passion burns hot, the
world shall melt before them. In the
modern world, such Knights are rare indeed, and the fortune teller becomes for
the most part a consoler of lost fancy.
The task is not to tell what is seen, but to interpret what is seen as gently and thoughtfully as possible. On occasion, however, the visions will not be
told their meaning; interpretations fail, the meanings constellate themselves,
and the flaming Knight appears, though not always in the guise of shining
armor.
*
* *
So it was that late in the afternoon, an unusual client made
an appearance at the door of Robinia’s tent.
There had been no visitors for some time, and Robinia had thought that
maybe it was time to fold up shop, when the door of her tent grew ominously
dark. The curtains parted, and in the
doorway stood the figure of a tall man.
He was wearing the black robes of a medieval monk, and carried a long,
crooked staff. But the blackness of
those robes -- they were so utterly black, unsoiled by the dusty walkways of
the fairground. A blackness she had seen
in a dream once before . . .
“May I come in?” The
figure spoke softly and slowly, but with such a deep resonance that Robinia
thought the earth itself would shake, had he spoken in a normal volume.
“Please do,” replied Robinia.
“Please come in and sit down. I
am Robinia.”
“I am . . . ” The man
hesitated, thought for a moment, and continued.
“I am Morien, Brother Morien, a wandering friar in search of the works
of God.”
“Have you found any?” Robinia asked.
“I see God everywhere I look.
I see the works of the Divine everywhere. Which makes it rather odd that I should
continue to wander in search of them, I suppose, but then every new thing seen
is a new revelation of What lies beyond.”
“And so you come to the fortune teller, for yet another
vision from beyond?” asked Robinia.
“Why not,” he replied.
“What is it, then, to tell a fortune?”
“What most people want to know, really, is how to live with
themselves, answered Robinia. “How to
accept their lot in the world. That’s
mostly what it is.”
“Ahh,” said the Brother, “feel-good talk, ‘I’m okay, you’re
okay.’ Is that what it is?”
“That’s what most people want to hear,” said Robinia. “That’s not what it really is, of
course. What it really is, is seeing
into the unseen, finding things out that one can’t ordinarily know. Somehow, I don’t think you want
consolation. Would you like me to look
into the unseen for you? Are you willing
to accept what is seen there?”
“Of course. Yes to
both,” said the Brother, with a grin.
Robinia hadn’t paid too much attention to the structure of his face; his
dark hood kept the light from illuminating his facial features with any detail. The eyes were what she noticed, reflecting
the candle light as though burning, glowing; lasers preparing to fire.
“Tell me,” said the Brother, pointing to a spot on the table,
“what are these?”
“Tarot cards,” answered Robinia. “Some think they originated as paintings on
the walls of the Pyramids. Others think they
originated among wandering Gypsies. The
psychologist Jung thought that the cards were symbolic representations of
archetypes. I think, and this is my
opinion based on my experiences with them, that they are like gateways. Portals between the ordinary world and
Spirit.”
“Archetypes, gateways, hmm,” mumbled the dark figure. He looked up from the deck of cards, and
continued, “What do you mean by Spirit?”
“Now, a faithful friar such as yourself, asking a question
like that!”
“It is an honest question,” said the Brother. “I know what I mean when I use the word, or
at least I think I know what I mean. I
am curious as to what you mean.”
“Spirit is all around us, all of the time,” said
Robinia. “Like your seeing God in
everything, Spirit is in everything.
Only we do not sense it with our eyes or ears, we can only see it in the
mind. It is like an unseen force, that
moves and permeates everything. It goes
backward and forward through time, and throughout the universe. If we can tap into Spirit, we can see what it
sees -- other places, other times. Even
into the hearts of others, seeing what they keep hidden, but is visible to
Spirit.”
“Umm hmm,” grunted the Brother. “And so we see Spirit, through our
minds. There is something special about
our minds, that when we use cards, or crystal balls, or maybe have visions of
one sort or another, we see this spiritual force?”
“Yes, our minds are partly Spirit,” said Robinia. “What some call the soul. The ability to see spiritual forces directly
is something our ancestors had. We have
lost that, we can only see them through the cards and so forth, or through
meditation, such as your seeing God.”
“Our minds are partly Spirit, then,” said the Brother, in a
low voice, as though repeating to himself so he would remember. He thought for another minute, and
continued. “So we are partly
Spirit. And everything else, it must be
partly Spirit, too, or you wouldn’t be able to see things in your visions,
right? And everything, us and everything
else, is magnified in universal Spirit -- God, if you will. God is like a coming together of all the
forces of Spirit, a grand unity of time and space and everything that lies
within them?”
“Yes, that’s right,” replied Robinia.
“So why is it that we cannot see, or otherwise interact, with
Spirit, just as I am talking with you?”
Robinia though for a moment, remembering St. Joe’s
explanation of archetypes. “We cannot
deal directly with Spirit, because they are at a higher energy level than we
are. Energy is a force that makes things
work. Spiritual energy is like physical
energy, only at a much higher level.
Just like we can’t see X-rays, we can’t see Spirit, either.”
“I see,” replied the Brother.
“So Spirit is like a force all around us, but at a level too intense for
our eyes to see; just like we can’t look directly at the sun and see what is
going on. This energy underlies
everything, in such a way that everything is partly Spirit. Using these special tools, like cards and
crystals, we can see into the world of Spirit, and therefore see the unseen
goings on behind reality.
“And, I take it,” he continued, “just as we can see into the
world of Spirit, so we can also carry out certain actions in the world of
Spirit. For those who know how, one can
manipulate the spiritual energies that underlie things, and alter their
behavior. That is magick, is it not?”
“Yes, that’s pretty much it,” said Robinia, with the feeling
that wasn’t going to be pretty much
it.
The Brother stared at the items on the table -- crystals,
candles, oils, and other tools of the Art.
He then looked up at Robinia, with a mischievous look in his eyes. Lasers, again.
“That’s a beautiful vision, which unfortunately makes no
sense at all,” said the Brother. Robinia
took a deep gulp, and he went on. “The
most obvious reason for this is that, according to your own view, we can
interact with objects through the medium of Spirit. That’s the theory behind the spell casting
stuff you have here, as well as the divination practices. If that’s right, if even a simple object can
be nudged through magick, it follows the mind, itself partly Spirit, should be
capable of nudging things on its own. In
which case, all of this magick stuff would be irrelevant; we would interact
with Spirit as directly as the physical objects you see and manipulate with
your hands. Thus . . .”
The Brother touched one of the crystals on the table with his
hand, and moved it slightly. He then stared at Robinia, a smile coming over his
face, and spoke. “My hand moved the
crystal -- they are both kinds of matter.
My mind did not move it. If they
are both kinds of Spirit, the same result should have occurred, but it didn’t.”
Robinia took another deep gulp. The Brother went on: “Furthermore, and most
importantly, if Spirit were essentially the same thing as us, only at a higher
energy level, as you say, then there could not be archetypes, and therefore no
human consciousness At least not in the
sense required by Jung’s theory, to which I take it, judging by your book
there, Man and His Symbols, you
subscribe. In order to get an archetype,
there must be a meeting of two things that are absolutely unlike one another --
it cannot be a matter of degree. The
reason for this is that an archetype appears symbolically in the mind. For it to do so, it must have two
contradictory characteristics. It must
be an existing entity, totally unlike man in any way. There must be something to symbolize,
something with a definite structure or characteristics, that cannot be
understood directly because it is so different from the ordinary. And, it must be able to reveal itself to each
observer in ways that the observer can understand. It has to be able to change its clothes, so
to speak, to alter its appearance, to appear to be what it is not, so that it can be understood. So it must be both comprehensible and
incomprehensible; it must have a character all its own, and yet be able to
appear in a variety of guises. These
opposing properties are found in what are called fractals. These are points at which unlike things meet
up, and generate a kind of interface condition -- a layering effect if you wish
-- that makes the fractal a unique thingg, unlike either of its parts. Do you see what I mean?”
Robinia thought for a moment.
“So an archetype is not itself the thing that’s seen by the mind, but
rather the mind interprets the interaction of two different kinds of force, as
a symbol?” she asked.
“That’s right,” said the Brother. Looking on the table in front of him, he
picked up a glass vial. It contained a green
colored liquid, but the liquid had separated into upper and lower layers,
separated by a distinctly opaque band.
“You have mixed oil and water in this bottle,” said the
Brother. “If you were swimming in the
oil, you would not see the water, only the layer in between them. Likewise, we do not directly see Spirit,
because it is totally different from us.
What we see is the layer between us and Spirit. That is an archetype.”
The Brother put the bottle back on the table and
continued: “Archetypes are fractals;
they are boundaries or layers between the world of Spirit and the world of
mind. Which means that what we call
mind, the world of information processing that goes on in the brain, must be
something totally different, different in kind,
as different from Spirit as water is from oil, in order to get archetypes at
all. It can’t just be a matter of
degree; pouring boiling water into cold water does not give you a fractal. An archetype is like the rainbow of color you
get when oil and water mix on a roadway, only it is inside the mind. Each person sees a different color -- each
mind sees the symbol somewhat differently -- because each observer is
different.”
“What you are saying then,” said Robinia, “is that it can’t
just be a matter of energy, or anything else that makes Spirit different from
the world we know. Spirit has to be
something fundamentally different. Since
archetypes are required for the existence of consciousness, then unless there
is this other world, there could be no consciousness.”
“Well, almost,” said the Brother. “What is meant by ‘fundamentally different’
is open to question. What is has to be
is another world, something that does not exist in the world as we know
it. How different it has to be, I’m not
sure. There is a theory in physics that
certain kinds of antimatter particles are really the same kinds of particles as
in our world, but they belong to another world.
They appear weird to us because they are traveling in another world. A positron, for example, is just an electron
going backward in time, which is to say that it is going forward in time, in
another world.”
“If it’s in another world, then how could we see it?” asked
Robinia. “How could we see into the
world of Spirit, for that matter, if it really is a different world? How could magick or divination work at all?”
“Those are all good questions,” replied the Brother. “Although the worlds are different, they can
touch, or intersect, at certain points.
In terms of physical matter, this kind of intersection appears to us as
unusual states of matter -- as antimatter, for example. Or as a layer effect, such as between the oil
and water in your bottle. This same kind
of intersection can occur in the mind.
When it does, we have a vision into the other world, by way of the
layer, or intersection, between them.
Such intersections are the stuff of mystical experiences, psychic
visions, and so on; even archetypes themselves.
Archetypes are therefore the same kinds of things -- fractal boundaries
-- as mystical experiences. Magick is
the reverse process. We project
ourselves into the other world, and then try to project back into this one,
thereby crossing the barriers of space and time. Does that make sense?”
“Sort of,” answered Robinia, “except that, if that’s right,
then the worlds really do mix to some extent.”
“Not normally,” said the Brother, “but it’s possible for
something to travel between the worlds, or to stand in the boundary between
them. Mystical experiences, for example,
occur when consciousness encounters the boundary between the ordinary world and
the world of Spirit. That boundary is a
fractal, and the spectacle of a mystical experience is the fractal pattern of
that intersection.”
“So then archetypes are not individuals? Not people at a higher level?” asked Robinia.
“I never said that,” said the Brother. “Fractals are as individual as -- maybe even
more so than -- the objects or forces from each world that intersects to form
them. If you follow the theory of Jung
far enough, you find that human consciousness, partly brain, partly instinct,
and partly Spirit, is itself a fractal.
So an archetype can be as much an individual as you. It seems to be at a ‘higher level,’ as you
call it, because it contains elements from a different world.”
“If there is this other world, or worlds, of Spirit, then how
do they come into being?” asked Robinia.
“I guess a more important question would be, why do they have anything
to do with us?”
“Well now,” said the Brother, “certain theories in physics
tell us that worlds can break off from one another. Consider this: at some time in the distant
past, there was one world. For one
reason or another, it broke into two, the world we are in now, and the one we
shall call Spirit. Those two worlds went
their own ways, but because they have a common origin, there is a certain
resonance between the two. Something
like a pair of tuning forks; when you strike one, the other starts to
vibrate. When things happen in this
world, it has a kind of vibration in the other, and visa versa. The two are related by this kind of resonance
phenomenon, which explains why information can transfer between the two.”
“Why is it,” asked Robinia, “that a friar such as yourself
has such a deep knowledge of theoretical science?”
The Brother chuckled.
“Why is it, that you people are all so convinced that science, which is
ultimately learning from experience, philosophy, which is learning from
thought, and religion, which is learning from feeling, are all so different
from one another? What if they aren’t,
Robinia? What if they are intimately
connected in some way? Let us suppose,
for the sake of argument, that in this other world -- the world of Spirit --
they are connected, or at least the
connection is well known and understood, which it is not here. Suppose in this other world, the progress of
spiritual things proceeded at the same, or maybe greater, rate as progress in
the sciences here? The magick arts you
have are thousands of years old, and little has been done to move them
forward. What if those arts had
progressed alongside the sciences? What
would beings who have that kind of knowledge be like?”
That last thought stunned Robinia. Beings with a knowledge of magick that
paralleled scientific knowledge? “I
can’t even imagine what they would be like, some kind of super-minds, I guess.”
“Or some kind of spirit?
Wouldn’t they appear as beings totally different to you, at a ‘higher
energy level,’ could we say?”
“Then they would appear to us as archetypes,” said Robinia,
“and we would interact with them symbolically.”
“That depends,” replied the Brother. “Under some circumstances, yes; when they
appear in the mind, they would appear symbolically. Suppose, however, that these beings were sufficiently
advanced so they could walk between the worlds, literally, in physical
form. Whereas we have mystical
experiences, feeling these energies indirectly and seeing them symbolically,
maybe these other beings are advanced enough to -- when they so desire -- actually
walk between the worlds. The people of
this world can only communicate with the other world in thoughts and
dreams. Maybe those in this other world
have learned how to do it physically.
Perhaps objects in the other world, too; perhaps objects could move
between worlds.
“Or maybe,” he continued, “maybe it isn’t a matter of what they do.
What if those worlds we have suggested started coming back
together? Since they were originally the
same world, what if they went their own ways, then came back together? At first, I would think going between the
worlds would get a lot easier, on both sides of the fence. Then, who knows? You are the fortune teller, you tell me what
would happen.”
“I can’t begin to imagine,” said Robinia, feeling the effects
of intellectual overload. “I can,
however, read your fortune, as I promised.”
Robinia drew the top card from the deck.
It was The Fool, showing a strangely clad figure stepping off a cliff.
“Ahh, yes,” said the Brother.
“The Fool, knowing not where he goes or what he might find there. And so, I am a wandering friar, in search of
whatever I might find. A fool, too,
perhaps -- not knowing what I am looking for, and therefore never knowing if I
have found it. An interesting choice of
cards, and not completely inaccurate.
And now, your fortune.”
The Brother drew the next card. The Tower, a mighty castle standing on a
mountain top. The castle is struck by a
bolt of lightning, bricks and royal figures falling to the ground below.
“What would happen, Robinia,” asked the Brother, “if there
were two worlds, such as we mentioned?
What if they did come together?
What would be the fate of your towers and your castles, of your leaders
and your followers, in the face of beings more advanced in both magick and the
sciences? What would happen to your world
of cities and regimented social life, in the face of overwhelming powers that
your people can not understand? My
fortune is to wander in the unknown.
Will yours be to fall from your towers and lie lifeless on the ground
below?”
“I don’t know,” said Robinia.
“You have certainly challenged almost everything I believe, and I think
I may have a clearer view of things, thanks to you. I cannot say what the future will be, or whether
what you have said is true or not. You
seem to think much of what people believe is untrue anyway.”
The Brother rose from his chair, and turned toward the
door. As he passed through, he looked
back over his shoulder.
“It is not the job of a wandering friar such as myself,” he
said, “to judge whether your beliefs, or anyone else’s, are true or not. Only to judge whether you have the strength
to believe what you say, and to accept the consequences of what you
believe.” With that, he vanished into
the street.
Robinia did not move, but sat absorbed in thought. Why couldn’t archetypes, spiritual beings,
take on physical form, as St. Joe had said?
Could they come in from another world, and wander among us? That choice of words sent a shiver up
Robinia’s spine. Who, or what had she been talking to? He seemed to know a lot about so many
different things, and how they all fit together. The voices in her head, and now things she
had seen. Were these actually visions of another
reality, voices from its inhabitants?
The friar obviously hadn’t come for his fortune. Had he really come to plant thoughts and
ideas, and if so why? He seemed so
familiar, in a way: that voice, those eyes . . .
*
* *
Her thought train was derailed by the appearance of another
figure in the door. This one was much
less menacing. It was a tall, young
woman, with long black hair and sparking green eyes. Her light green dress trailed in the breeze
behind her, like an afterglow.
“Angela!” shouted Robinia, as she jumped out of her
chair. The two embraced tightly, and
loosened their grip only when tears had begun to flow. “I’ve missed you so much, too much.”
“My kindred spirit from the sea,” said Angela. “Sometimes I think we’re too close, we’ve
shared too much, to be two separate people.”
“So, why don’t you come back with me? The others would like you, I’m sure of
it. There’s plenty of room for you. Come with us, please?”
“I would, except . . . ”
Angela took a deep breath, getting noticeably nervous. “Can we sit down? I really have to tell you something.”
“Sure, come on in.
What’s wrong? Come on, what’s the
matter?” asked Robinia, as she took Angela’s shaking hand and guided her into
the chair.
“I think things are coming to a head,” said Angela. “Like there is some kind of choice I’m going
to have to make, some decision or something I have to do, that is going to
shatter my world. There’s been this
feeling of gloom, maybe doom, too. I’ve
always been that way, but then the dreams started.”
“What kind of dreams?” asked Robinia. “I’ve been hearing the voices again, now
seeing things. Some guy in a black robe
. . . ” Another shiver shot up Robinia’s
spine, as she felt things trying to connect in her mind, things she would
rather kept themselves apart for now.
“Well, it began with a series of short dreams, visions into
another world,” replied Angela. “Just
glimpses at first, quick flashes into a city somewhere. I was getting very frustrated. I even tried smoking some of my herbs, you
know which ones. It really didn’t help
much. Then one night, the whole thing
happened.
“I woke into this lucid dream. I was wandering the streets of some
city. It was cold and damp; not exactly
raining, just everything wet, cold and clammy, with a damp, moldy odor. It was dark, at night, but everything had
this dull, gray color. The streets were
of very rough cobblestone, and I had to watch my step to keep from
tripping. The buildings rising from the
street were also dull gray, made of stones.
Everything was cold, wet, rock and gray.”
“Sounds like you might have been dreaming in black and
white. Some people do that,” said
Robinia.
“Not me,” said Angela.
“My dreams have always had vivid color.
No, the next thing that happened rules that out anyway. Looking at these buildings, I noticed they
had wooden doors, that looked like they were made of big, heavy boards. They seemed to be soaked through with the
dampness, though, and all were shut closed.
There were openings in these stone buildings, too high up for me to see
inside. But from some of them came this
sickly greenish-yellow glow. I also
noticed that there were cracks in some of the buildings, and that same glow
came from inside. I thought I saw
movement through some of the cracks, and I got very scared. I thought, What kind of beings could inhabit
such a place, so cold and damp? I
envisioned crustaceous sea creatures, lobster-like and worse, scurrying about
behind the stone walls.
“I was very afraid now, and I started running. Running through the streets, no idea where I
was going, just running and running.
Down this street and that, more stone buildings, with that sick green
light. I ran down this one street, and
at the end it joined another street which ran alongside some sort of canal,
flowing through the city. The canal was
made of the same gray stone as everything else, and I could hear the noise of
the water flowing through it. The water
in that canal, it was disgusting -- dark and murky, although it had no
smell. Up ahead was a bridge leading
across the canal, to the other side of the city.
“I stood there, looking at the river, and the though came
into my mind that this was the river N’gai, or something like that. The river that conveys the souls of the dead
from their bodies to wherever it is they go.
That was the thought that came to me, ‘wherever it is they go,’ nothing
more than that. Suddenly, I heard a
noise behind me. It seemed that some of
the doors were opening. I could not bear
to wait and see what emerged from those doors, and I ran for the bridge as fast as I could. Just as I came to the bridge, something in
the river caught my eye. Some kind of
object, just under the surface of the water, glowing a bright, bluish
white. I forgot about what might have
been coming into the streets. I went to
the water's edge, reached in, and pulled the object out. It was a small, white round thing, about like
a large, cloudy white marble. I looked
at it for a second, then heard the noises behind me again.
“I took off across the bridge, thinking the city on the other
side might be different. It wasn’t; same
moldy smell, same cold, wet gray, and same greenish light. I didn’t wait to hear if doors were
opening. I ran and ran until I came to
an archway; it turned out to be a gate in the wall surrounding the city. I went through it as fast as I could, and
found myself on a dirt road, in the middle of a thick forest. I walked slowly, catching my breath, looking
at the white marble in my hand. I
thought I heard noises again, something behind me. There was a little clearing in the woods, off
to the side of the road, so I headed for that, and crouched down in the
bushes. After a while, I had heard
nothing, so I figured I wasn’t being chased any more.
“I took a close look at the white marble again. It seemed that as I looked at it, something
was looking back, out toward me. As I
looked more closely at it, my thoughts began to wander. I saw images of animals and trees, stars and
planets. Everything was spinning. In the center of the spinning was a dancer, a
tall woman with long, dark hair. She
whirled around and around, faster and faster, and finally stopped all of a
sudden. She looked straight at me, and I
realized that I was the dancer -- it was me
looking back at myself! I immediately
woke out of the dream, back into my bedroom.”
“That’s pretty wild,” said Robinia. “The river of dead souls, that’s really
weird. You’ve always been more of a
nature person, not so much into that.”
As she spoke, Robinia could see that Angela was very distressed. “Come on dear, is there more? It didn’t sound all that bad. I’ve had some real chillers, worse than that,
and
Angela’s look of fear cut her off. “No, that isn’t the end of it,” said
Angela. “When I woke up, I was pretty
upset, even afraid. I turned over in the
bed to reach for the light. Something
was under my leg, something cold and hard.
I turned on the light, and reached under the covers to get it.” She reached into her dress, and took out a
small black pouch. She loosened the draw
string, and turned it upside down in her other hand. Out rolled a shiny, cloudy white sphere,
about an inch in diameter. It looked
like a large white marble.
Oh shit! This is too
weird, thought Robinia to herself. No,
no, there must be some logical explanation.
Angela doesn’t joke around, she’s serious, but it can’t be.
“Don’t bother,” said Angela, “I’ve been through every
possible explanation. I don’t have any
marbles; none to lose, dear. I’ve never
seen this thing before. It wasn’t in the
bed when I went to sleep, or I would have noticed it. I’ve been the denial route, every which way,
and it doesn’t work. This thing is from
the dream, it’s from the dream world.
It’s from the river of the dead.”
She put it in the center of the table, and both women stared
at it. Too many thoughts going through
Robinia’s mind, too fast.
“You think, maybe, it’s someone’s soul, then?” asked Robinia.
“If it is, it’s mine, because that was my own image I saw in
the woods. As far as I know, I have as
much soul as ever, so I don’t think that’s it.
I don’t think I’m dead yet, either.”
“Have you tried to read it, to get any feelings or vibrations
out of it?”
“Nothing. It seems
like it’s protected. There is something
in there, but I can’t get through.”
Robinia stared at the white marble. She tried to clear her mind, opening up to any
vibrations that might emerge from the object, but there was nothing; it was as
psychically cold as physically. She
tried another technique: one by one, she projected the signs of the elements,
through her mind, onto its surface.
Sometimes, this will elicit a reaction, sort of like kicking a
tire. Nothing, absolutely nothing. She called forth an inner voice, asking for
advice, but nothing spoke. It seemed as
though the sphere was surrounded by an impenetrable metal shield.
“Nothing can be that cold,” said Robinia, “unless someone is
making it that way. There is something
there, but someone doesn’t want it to be seen.
I give up; I really don’t know what it is.”
“I don’t either, but I am very afraid,” said Angela. “Something like this shouldn’t happen, and if
it does, it means something. That’s why
I think something is about to happen.
I’ve been playing a little with spells, the kind you do. The damn things are working! When my room is cold, I think warm, and the
room warms up! I think about the weather,
and whatever I think happens. I see
people fighting or arguing and I want them to stop; they stop, and become
friends. Dammit, Robin, what is this? What’s going on?”
Angela was in tears at this point. Robinia drew to her side and embraced her. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll deal with it
together. Remember the time I thought
something was coming after me, an ‘uduggu’, or whatever it was? We got through that. We’ll push through this one, too. Look, it’s getting dark, are you sure you
don’t want to come back with me? I know
we can be together psychically, but maybe we need to be together physically as
well, at least for now.”
“Maybe I will, maybe tomorrow. I sort of want to collect my thoughts, try to
just calm things down. I want to spend
tonight meditating. Maybe I can call you
tomorrow?”
“I’ll be on the ship,” said Robinia, “but you can always get
a water taxi out to us. Don’t call, just
come. I really miss you, and want to be
with you. Everything we’ve been through,
it’s a deep tie.”
The two hugged, Angela put the marble back in its pouch, and
disappeared through the door. Robinia did not like this; she really wanted
to take Angela back to the boat with her.
But Angela was sometimes a loner, and needed her space. Robinia packed her things into her pack, and
made her way, via taxi and then water taxi, to the mother ship.
*
* *
Lying in her bunk, Robinia thought about the weirdness
of the day. What the strange friar, who obviously was no
friar, had said about different worlds. Could
it be that, in times past, magick had worked better than it did today? Was it because the world had come apart in
some way, the world of magick and the world of matter parting company in times
past? Could they come back together
again, and if they did, what would happen?
Would magick start working again?
What Angela had said about her spells working better; Robinia had
noticed that her own magick seemed to be more effective, more reliable of late,
her visions clearer and more direct in meaning.
What the friar had said about beings -- maybe even objects -- moving
between worlds. Beings with advanced
magickal knowledge, beings whose knowledge of Spirit had grown along with their knowledge of the
sciences; beings who understood the connection
between the two, and how to use that connection. What was that with Angela, that learning the
Craft had always seemed more of a remembering
than a discovering?
A terrible fear arose within Robinia, and she bolted upright
in her bunk, soaking in a cold sweat. “ANGELA!!!!” she screamed, then fell back
into the bed sobbing quietly. It was not
a restful night.
*
* *
Alone in her darkened room, Angela slowly pulled the black
pouch’s drawstring open. The white
sphere rolled out onto the table, and Angela stopped it at the table’s
center. Something was happening to it;
as she stared at it, it took on a pulsating, bluish color. It had grown larger, too -- it was now about
the size of a cue ball. She touched it;
it felt cool and smooth. She could not
see the white marble any more, only a pulsating and flowing pattern of blue
cloud-like forms drifting around a hidden center.
She remembered what she had read about scrying -- “seeing” in
a crystal ball. Trying hard to exclude
all other thoughts, she concentrated on the thing that welled up from deep
within her psyche: the dream-name, Meadow Mist.
The name she had heard spoken over a dream-scene both fascinating and
frightening. Enemy troops surrounding a
lone castle, encamped in the dark valley for the night, praying to their
vengeful god for the destruction of the castle and all within. Cold and calculating, ruthless and righteous,
certain of victory in the light of dawn.
So certain they fail to notice the fog slowly creeping through the
valley, so righteous as to not heed the coolness of the night. In the morning, the call to attack, followed
by screams of pain and terror, as sharp-pointed ice crystals condensed from the
frozen fog shred and rip bloody flesh from writhing bodies. From the mist-blanketed valley rises the
castle, defiant and victorious; below, the valley littered with armor and
swords strewn among the pools of blood and mangled corpses that were once
someone’s dream of conquest, gone terribly awry. A soft, gentle chanting rises from within the
castle -- reserved, but jubilant. Meadow
Mist.
Concentration was
futile -- nothing happened. It seemed
that as she focused her concentration deeper into the ball, the blue
cloud-forms danced as though taking notice of her thoughts. In spite of that, it remained a glowing blue
enigma in the middle of the table, silently mocking her efforts to discover its
secret. Instead of concentrating, Angela
tried to meditate, to clear her mind of all images and thoughts. This produced only the gently spoken name Meadow
Mist, nothing more. Frustration and
disappointment -- what the hell, she gave the ball a little spin, like a
child’s spinning top.
The effect was instantaneous.
Overcome by dizziness, she grabbed the edge of the table to keep from
falling to the floor. The entire room
began to spin about her; the walls,
dresser, bookcase, and bed revolving as though forming the funnel of a tornado,
with her at its center. The whirling
image of her room began to fade in a ghostly translucence, as the image of
another room -- colder, darker, larger -- tried to force its way through; a
room with walls, floor and ceiling of roughly cut wood, and simpler wooden
furniture. She reached for the glowing
blue sphere, and as she grasped its cool surface, it exploded inward with a
blinding flash, pushing itself away, deeper and deeper inside, spewing forth a
cloud of pulsating blue mist in its wake.
Angela held onto the ball with all her strength, feeling her body pulled
lengthwise and squeezed inward from the sides.
She held on, pulled deeper into the explosion as though being dragged by
a speedboat against the current of a river.
Stars and worlds poured forth and streamed by; galaxies and universes spun and catapulted
outward from the object clutched in her hands in a cacophony of light and
sound.
Finally the storm subsided; the frantic current of streaming
cosmos fading into a softly glowing blue light.
As the blue light itself began to wane, the image of that other room --
the room that had been trying to shine through her own bedroom --
solidified. The tempest calmed,
Angela caught her breath and looked
around. No longer was she in her
bedroom, but in that other room, surrounded by wooden walls with a massive
door, simple table with two drip-covered candles, and a large bed with thick
blankets. The glowing sphere had
disappeared, having pulled her into a place strange and foreign, yet also with
the vague familiarity of a place once visited, but long forgotten. She moved toward the fireplace, the only
refuge from the otherwise bitter cold of the room. Strange, she realized that she knew it was
there, but did not know how she knew
it was there.
Then Angela noticed the changes that had come over her. It did indeed seem that she had been
stretched and compressed; she had grown noticeably taller, and quite a bit more
slender. She was no longer clad in her
thin green dress, but in a heavy, long flowing robe of black and green,
decorated with patterns of animals, plants, stars and other shapes. Around her neck was a silver chain, from
which hung a black-hilted, gleaming silver dagger. Around her body danced a faint, purplish-blue
glow, like that of an electric arc.
Something on her left shoulder sparkled in the light of the fire;
looking, she saw five golden acorns pinned to her robe.
The room’s only window was made of panes of colored glass,
obscuring the image of the world beyond in a kaleidoscope of color and ghostly
patterns. Drawn by curiosity, she slowly
opened it, and froze in shock at what unfolded before her eyes. In the night sky above her floated not one,
but three moons -- one red, one green, and another blue with patches of mixed
green, white and brown. From the
horizon, rainbow-colored planetary rings arched toward the star-filled sky’s
zenith. Looking downward, the dancing
light of torches revealed the battlements of the castle surrounding the tower
within which she stood. Beyond the
castle lay a vast plain that gave the impression of once having been a wasteland,
now covered with trees visible in the eerie moonlight, among which slowly
meandered a softly glowing white mist.
The sound of a quiet, but rising chant drifted into her
ears. Hearing this, a feeling of calm
and peacefulness descended over Angela, as though awakening from a long and
awful dream, to the comfort of her own bed in a friendly and familiar
home. She stood for a moment in thought,
then leaned out the window. As the music
reached thundering proportions, she threw her head back, with a loud, joyous
explosive laughter of victory, of a long and hard riddle finally solved.
Meadow Mist. They
always chanted the victory song, when the Archdruid returned to her castle.
Excerpt from Meta-Consciousness:
The Not Philosophy of Phineas the !Pirate:
Consciousness is always
alone. Alone-ness is its fundamental
movement -- it is what consciousness does.
At the core of consciousness is the self, the essence of individuality, the
point of being from which everything is experienced. That self is always apart from the
world. It is that unique perspective
which makes the experiences, thoughts, and actions of each of us our own. The space between the self and the world is
what keeps consciousness alive -- the self can only be a self when it is alone,
apart from the world around it.
It is against that
self, and its insulation from the world, that the social mind must strive. The social animal can never experience
alone-ness; only loneliness, when it is cut off from the gaze and chatter of
others. The social mind cannot tolerate
separation from the world, for indeed it is indistinct from the world. What it thinks, feels and does are products
of its culture, not of its independent self, for it has none. Culture, the conglomerate meta-mind that is
the soul -- if such word could be applied -- of the social animal, must
therefore strive against consciousness in every way possible. Consciousness is the rule-breaker, the
outsider, the one who is apart from the world, and cannot be tolerated in the
social meta-world. So society imposes
rules and indoctrination to crush the self, and every form of surveillance and
endless chatter and noise to collapse the space between self and world.
Consciousness in the
social world is like a fish in a fireplace; its only hope is to jump. When it can’t jump out of the social fire,
depression ensues. There are really only
two cures for depression: destroy the self, with medications and “therapy”, or
destroy the culture that imprisons it.
Fortunately, consciousness has a powerful ally in that battle.
Consciousness first
leapt forth from the human mind in the visions of ancient humanity. The hand of Spirit touched the human mind in
visions of natural phenomena, imbued with divine powers. The coming and going of the seasons, the rise
and fall of the tides, the majesty of thunderstorms, and the quiet, but
relentless flowing of rivers and streams -- these were all things that the
human mind had lived with for centuries.
When the time was
right, those things took on new meanings.
The events of nature served as vehicles into the mind for things that
could not be seen. Behind the images of
storms and seasons, powerful beings constellated themselves in the mind. Visions of gods and goddesses, of fairies and
elves, of green men and hawk-headed princes came to life, riding on the
coat-tails of ordinary events, into the awe struck minds of the ancients. Those powers worked their magic, and in their
own image, the self of consciousness was born.
A self that could commune directly with the forces that created it: a
self at home in the world, but walking among the gods.
That self was kept
alive through ritual and religion. The
use of strange rites and strange drugs nurtured the division between self and
world. It is against that self that the
social world strives. The subsuming of
religion under social institutions, and its dilution with talk of morality and
righteousness; the suppression of drugs and the condemnation of “the occult”
are blows directed against humanity’s most precious inheritance -- its own
lineage from the divine.
Crimes against
individuality are crimes against consciousness.
In the name of order and productivity, what humanity essentially is has
been sacrificed for what its unconscious drives want. Those unconscious drives, which underlie and
reinforce social behavior, whose great cities stand as grim reminders of what
humanity could have been, fear the forces of Spirit whenever they emerge. Children are ridiculed when they
fantasize. What are fantasies, but
visions of the world as it could be, visions imbued with creative Spirit that
could make them real, given the opportunity?
Fantasies are crushed, drug users are jailed, pagans and occultists are
ostracized, and everywhere is the surveillance -- cameras, drug tests,
fingerprints -- that crushes consciousness wherever it emerges.
In spite of that, the
gods and goddesses of old have re-emerged.
In the guise of the Old Religion, pagan worship has returned,
re-enlivening the old forces of Spirit, recalling them to the world that
abandoned them. Living among the
shadows, the old powers prepare to come forth:
that which can create can also destroy.
The society that strives against them has made of them an immortal foe,
for crimes against consciousness are crimes against Spirit. Society can fight only so hard; it can live
only under a very narrow range of conditions, and has limited resources to
sustain itself and its struggle against individuality. Spirit is eternal, relentless and
unforgiving, and will fight for its created world of the self forever. Those who commit crimes against creative
Spirit must, therefore, prepare themselves for the day of reckoning: the only
punishment left to exact from a soul-less world is extinction.
*
* *
Throughout her life, Roweena had been alone. Though always an attractive girl with long,
flowing blond hair, others had kept their distance from her for reasons that
could never be clearly explained. The
social mind senses those who are different, and where it cannot destroy, it
keeps its distance, creating about the object of its detestation an aura of
inexplicable fear. So, having grown up
in the city, loneliness was all she had ever known. It was not until she started college that
things had changed. The cost of housing
near the college made it impossible for her to live there; rents were much
cheaper in the nearby mountains. She
found a small cabin, hidden deep in the woods, and decided to try living there. To her, the isolation was a welcome home, if
not also a bittersweet reminder of her lifelong exile from humanity.
She had always felt close to the natural world, the world of
streams and trees, of the wind and storms.
The forest near her cabin was her first real chance to explore that
world, and she immersed herself in it.
Walking among the trees and streams, sleeping at night under the stars,
sitting in front of a smoking campfire, feeling the heat of the flames. The energy of the forest was invigorating,
and gave her a feeling of life she had never felt in the city. The small clearing around her cabin had room
for a small garden, and she planted aromatic herbs. In the mornings, the smell of those herbs
drifted into her window, like a gentle and soothing wake-up call. And there were the other herbs, the illegal
ones, the ones that culture feared and detested. She had used marijuana in the city, but it
had always been dull and soporific. What
she grew in her own garden was very different.
It produced feelings of exhilaration, and fantastic images: swirls of
color and pattern, spinning and glowing, dancing about familiar objects, giving
them a multi-colored aura, as though revealing their inner life. In the dark, the images were even more
intense. Spinning mandalas, arcs of
vibrating color, even a hint of faint chanting or singing; all of it seemed as
though it was trying to comport itself into some grand picture, but never quite
reached the final point of revelation, always beckoning her to return.
The world of the college was so very different from the world
of the forest. Back in school, she was
again alone. Her classes were of little
interest to her. As is the case with
most introductory classes in college, the object is to impart a certain level
of factual knowledge upon which to build later; a process that is boring and
tedious, and to the student is so often discouraging. To the mind that is not “interpersonal”, the
monotony of student life is equally unappealing. For one who is enchanted by the sounds of
leaves rustling in the breeze, the endless round of chatter, parties, booze and
other activities of post-adolescent city life are obnoxious and repulsive. The commute between the mountains and the
school therefore took on a ritualistic meaning.
It became a rite of cleansing and purification, a psychological barrier
between the world she so loved, and the world she so detested.
There was one class that was different, though, an
introductory class in world religions.
The professor, a transplanted native of the Indian continent whose name
was very long and difficult to pronounce, had shortened it for the American ear
to Dr. Chakra. His quiet, low voice and
musical accent had been more enchanting than informative for Roweena, until he
mentioned, in one of his lectures, something about “nature religion”: ancient
beliefs and rites that worshipped the forces of nature, and people who believed
they could actually control those forces.
What he said struck a familiar chord in her mind, for had she not felt
those same forces? Was she not living,
at least as far as possible, in the same kind of closeness to nature as had the
ancients?
Professors often underestimate the difficulty students have
in approaching them with questions. The
professor is an expert, and the students know so little, such that their
questions often seem trivial to both.
The professor forgets that although he or she has heard the question a
thousand times, and the answer may be painfully obvious, to the student it
represents a fundamental puzzle or hopeful insight. The “stupid question” is so often a first
sign of true interest; its trivial treatment by the scholar all too often
extinguishes the last spark of interest on the part of the student.
It was, therefore, with a certain degree of uneasiness that
Roweena approached the professor’s office.
Inside, he seemed buried in his desk, among piles of decaying
manuscripts and books -- papers covered with strange glyphs and scratches that
to someone, somewhere and somewhen, represented intelligible language, but to
her were only strange patterns. She
stood there for several minutes, not so much out fear of interrupting him, but
transfixed by one paper that had strangely colored images and designs, for what
purpose she could not imagine. As she
stared at the figures, it seemed as though they began to move. Dancing about on the paper, forming
themselves into ever changing shapes and designs, like a storyteller waving his
hands about, enchanting and drawing his audience deeper into . . .
“Hello?” said Dr. Chakra, looking up from his desk, sending a
shock wave through Roweena as the images before her came to an abrupt
standstill.
“Oh, hello, I’m sorry.
That paper, what are those drawings?” asked Roweena.
“That one,” said the professor, “those are sigils, signs of
summoning. They are supposed to, at
least in the mind of some ancient magician, bring forth certain forces from the
Spirit world. By using them in a
magickal ritual, they give the magician extraordinary powers.”
“Do they work?”
“I do not know,” he replied, with a smile. “I am not an
ancient magician. But I am a professor
of religion. Did you have a question
about my class?”
“Yes, well not a question exactly,” said Roweena. “I am just curious about something you
mentioned -- nature religions -- that had something to do with worshipping
natural powers. I was wondering if I
could find out more about that.”
“There is, unfortunately, very little more to tell, in terms
of factual information,” said the professor.
“In most parts of the world, in very ancient history, the belief that
humans are in contact with natural forces was quite common. The problem is that these beliefs often
predate literacy, so there is very little written record of them. It is like a growing child, who often has
invisible playmates, or trees and animals as playmates, but does not know how
to write, and therefore leaves no record of this behind. The absence of a record does not indicate the
absence of the phenomenon, but it does make careful study of it difficult.”
“What do you mean by ‘natural forces’?” she asked.
“When humans lived very close to the earth,” answered Dr.
Chakra, “when there were no cities, no
electricity, no supermarkets, the course of their lives was very closely tied
to things like the weather, the movement of animal herds, the flowering and
fruiting of trees, and so on. If one is
very dependent upon these things, one tries to understand them, for they are a
matter of survival. One sees that
although there are variations in these things, they most often follow a
pattern, a pattern that repeats itself regularly. That suggests that there is something
controlling their behavior, some unseen power of force that makes them do what
they do. These powers, to the people who
depend upon them, become the forces of nature, untouchable powers of life and
death over humanity.”
“Do these powers really exist? Are they in nature, or just in the mind?”
asked Roweena.
“That is an interesting question,” said the professor, “whether there are such powers or not. Some think that people imagine these forces
and identify them with parental figures.
So, they become gods and goddesses, forces behind nature visualized in
terms of human parents. That is the view
of those who do not believe in these things.
Those who do, who think these forces are real, argue that through the
images of nature -- through the seeing of trees, storms, seasons, and so on --
these forces enter the mind, and form themselves into images of gods and
goddesses, just as the stars form themselves into patterns and figures. It is a matter of which you want to believe,
psychology or mysticism, as to which is true.”
“So nature religion, then, is a personification of natural
events, and maybe of the forces behind them as well?” asked Roweena.
“In most cases, yes,” replied the professor. “It seems to be that, nearly everywhere, the
forces took on some form or another. Not
always human; sometimes as dragons, sometimes beasts, sometimes little green
fairies, and so forth.”
“And these people thought they could control these natural
forces, and therefore control nature?”
“It’s not so much a matter of control,” said Dr. Chakra, “as
bringing their lives into harmony with nature.
They came up with rites and rituals, around the seasons, harvests, and
so on, to permit them to interact with the forces behind these events. This is what is called participation
mystique: the idea that the individual and the world are interconnected, and
that by doing certain things, the individual can influence the outside world. What they really tried to do is bring their
own lives into line with what nature is doing, and, at the same time, seek to
use those forces to better their own lot.
So, you have the nature rites -- the bonfires and all -- and you have
spellcasting and magick, attempts to tap into those natural forces. It’s not so much control, as it is using
what’s there to one’s own advantage.”
“It’s hard to believe that no one left any record of these
beliefs,” said Roweena.
“There is a record of sorts,” replied Dr. Chakra, “but it is
somewhat difficult to get at. These
ancient religions have mostly disappeared from the world, partly because of
conquests by other peoples, and partly because other religions have superseded
them. You see, nature religion works
only so long as one lives close to nature.
When people start to live in cities, the religion is no longer a
constellation of natural forces, but becomes a set of laws and rules. It becomes oppressive, a tool for some to
control others. Then, along comes
another religion, like Christianity, which promises liberation from all
this. So, the old beliefs disappear.”
“And then Christianity becomes a tool of the establishment?”
asked Roweena.
“Yes, that’s right,” chuckled Dr. Chakra. “It seems as though anything spiritual, once
it becomes political, loses its contact with Spirit and becomes a tool of
society to control. That is unfortunate;
I’m afraid we see the effects of that today.
Religion today has become a social institution, a way of keeping people
in line. It was never meant to do
that. It is fundamentally a liberating
thing, a thing that sets people free.”
“You mentioned that, today, there is a revival of nature
worship, something called Wicca?” asked Roweena.
“That is correct. It
seems that for some people, the social life is just not satisfactory, and so
they have turned to the past, to discover what our ancestors might have known
about life. It is trivially thought of
as ‘going back to nature,’ but what one finds there is not just primitive life;
the old powers constellate themselves again, the old ideas are reborn.”
“I thought you said there was no record,” said Roweena. “How could they go back to the old beliefs,
if there is no record of them?”
“I said the record is hard to get at, but it is there,”
replied the professor. “First, the
mythologies of the world serve as a kind of code book, a set of stories that
conceal the old beliefs. When the
conquering armies of
“The other thing to keep in mind is that, in ancient times,
someone had to come up with these beliefs in the first place. Whether through imagination, or constellation
of forces, nonetheless someone came up with it first. Some modern believers therefore think that it
is not so important to accurately discover the old beliefs, as it is to
understand the natural forces in terms of the modern situation. So they rely upon intuition and imagination,
often combined with the myths and fairy tales, to re-create the old religion in
modern contexts. Hence, you have things
like Feminist Wicca, a constellation of the old beliefs in terms of the
situation of modern women. You have
Fairy Wicca, which focuses upon beliefs connected with fairies and such, you
have Egyptian versions, Druidic versions, and believe it or not, actually
Christian versions of the Old Religion.
The claim to validity is not strict adherence to history, but
fundamental spiritual insight informed by history.”
“You talk as though you really believe there is such a thing
as Spirit,” said Roweena. “I guess as a
professor you’re not supposed to take sides, but . . . ”
He interrupted her with a wave of his hand. “I am not trying to persuade you, one way or
another, only to tell you what those who believe say. There are any number of arguments against any
religion, but the issue always boils down to a basic belief in either the truth
or falsity of it, which seems to be more the basis of argument than the
conclusion. The basic thing behind any
religion is faith, a belief based upon the strength of will alone. You cannot convince someone to have faith, it
must come from the inside. As to what I
believe, I have seen too much to make judgments. That someone believes these things, that
someone who lived, wrote and died, believed all of these things you see piled
upon my desk, is enough to command my interest.
I cannot judge what others believe; what I believe is that if they
believe in it, it matters. It might be
true, it might be false, but it matters.”
“Do all religions come down to the same thing? I’ve heard it said that all religions are
ultimately about the same thing, about God or whatever they call God, and they
are just different ways of coming to that God,” said Roweena.
“That is a very good question,” replied Dr. Chakra. “Many do indeed think that different
religions are all about the same truth.
Some think that truth is spiritual, others think it is psychological,
others think it is social. I really do
not think so. If the world is as the
Buddhist says it is, then it cannot be the same as the world of the Moslem, and
so on. I sometimes like to think of all
the different religions as being like a large gemstone, with many sides. Each religion is a side of that gemstone, a
landscape unto itself. Whether there is
anything inside the gemstone -- an ultimate truth -- or whether there are sides
alone -- that the different sides just are the ultimate truth -- I cannot say. But I think it’s a good metaphor.”
“What, exactly, is a metaphor, anyway?” asked Roweena. “Joseph Campbell wrote, in one of our books,
that a myth is a metaphor. What did he
mean by that?”
“A metaphor is a statement -- it can be with words, or with
pictures -- that is meant to convey a meaning beyond the words or images used
to convey it. In normal usage, words are
signs -- they stand in for something, as the word ‘dog’ stands in for an
animal. They convey a certain meaning
that can be looked up in a dictionary.
Metaphors are a kind of symbol. ‘The snow blankets the ground’ is a
metaphor, which has a meaning that can be looked up, but it also carries with
it additional meanings, such as protecting, quieting, and so on, that you can’t
get out of a dictionary. It’s like a
coded message; your mind has to work on it for the full meaning to emerge.”
“Is that like the difference between connotation and
denotation?” asked Roweena.
“Yes, it’s like that,” said the professor. “Denotation suggests something a sign points
to, while connotation suggests hidden meanings behind a symbol, something that
has to be discovered. Now what
“So, if that’s right,” Roweena said, “then it’s because of Spirit, that people
have minds at all. But you said the ancients
worshipped natural forces, and now Jung talks about Spirit. Are they the same thing?”
“Answering that,” said the professor, “will get me into a lot
of trouble, as everyone with religious inclinations thinks what they believe is
really spiritual, and everyone else is wrong.
I have to say from the analytical standpoint that yes, Spirit and
natural force are one and the same. Both
are unseen powers that lie behind reality, that move things and interact with
human consciousness in various ways. You
must remember, though, that what is meant by ‘natural force’ is not the laws of
physics. It’s what used to be called
‘vitalism’, the belief that there is a non-physical animating principle, or
vital force, behind everything that
happens. Jung believed in vitalism, and
hence his theory that consciousness is partly spiritual.”
“Why is none of this talked about today? These seem like important insights,” said
Roweena.
“It is a long and sad story, I’m afraid,” said the professor,
“but it comes down to issues of power.
There was a time when theology was the only acceptable explanation for
everything. Now it’s scientific
materialism. Anything that doesn’t
follow that route is regarded as silly or worthless. The materialists dispose of religion as
social science and psychology, and therefore it’s acceptable to talk about it,
only so long as it’s something socially acceptable. The truth is that, as with any heresy, these
kinds of ideas are dangerous to the materialist world view. Treating them as silly is really whistling in
the graveyard, hiding fear behind incredulity.
But that is my opinion.”
Roweena thanked the professor for his time. He suggested several books that would have
further information about modern nature religion, and pointed out she would be more
likely to find them at a regular bookstore than in the college library. She did find several at a local bookstore;
everything from modern “witchcraft”, supposedly based upon the ancient
teachings, to books on Druidism and other ancient religions. She picked out a handful on varying topics.
*
* *
Reading the books only intensified her interest in the
subject. She discovered so many
different aspects to the Old Religion: the rites of the sabbats, the seasonal
festivals that marked the solstices and equinoxes, and the lesser rites that
marked the mid-seasons and the phases of the moons. There were so many opportunities to
celebrate; it was as though the Old Religion was an excuse for a continuous
worldwide party! Of course there was
hidden meaning behind this revelry -- these are the very rites that bring the
mind of the individual and the forces of the world together. They are not just parties, they are solemn
events that set in motion the flow of energy between world, mind and Spirit.
Then there are the spells and the magick, as much alive today
as in the past. Just as the ancient --
and modern -- rites serve to energize the mind with the forces of Spirit and
nature, so the Craft serves to channel the powers of the mind. There is the silliness of the love spells and
the money spells, but there is the deadly seriousness of those same spells in
the hands of one who has made the connections with the world of Spirit. And there is the art of divination -- of seeing
things unseen, with crystal balls, tarot cards, rune stones and other tools.
But for Roweena, the most fascinating aspect of it all was to
be found in the forest itself. The wind
in the trees, the sounds of a rushing stream, the sights, sounds, smells,
tastes and touches of the woods themselves -- all telling of a greater force
behind them, an unseen conductor of the symphony of life. What would it be to actually see such a conductor, to commune with
that very force itself? The idea
fascinated her, and she sought that mystic union with the unknown. She visited occult shops, and joined several
groups that professed to teach everything from witchcraft to the very secrets
of the Old Religion itself. They were
all shams. Most of them were just
money-making operations for self-proclaimed priests and priestesses. Some of them were even worse, a playing out
of domination or sexual fantasies that had sprung to life in the city, and had
nothing to do with nature or Spirit. In
the end, she gave up on groups. The
unknown would have to be confronted alone.
Then, one night, the inevitable happened. It was during summer break, on the night of
June 21, Midsummer’s Night -- one of the traditional seasonal rites,
celebrating the height of the sun, and the forces of fruition associated with
that time of year. Roweena had not felt
much like doing a full sabbat ritual; besides, alone, such things are often
more work than they are worth. A few
moments of meditation was all she had planned.
The forest, and the powers manifesting themselves through it, had
planned otherwise.
She was walking home, along a dirt path leading to her cabin
from a nearby stream. It was early
evening; the sun had set, and darkness was beginning to fall. She looked up at the sky, at the stars
emerging from the darkness, and thought, “The Gods are putting on their
porchlights.” What an odd idea, that
spiritual beings should have porchlights at all, she thought. It was as though the sky had become a forest
itself; each tree with a god or goddess living therein, and they were putting
on their porchlights at the coming of dusk.
A perfect example of constellation, she thought, of spiritual forces
arranging themselves in images familiar to the mind.
Her analysis was more correct than she had imagined. The forces that had sneaked into her
consciousness through her vision of the stars constellated themselves with
astonishing strength. Roweena felt as
though her head had been grabbed by some giant, powerful being, her brain
twisting and turning in its grip. She
had a sudden urge to run to a familiar hill behind her cabin, and as she did
so, the crushing feeling disappeared.
She sat down on the ground, her back against a large tree, and smoked a
little of her ‘special’ herbs. This was
too strange, she thought, and too coincidental.
Maybe she should do a ritual for midsummer after all.
No sooner had she thought that idea, than the woods around
her began to come alive. In the dim
light of the stars, she could see small figures scurrying about the hill. There was enough light for her to see that
they were not forest animals; no, these were fairies! Little people, running up and down the
hill! On the hilltop, they were building
a large pile of twigs and branches they had gathered in the forest. Still other creatures began to arrive, some
larger and some smaller, all chattering among themselves in voices too high in
pitch, and low in volume, to understand.
Then, from the north, a tall, spectral figure appeared. Wearing a long and flowing black robe, with a
high pointed hood and a faint purplish blue glow about it, the figure strode up
the hill and stood before the pile. It
made a motion with its hands, and all became silent and still. The creatures joined together in a circle,
and began moving in a clockwise direction around the hill. A low chanting began among the members of the
circle, and the priest, so he seemed to be, made several gestures in the air
with his hands. He seemed to be speaking
words in a low whisper, but Roweena could not be sure, for it sounded very much
like the rustling of leaves in the wind.
The chanting continued, but the motion around the hill
stopped. In the north, the circle was
broken, and four other tall figures in black robes entered. These figures did not have the pale bluish
glow around themselves, and each carried a torch of a different color: blue,
red, green and yellow. The circle
reformed around the hill, and the clockwise movement resumed, along with the
chanting. The four figures took up
positions around the pile, each according to the elemental force represented:
blue in the East, for Air; red in the South, for Fire; green in the West, for
Water; and yellow in the North, for Earth.
Roweena was sitting in the northwest, so she had a good view of all the
motions. The priest made the rounds, from
Air to Fire to Water to Earth, in each case standing between the circle and the
Keeper -- for so it came to her that they should be called -- of each
element. At each, he made gestures that
Roweena recognized from her readings as the Opening of the Quarters, the
calling forth of the elemental forces.
As the gestures were made, each Keeper raised, then lowered his torch,
and then held it erect before him. The
priest returned to the northwest, situated between Roweena and the pile. As he did so, the chanting rose in volume and
in speed, faster and louder by the second.
Finally, the priest, in one quick motion, stood with his legs apart and
his hands outstretched in the sign of the pentagram, symbol of elemental forces
joined with Spirit. The Keepers threw
their torches onto the pile, and, as the priest raised his arms upward, the
pile burst into flames.
That evidently being the end of the formal ceremony, the
smaller creatures began moving about.
There were musical instruments being played, and dancing and singing by
the light of the huge bonfire. There
were food and wine, or so it seemed to be, and some were drinking way too much
of it. Some approached the burning pile,
throwing in objects of various sorts, other meditating or chanting. The four Keepers had disappeared, but the
priest remained facing the bonfire, hands at his sides. This was the rite of Midsummer’s Night, and
oh, how glorious it was! Not the
pathetic “rituals” the various groups she had joined put on, but the real
thing. For the first time in her life
Roweena actually felt that she was in the company of fellow beings, and so
wanted to get up and join them. But it
was only a vision after all, and she would rather enjoy it from a distance, than
watch it dissolve under her feet.
It was only a vision, until the priest turned away from the
fire, and looked toward her. She felt a
cold chill down her spine, as though he was examining her in some way. The chill turned to very real fear, as the
figure raised its right hand, pointing to her at first, then motioning for her
to come forward. She stood up and took a
step toward the bonfire. Its heat was
very real, too real for a mere vision.
As she took another step toward the fire, she realized she was not
alone. The four Keepers had taken up
positions behind her, each carrying in its hand a large jewel, glowing with the
one of the elemental colors. They
followed behind her as she walked, very slowly, toward the priest. The fairies mostly ignored them, continuing
to dance and play about the fire. This
rite was not for them; this was something else, something different from the
Midsummer Night’s dream.
The priest motioned for her to stop, as she stood only a few
feet away from him. A deep, quiet voice
made itself heard in her mind: If you are
to be the priestess of these sacred powers, then you must learn to accept them
as friends. She turned to face the
first Keeper, who held a blue jewel in his hands. She formed her hands into a cup, into which
the Keeper slowly lowered the jewel. She
felt a cool blue light travel from her hands throughout her body, and as it did
so, images of Air passed before her mind: tree branches moving in the breeze,
mighty storms and hurricanes, birds flying through the sky. A sense of calm descended over her, as she
felt herself relax in the power of the element.
The Keeper then removed the jewel from her hands. She turned to face the next Keeper, and
received the flaming red jewel of Fire.
A similar sequence of events occurred as before: the red light moved
through her body, and images of fire, of flames, of energy and power, paraded
before her mind. The Keeper removed the
jewel, and she received the green jewel of Water. As the green light moved through her body,
she saw vast oceans, teeming with life; great rivers and small streams. The jewel of Earth revealed images of
farmlands and crops, of trees and stones, great chasms and icebergs. As the Keeper removed the Earth jewel from
her hands, she felt as though the elements were combining within her. Stone chasms filled with water, from which
issued rushing winds, with burning embers falling into the waters below.
She turned to face the priest, and walked slowly toward
him. He held his hands out toward her,
and as he did so, the faint bluish glow became a vivid purple, the color of
Spirit. She held out her hands, and he
took them. His grip was much stronger
than she expected, and she closed her eyes.
She felt herself rising, as though in the heat of the bonfire. She opened her eyes, and saw herself
suspended in space, between two worlds.
One was the earth she knew, and another looked very similar to the
earth, but the land masses were somewhat different. She felt a kind of pulling at her head and
feet, as though the two worlds were engaged in some kind of tug-of-war. Roweena felt herself being pulled apart, as
though the two worlds, angry at each other, were going to tear her between
them. She told herself to relax, and as
she did so, the forces that were tugging at her began to move through her. As she relaxed further, the tugging forces
became a smooth flow through her,
with her body suspended between the worlds -- a conductor of the forces between
them. She was so relaxed that she
drifted off to sleep.
When she awoke in the morning, she was no longer out in the
forest, but in her bed. She had no
recollection of how she had gotten there.
Her body was naked, and as she moved under the covers, she felt
something around her waist. She quickly
pulled down the covers, and saw that it was a beautiful black and silver
cord. It was made of a black strand, so
very black that it seemed to suck the light out of the room, and a silver
strand of such brilliance and luster that it seemed to be glowing on its own. The two were carefully interwoven, and the
cord was tied into knots at various places.
It had been wrapped around her waist several times. At one end was a loop, so carefully made that
she could not see where the actual end of the cord was. But it was the other end that held the
biggest surprise; dangling from its loose end was a golden acorn, sign of the
ancient Druidic order.
From that night on, the forest would never be the same. It was alive, much moreso than before. Every tree had its own personality, every
animal had a name. In the sound of the
breeze was the distant piping of the fairy folk. Every scent carried the odor of hidden
life. The forest was a sacred place,
home to sacred peoples, even if to the uninitiated it was all a fairy
tale. What is a fairy tale, but a
glimpse out of the corner of the eye, a vision in the mind that escapes the
scrutiny of modern skepticism?
It was in defense of that sacred forest that Roweena had
first been led into the Mountain Militia.
The government’s plan to clear-cut vast tracts of forest for housing
developments had enraged both the environmentalists on the left, who saw it as
destruction of a irreplaceable resource, and the anti-government patriots on
the right, who saw the government as a hostile entity taking power over land
rightfully belonging to the people. The
government’s worst nightmare had come true: a coalescing of the right and left
had occurred, and similar coalescings over the country had started to
form. The government sought to appease,
and hopefully dissolve the monster by backing away from its plan, but the move
failed. The alliance had formed, and
although the guns went back into the racks, the camaraderie that had begun
between old enemies grew and solidified in the shadows. Forming small cells, the various militias
went underground. The occasional
sabotage, the shipment of army weapons that didn’t get through, and the
sporadic interruption of satellite television, substituting freedom propaganda
for talk shows and sit-coms, all attested to the fact that the militias were alive
and well.
It was in the militia that Roweena had met up with the other
pirates. After their successful raid on
the drug testing facility, they dropped out from the world. Living their ocean-going life as pirates, and
their facade life as rock musicians, they roamed the world on the fringes of
culture. But for Roweena, the sea was
not her home. For her, she would not be
home until she returned to the woods, and until she had made the woods free
from the society that sought to destroy them, forever.
*
* *
In the days following the concert, Roweena made her way into
the mountains that surround urban southern
She had a full backpack, and wanted to feel the energy of the
forest as much as possible. Into the San
Gorgonio wilderness she headed, an area with no vehicles, no power, and most
importantly, very few people in the chilly and breezy weather. Climbing the trails and switchbacks, the feel
of the forest was good. Everywhere were
the sights and smells of the woods; in the distance, that faint piping, visions
of little creatures out the corner of the eye, busying themselves on the forest
floor. This was home, home in the woods,
and the closeness to the city made no difference. Perhaps, she thought, someday the trend of
urban expansion would reverse; instead of the city crowding the forest, maybe
the forest would start pushing the city away.
As she neared the tree line, a small spur off the trail led
to a clear blue lake. It looked most
inviting; the climb had been hard, and she didn’t really want to camp above the
tree line anyway. So she took the
detour, and found herself in a small valley, with the lake at its floor. Around the lake were clumps of trees, and she
picked one with a good view to set up her camp.
Wiggling out of her backpack, with a sigh of relief as the
heavy load was off her back, something moving in the trees caught her
eyes. She looked closer, and among the
tree trunks appeared a shape, the shape of a man. He was dressed in green camouflage clothing,
which explained why she had not seen him.
He looked toward her and smiled.
This was not exactly what she had wanted -- she wanted to be alone --
but who knows what sort of person might be in the woods this time of year. Maybe one not so different from herself?
“Hi. I’m Roweena,” she
said.
“Greetings. I’m, well,
I’m a green man,” he said, with a mischievous grin and a twinkle in his eye
that told her maybe he really was a
green man.
“Oh, a forest spirit.
I see. You don’t look much like
an elf or a gnome, and I’m really hesitant to ask if you’re a fairy,” she said,
in as light-hearted a tone as she could manage.
“I wish I had the pointed ears, that would make it easy. No, just a green man, that’s all. Are you camping here tonight?”
“Yes, well I didn’t know this site was taken. You are camping here, I gather?” asked
Roweena.
“Sort of,” replied the green man. “I came up mostly to watch for the auroras,
so I don’t know if I’ll be here all night or not. Depends on the sky.”
“The auroras? You mean
the aurora borealis? It doesn’t get this
far south, does it? I’ve seen them in
“Sometimes they do,” he said.
“Much better chance of seeing them farther north, that’s true, but then
I’m not farther north, so I have to take my chances here. Besides, it’s a good excuse to get out in
the woods.”
“Not much of a chance, though.
“This is a special thing,” said the green man. “A massive
solar flare last night. Knocked out the
televisions for a while. Poor bastards
down there, its a wonder there weren’t mass suicides, the boxes all going
dead. Anyway, a flare that strong can
produce discharge almost everywhere. So
I figure, this is as good a chance as there’s going to be. You’re welcome to camp here, if you
like. It’s the driest spot, what with
the rains over the last few days. As I
said, I may be gone after dark anyway.”
“Isn’t it dangerous, going up those peaks in the dark?” asked
Roweena.
“Not really,” replied the green man. “I know this area pretty well. If it’s a good show, you might even want to
come along. It’ll be cold, though. Hope you brought something warm.”
The two sat and chatted, mostly about the special feeling of
being in the woods. The man seemed
friendly enough, and if he didn’t want to tell her his name, well, that was all
right. She didn’t tell him anything
about her special experiences in the woods, so it didn’t matter much. As it grew dark, they made soup from a mix
she had brought in her pack. Shortly
after, the green man took a nap; he wanted to be rested for his night’s vigil
in the sky.
Roweena had crawled into her sleeping bag, and sat
thinking. Sometimes, you meet someone by
chance, someone who turns out not to be like everyone else. This man had not shied away from her, as most
people did. It was almost as though --
she couldn’t help thinking -- that he had been waiting for her, on top of this high mountain. How could he have known she was coming? That made no sense. Maybe he was really just a shy wanderer,
wanting really the same thing she did -- freedom from the city -- more than
anything else.
“Roweena.” She felt a
hand on her shoulder; she realized she had fallen asleep.
“Roweena,” the green man repeated her name. “The lights have started. Come and look.”
Roweena could see a dim, greenish arch of light through the
trees; but the night was cold, and she was naked in her sleeping bag. It didn’t sound very appealing.
“Oh, that’s OK,” she said, in a sleepy voice. “You go ahead, I’m really tired.” She turned over and almost went back to
sleep, when his hand was on her shoulder again, but this time with a very firm
grip, forcibly turning her over.
“Roweena, we did not bring you here for you to sleep.” His voice was firm, and his grip was strong.
“Huh wha?” She sat up,
reached for her flashlight, and turned it on.
The green man wasn’t green anymore. He was wearing a heavy black robe, with a
high, pointed hood; about him glowed that strange, bluish purple light she had
seen at that midsummer night rite. Then
something flashed in the light; upon his left shoulder were pinned five golden
acorns.
Oh shit! she thought to herself.
“It would be better for both of us if you didn’t just now,”
he said, reading her thoughts. He
reached into her pack, and pulled out her black robe, handing it to her. “Where is your cord?” he asked.
“It’s around my waist,” she replied. “I wear it all the
time.”
“That’s good, it gives you protection. You will need that soon. Please dress quickly, and come. There are things you are to be shown.”
Roweena crawled out of her sleeping bag, putting on her
robe. Removing her cord, she tied it
around the outside of her robe. The
green man, or priest, or whatever he was, put his arm around her, and began
guiding her toward the trail.
“You’re right,” said the mysterious priest. “Walking here at night is somewhat
treacherous. I will help you; we must
move quickly. It took a nice piece of
work to bring this energy forth, but it will not last all night, not in this
place.”
They moved along the trail, until they came to a small
mound. It was not the top of the
mountain, but there was not time, evidently, to go that far. The priest guided Roweena to the mound, and
they stood there, together, watching the light in the sky. As they did so, it began to flicker and dance
about, folding upon itself, contorting into strange shapes.
The priest reached upward with his left hand, and as he did
so, it seemed that the lights in the sky intensified. A loop of light began arching downward, and
moments later it was apparent that it was actually moving toward them! Roweena began to feel very afraid; radiation,
energy from the sun -- this was not a spirit or dream thing, this was for real.
“Don’t worry,” said the priest. “This is a very dangerous thing. There is dangerous radiation, but your cord
will protect you. Don’t ever try this
without it.” He thought for a moment,
then added, “That is a fact you might want to keep stored away somewhere. It could, under the right circumstances, come
in useful someday.”
The glowing green light came closer and closer. Roweena felt a cool sensation, first at the
top of her head, then working its way down her body, as the green light
descended as a mist around them. It was
like a glowing, green fog, all around; she could see nothing through it.
The priest turned toward Roweena, and spoke. “Roweena, I am the priest who gave you your
cord, that midsummer’s night years ago.
As such, I have a special interest in your well being. Sometimes people resent that, that we watch
over them, but that is the nature of things.
In choosing you, I took on a responsibility, and it’s one I don’t intend
to abandon. Look.”
He motioned with his hand, and she followed it with her
eyes. The green mist had begun to settle
below them, leaving them in darkness. As
the mist cleared, it revealed a forested landscape. It was daylight, and in the distance rose a
magnificent castle. In the forest she
could see small clearings -- small villages, with dirt roads interconnecting
them. The vision faded to night; she
could see lights where the villages had been.
The image faded, replaced by another
one; it was similar, with small villages, but on the seacoast. Again the vision faded, this time replaced by
the sight of a huge castle perched atop high mountains that glistened as though
made of crystal. And so the visions kept
appearing and fading.
“This is my world,” said the priest, “the world from which I come. A world that is not so different from yours,
save that different choices were made in the past, and it went a different
way. It was your world, long ago, but
now it is different. In our world,
magick lives, and civilization as you understand it does not. This is the present, Roweena, the present in
a world that is so far away from yours, and yet also so very near.
“I wanted you to see this,” continued the priest, “because in the coming days, things will
happen that will try your faith and test your beliefs. I wanted to show you the present in our
world, so that you would know that what you believe is possible, though maybe not in your present situation. It does exist; it is a matter of situating
yourself within it, something you will need help in doing. Terrible things may happen, and I do not want
to lose you because we have done things that, in your world, seem terrible.”
“I don’t understand.
What are you saying?” she asked, now terrified at his words.
“I want you to know that you are not abandoned, no matter
what happens in the coming days. I knew
this would be hard for you, and that you would not understand it all just yet. What you have seen is the present in another
world. Here is the future in your own.”
The priest again waved his hand toward the sky. The green mist rose from the valley below,
engulfing the images of the other world; in the black sky above, the stars reappeared. His hand pointed toward the constellation
Orion. Somewhere in Orion’s belt, there
was a brilliant flash of light. There
was movement, and a glowing yellowish-white object began moving out of the
belt. As it grew brighter, a tail
appeared: a comet, and a brilliant one at that.
It was moving fast, though, much faster than any of the other comets
Roweena had seen in the sky.
“I doubt that I need to tell you where it is headed,” said
the priest.
“But, this is horrible!” said Roweena, in tears. “How can you do such a thing? This is not the Craft I was led to believe .
. . ”
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “It is not what you think. It is not that I want to do this. It is a matter of prophecy.”
“What?”
“It is prophecy -- it is ordained that in the future, certain
events will have come to pass. The
tribulations that face your world in the coming days are already seen. It is not a matter of fate, it is a willed
act, but one that transcends the meaning of time. For certain things to happen, certain other
things must have happened, and so this is ordained for your world. You must always remember, it is not fate that
shapes the future, but rather the responses to the events that foretell that
future. That is why I wanted you to see
the vision of our world; I wanted you to see what can be in your future. The
path to it will be difficult; I do not want you to lose hope in the future, in
your beliefs, and most importantly, in yourself.”
She turned to face the priest, to offer yet another protest
to the future that had evidently been set in motion, but as she did so, she
found herself alone, in her sleeping bag.
It was early morning, and she did not feel like spending more time in
the woods. As she maneuvered in her
sleeping bag, she noticed that something felt different about her cord. Pulling the end of it out of the bag, she saw
that there were two golden acorns attached to its end. Nervously, as she packed her backpack, she
looked over her shoulder, up at the sky where she had seen the comet. There was nothing, just the twinkling of
stars, the porch lamps of the gods, flickering out one by one as the sun slowly
rose over the mountain tops.
Excerpt from Meta-Consciousness:
The Not Philosophy of Phineas the !Pirate:
Friedrich Nietzsche was
perhaps the last of the great philosophers.
Not the last philosopher, certainly, for there are countless numbers of
them. “Little minnikin professors,” Kierkegaard
called them, churning out an endless stream of obtuse nonsense, the chief
function of which is to hide the fact that they have nothing to say. Observing that philosophy, in modern times,
has largely degenerated into the study of language, physicist Stephen Hawking
proclaimed, “What a comedown for the great tradition of philosophy from
Aristotle to Kant!”
Two things, among
others, distinguish the great thinker from the minnikin professor. First, the willingness to tackle problems
that very likely have no solution. The
genius of the great mind lies not in solving a problem, but rather in provoking
interest in a problem that cannot be solved.
Questions about grammar can be answered by reading a textbook; questions
about what the universe ultimately is, and what existing in that universe
means, can very likely never be answered at all. To the minnikin, this is reason enough not to
ask, but to the great thinker, it demands relentless questioning. For the great thinker knows -- and this is
the second main difference from the trivialist -- that truth is not something
that is found like an Easter egg in the grass.
Truth is what the mind becomes, when it confronts that which it cannot
grasp. This was another of Kierkegaard’s
great insights: the mind that has thoroughly understood a problem, come to the realization
that it cannot be solved, and yet continues to strive for some foothold in its
abyss -- that mind has become the truth.
Truth is not a thing to find, it is a striving toward finding one’s self
in a problem; it is an inner resolve, a strength of character that forges faith
out of doubt. That is the essence of
great philosophy: posing a problem whose consideration leads not to an answer,
but to drawing the thinker inward, transforming the mind of the thinker into
the truth, and coming into a greatness of its own making.
Nietzsche had that
talent. He consistently formulated
theories that have no final meaning.
Will-to-power is one of those ideas.
What it means is, of course, impossible to say. It is a constellation of ideas, from which
each individual must arrange his or her own meaning. What these ideas point toward is a kind of
striving: a fundamental principle that whatever exists, carves the universe out
according to its own qualities. It
meshes well with certain principles of quantum physics that suggest that the
universe does not exist in some pre-determined, fixed way, but instead exists
according to the way it is observed. The
act of observation creates reality, or so physicists say, and that is a form of
will-to-power: the individual does not exist within the universe, but rather
the universe molds itself around individual existence.
For the social animal,
existence is simply genetics plus relationships. Both are mindless. Genetics is a matter of molecular biology, a
given-ness into which the body is born; relationships are the currency of
social chatter. But consciousness is
will-to-power -- its very essence is striving beyond what it is. It is that striving that molds the universe
around it. Indeed, it is the
will-to-power of consciousness that creates reality, that creates the universe
in which it lives. Will-to-power is the
‘inheritance’ of consciousness, from the creative Spirit out of which it was
born. When Spirit touches mind,
consciousness is created; when consciousness touches the world, reality is
created.
What nurtures
consciousness, and therefore reality itself, are its inherent connections with
the world of Spirit. To keep that energy
flowing -- and consciousness itself alive -- many turn to the ways of Spirit,
to means of keeping in contact with the creative forces from which
consciousness emerges. For some, this
means abandoning the ways of urban life, and for others, a return to old
beliefs and traditions. But keeping
consciousness alive is not enough -- consciousness is will-to-power, not
stagnant being. Consciousness always
strives beyond itself, to close the gap between itself and the creative Spirit
from which it arose. Consciousness is
also in the world, and the magnum opus of the conscious mind -- its Great Work
-- is to bring them all together. The
union of world, mind, and Spirit is the ultimate will-to-power of
consciousness.
The pursuit of that
Great Work is a discipline unto itself.
It is the discipline called magick, the ‘k’ being added by its most
famous modern practitioner, Aleister Crowley, to distinguish it from other
pursuits which have “attracted too many dilettanti, eccentrics, and
weaklings.” Magick goes beyond mystical
experience -- it is not simply union with a force or being, but a willed
interconnection and participation in all aspects of force and being. Meditation is waiting for the universe to come to you; magick is taking the
universe by force. It is the ultimate
expression of the will-to-power of consciousness. For the social animal, magick is unthinkable,
unintelligible and impossible; that is because consciousness itself is
unthinkable, unintelligible and impossible for the mere member of society. For the conscious mind, magick is the very
expression of the self, the pursuit of the fullness of individuality and being.
It is, therefore, not
surprising that the theories and practices of magick should have become
enshrouded in an aura of evil and secrecy.
The social animal rightly fears the individuality that the “black arts”
bring forth, for that individuality is the very opposite of social
conformity. In the battle between the
will-to-power of the individual and the will-to-squalor of culture, the magus
is marked as an agent of evil, and it is to escape the prying eyes of mindless
society that the magus disappears under a cloak of secrecy. That disappearance, it will be recalled, is
the insulation of the self from the world that makes consciousness possible. It is the withdrawal from the social world
that is the first movement toward union with the universe.
Should any conscious
mind ever actually succeed at the Great Work -- should anyone ever really
connect world, mind and Spirit -- some say it would shake the very foundations
of the universe itself; that the world as we know it would cease to exist. That could be a bad or a good thing,
depending upon whether one’s being is immersed in the finite world of social
chatter, or in the infinite silence of Spirit.
*
* *
As is usual for those who seek the ways of Spirit, Erika’s
life had always been solitary -- there is something about running with the herd
that opposes shepherding one’s own self.
In school, her interest had always been excited by the more theoretical
and abstract sorts of studies; not only mathematics, but also the study of
history and philosophy. In the
understanding of things, she found fascination.
It also created a kind of aloofness that served as an insulator from the
social emptiness around her. Despite her
long, fiery red hair and physical attractiveness, she was always alone, always
inside some room or other, always reading and thinking.
College had not proved to be the liberator of the mind for
which she had hoped. Instead of being
challenged by new and fascinating ideas, she was outright bored with the fact
memorization and mental drudgery of textbooks and lectures. It was perhaps because of that intellectual
despondency that she became curious about the world of drugs. Not the party drugs, nor the soporifics and
pain killers, for it was not entertainment nor dullness that she sought. She sought stimulation, new experiences and
new sensations, and for those, she turned to the psychedelics. The days of the popular drug movement were
still about, and she had found magazines and books on the subject, offering
both educated and simple minded opinions and philosophies on the subject. They also offered materials for sale.
First, it had been nitrous oxide, the gas lauded by William
James in his Varieties of Religious
Experience for producing mystical visions.
Erika never had any visions on the stuff, and never much laughter,
either. For her it had seemed more
nauseating than enlightening; more reminiscent of a trip to the dentist than a
voyage into the heavens. Next came
marijuana. Not particularly trusting in
her fellow man, she opted for growing her own plants instead of buying the
finished product. She ordered seeds
through an advertisement, and set up a closet as a green house. In time, she had her own source of
psychedelic herbs. Their effects were
wonderful: visions of colored wheels spinning about in the air, arranging
themselves into shapes and symbols. But
it only went so far. The visions stopped
at the brink of some great revelation, as though coming to a gate requiring an
unknown password.
The experience was enchanting, though, and prompted her
interest in the subject. After reading a
course description in the class catalog, she enrolled in an ethnobotany
class. Ethnobotany is the examination of
the relationships between plants and human culture. The first part of the class had concerned the
relationship of cultivated crops to the development and survival of primitive
cultures. Then came the subject of psychoactive
plants. Throughout history, it appeared,
the use of various plant materials had been closely connected with primitive
religious and spiritual practices.
“Who knows,” lectured the professor, “how much of what we
call human culture might ultimately be owed to plants such as these? We are a proud species; we like to think that
we are the creators of our own destiny.
But maybe not. Maybe others have
had a hand in what we, at our most basic level, are. Who can say,” he continued, pointing to a
picture of Atropa belladonna, “that
what we call God, the idea of a being living in a world outside our sensory
perceptions, might not have originally come from one of these plants?”
“But aren’t they highly poisonous?” asked a student. “Isn’t it more likely that people taking them
would have died, and not have been around to talk about their visions?”
“That’s a good point,” said the professor, “and one that has
led me to a rather interesting idea; one for which I have no proof, but some
strong suspicions. In the Old World, in
Europe and the
“Now in the
“Who can say, when we look at these plants, that we aren’t
really looking God in the face? It might
be even worse than that; when you get right down to it, maybe we’re really only
their arms and legs . . . ”
The end of class bell cut off his lecture, but not Erika’s
interest. What she had been seeking in
marijuana -- a vision of a world beyond the mundane -- had been found by
others, and she wanted to know more.
Maybe even where she could get some of those mushrooms. She had heard talk of “magic mushrooms” among
the other students, but really didn’t know much about them. The professor did; maybe he even knew where
to get them. Asking a professor for
drugs -- well, that was a stupid idea.
On the other hand, she might get enough information to find them
herself.
“I would advise you against it,” said the professor, leaning
back in his wooden chair, which made a very loud creak. Erika’s look of resentment did not escape his
eye. “Not whether you use them or not. That is your business -- who you are and what
you want to become. But I would advise
most strongly against buying them. There
is the very serious issue of purity.
This mushroom here is a good example.”
He held up what looked like an ordinary cooking mushroom from
a supermarket. He then took a small
portable blacklight out of his desk.
Holding it above the top of the mushroom, there appeared a small light
blue spot.
“You see that? This
was sold to one of my students as a magic mushroom, who had the brilliant
insight to bring it to me for identification before eating it. It’s an ordinary store mushroom that’s been
treated with something. You see that
blue spot? If you’re lucky, it’s LSD; if
not, PCP, or maybe even strychnine. In
any case, ‘flesh of the gods’ it is not.
There’s no telling what you can get into when you buy something like
this.”
Erika let out a deep sigh; that was most disquieting. The reason she had grown her own marijuana
was to avoid just that kind of problem.
Maybe, she asked, it would be better to try and get some of the real
drug, the purified or synthesized materials from these plants. Could one do that?
“Yes, there are places where experiments with some of these
drugs are conducted. I suppose one could
even go down to southern
“Even more importantly,” the professor continued, “there is a whole ritual and cultural aspect
to the use of these substances among natives, that has a lot to do with how
they work. Timothy Leary was always
talking about ‘set and setting,’ how the attitude with which one approaches the
use of psychoactives, and the circumstances under which they are used, affect
the experience of the drug. There is
always a ritual connected with their use.
The ritual creates a kind of interconnection between the plant and the
person who uses it. That connection very
much alters the character of the experience.
If you just swallow a mushroom, you see the effects of a psychoactive
drug; if you go through the ritual, you experience the flesh of the gods. There is a time of preparation, a time of
study, a time of meditation. Taking the
drug is only one step in a long process, one that can last a lifetime,” he
said, and then leaned forward, with a grin and an odd twinkle in his eye, “or
more than a lifetime, as some native tribes think.”
He sat back in his chair again, and continued. “As I said, I cannot and will not advise you
on what you should or should not do, especially since it involves violation of
the law. But I will tell you this: if
you want to see what the natives see, if you want to know what they know, then
you have to walk their path. You have to
live the ritual, to carry out the steps.
You can’t swallow enlightenment; you have to walk the path to it. For you, for those of us in this world, away
from the landscape and mindscape of primitive culture, it is somewhat more
difficult. We have to make our own
rituals; you will have to cut your own pathway to the gods, if that is where
you want to go.”
Taking his advice seriously, Erika set out on the path of the
magic mushroom. The work of growing
hallucinogenic mushrooms outside their natural habitat is intensive and
exacting. One must obtain the spores,
which Erika did from a magazine advertisement, along with a book on mushroom
identification, just to be sure. Under
sterile conditions, culture media must be prepared, and the spores must be
carefully grown on the jelly-like material until snow-white mycelial threads
emerge. The culture medium must then be
transferred to sterilized jars of moistened rice, and allowed to grow for
several weeks. The procedure is fraught
with many problems, not the least of which is contamination by ever-present
molds and fungi whose spores permeate the air.
Erika was grateful for having taken a microbiology class in which
sterile techniques were taught. It
amused her on more than one occasion to wonder what the professors would think
if they knew to what use their information was being put.
Despite the technology involved, growing mushrooms is a
ritual procedure in itself. The sterile
procedures involve movements not terribly unlike those of the primitive shaman;
the hopes and fears that surround each step of the process are no different
from those of the expectant villager, looking to have his future read in the
world of the mushroom-god. The
purification and banishing of contaminants are no different for the closet
grower, than the exorcism of evil spirits by the sacred healer. And so, when the first tiny, brown-topped
mushroom pinheads emerge from white cakes of rice in glass jars, there is the
same feeling of exhilaration as there is for the shaman with consecrated
god-flesh ready for consumption.
Erika’s first mushroom trip would be an experiment, just to
test their effects. She carefully
removed three mushrooms, their caps having just opened, from their glass
jars. They were not the most pleasant
things to handle: slimy and smelling something like sweaty gym socks, they were
in fact disgusting. Erika had never
particularly liked mushrooms anyway. It
was not simply mycophobia -- the cultural fear of mushrooms common among
westerners -- as much as it was that their taste and smell had never been
appealing, and eating them raw would be a challenge in itself. She had fasted for the entire day, so they
would take effect more quickly, and there would be less risk of nausea. She ate them quickly, swallowing them down
with water. Alone, in the quiet of her
room, she waited.
Her room had wood paneled walls, and the first thing she
noticed, after about half an hour, was that the grain of the paneling began
moving in undulating patterns. The edges
of the walls, where they met ceiling and floor, also began to undulate. It was not that the things themselves were
moving, but rather that the patterns of these things were in motion. The inanimate objects of the room -- walls,
windows, doors -- had taken on a life-like quality, as though they were
breathing and pulsating, in some kind of motion all their own.
Then she turned out the light. The result was spectacular; everywhere,
sheets and waves of light danced about.
Around the objects in her room, barely visible in the dim light, danced
lines of red, green and blue light -- multicolored halos framing every object
in the room. The lines began to dance,
and then move, emerging from the objects they surrounded, flowing into the
surrounding air. As the dream
intensified, geometric objects began to appear: whirling triangles, cubes and
other shapes, appearing behind the physical objects she could see. Then came inner feelings associated with the
objects. Some carried with them their
histories -- her chair showing visions of trees, lumber mills, and craftsmen
making the chair from raw wood. Other
objects radiated a sense of dread, and still others a sense of fascination,
calling her to look further inside.
All of this was happening at the same time -- seeing the
objects, the waves of light surrounding them, the geometric shapes within them,
and the feelings emanating from them.
Erika understood this as seeing the same object, projected through
different modes of understanding: the
physical sight of the object, the mental impressions it made upon the brain,
the kinds of basic forms out of which it was made, and the deep feelings or
impressions the object left upon the world.
Four different layers of perception, most of which are missed in an
ordinary state of mind, but nonetheless lie behind every perception, were
revealed by the energized mental state of the psychoactively enhanced
brain. The vision continued in this way
for almost three hours, during which more ideas took shape in her mind, as
though the patterns of the walls and ceilings had inner messages to
communicate. Finally, the dream came to
an end. One by one, the unique layers of
perception disappeared, until Erika was back in her dimly lit room. It felt like having left some grand carnival
fun house, but a fun house that had lessons to teach, not simply a reality to
warp.
The mushroom gods were not finished with Erika, however;
insight is useless unless it is combined with the knowledge necessary to
understand it. So it was, as if by
divine ordination, that her trip to the bookstore the following day, in search
of drug-culture books that might help her to further understand what she had
seen, was rudely interrupted when a large volume fell off a shelf directly in
her path. Ordinarily, Erika had no
interest in occult subjects, but this book had fallen off the occult shelf,
placing itself directly in her way. It
had fallen face down and open, and as she picked it up, she noticed that one of
the pages bore the heading, “The Four Worlds.”
On the opposite page was a series of four diagrams, each consisting of
ten circles interconnected by lines, bearing strange symbols. The four diagrams were labeled:
MANIFESTATION-the physical world; FORMATION-the astral world; CREATION- the
archetypal world; and ORIGINATION-the divine world.
A chill went up Erika’s spine, as she realized this was too
close -- way too close -- to what she had seen in her mushroom dream. These four worlds were similar to the four
levels of understanding she had seen.
Each object in her room reflected differently in those worlds; in the
diagrams before her eyes, each of the ten circles had a different aspect in
each of the four worlds. This was too
important to pass up, and she closed the book, noticing that its title contained
the word “Cabala,” a word she had seen in connection with the uses of herbs and
drugs in magick. Another book was on the
shelf, evidently next to where the one in her hand had fallen from. Something told her it would be worth having,
too. It was Aleister Crowley’s Magick in Theory and Practice -- a book
she had read about. It was very rare,
and much prized by those seeking enlightenment through the magickal arts.
*
* *
Alone at home, opening her cabalistic book was like a
revelation; the same feeling experienced by a child who finds an old trunk in
the basement, pries open the lock, and peers inside as the top is pulled
open. This was a treasure-trove of the
very kinds of ideas that had always stimulated her interest: it was a very
complicated theory, so it seemed, of how the universe was put together. There were ten aspects -- spheres as they
were called -- to everything that exists; everything could be divided into ten
qualities. Each of these qualities was
reflected in similar spheres in four different worlds or planes, all projected
onto a diagram called the Tree of Life.
That was what she had seen in her vision: the motion of matter being the
intermixing of those ten qualities, and their reflection through the four
worlds. In addition, there were pathways
between the spheres and worlds, and one could learn to move from one aspect or
world to another by mastering those pathways.
Mastering the pathways?
What could that mean? The
discussion then took a strange turn. One
could learn to control the way objects -- including people -- behave, the
author said, by learning to manipulate the various reflections of objects in
these different planes. According to
this theory, one cannot always directly change the behavior of objects in the
physical world, because they are separated from us in space or in time. But one can manipulate the aspects of those
objects in the other worlds, and those manipulations will be reflected in the
behavior of things in the physical world.
That is the basis of magick, said the author -- learning to cause
changes in the world by manipulating the invisible forces that lie behind the world.
Now Erika would have dismissed all of this as nonsense,
except that her mushroom vision matched up so closely with what she had been reading. What bothered her the most about it was that
this knowledge -- the Cabala -- had been developed hundreds of years before
anyone outside of the
And so, she turned to that other book she had bought,
The book began very straightforwardly. “Magick is the science and art of causing
change to occur in conformity with will.”
The point was illustrated that in writing his book, certain acts were
performed -- the writing of the book -- that would accomplish his goal, to
inform people of certain facts. The book
went on, discussing the various presumptions upon which magick was based. It all seemed too simple, thought Erika --
there must be great evil hidden here somewhere.
She read on: “There is a single main definition of the object of all
magickal Ritual. It is the uniting of
the Microcosm with the Macrocosm. The
Supreme and Complete Ritual is therefore the Knowledge and Conversation of the
Holy Guardian Angel.” Now we are getting
somewhere, she thought. In the ancient
teachings it was said that the universe and man are reflections of each
other. Each person is a microcosm of the
universe, a sort of condensation of all being, while the universe is the
macrocosm of man, a reflection of everything that is inside each person.
This business of the Holy Guardian Angel, however, was not
some abstract religious rite. It was a
very personal thing, or so the book said, an encounter with some aspect of the
self that lives in a higher world, that has access to universal knowledge and
power. That, thought Erika, must be how
the ancients found out about the four worlds -- they encountered some spiritual
being that taught them about it. This
Holy Guardian Angel was evidently the source of all this great wisdom, the one
who could explain it all.
The whole point of Crowley’s book seemed to be making contact
with the Holy Guardian Angel. The secret
societies all had various grades, but
She learned that she would have to acquire certain tools to
use in the ritual -- a cup, a wand, a knife, and something called a pentacle, a
kind of disk. The first three were easy
enough to come by, and for the disk, she chose instead to buy a deck of tarot
cards. The pentacle was supposed to
symbolize the Earth element, and what better an Earth symbol than a deck of
cards -- supposedly designed along cabalistic lines -- that symbolized
existence in all its aspects. She also
needed a personal wand -- an object that would serve to direct he own thoughts
and focus concentration. For this she
chose a silver dagger that had caught her eye in a display case. There were other items needed: incense and
burner, candles, a bell, and other trinkets.
Each of these had to be “consecrated”, or charged with magickal powers
through the mind. All of it seemed quite
silly, but the Master reassured his readers: “By doing certain things, other
things follow,” and so it was necessary to go through the movements, no matter
how ridiculous they seemed.
Then came the various mental exercises. The assuming of god-forms, physical postures
whose function is to quiet the body’s messages to the mind, thus preventing
interruption from physical sources.
There was learning to cast the magick circle, which puts the student in
a kind of world all alone from outside influences; and the rituals of the
pentagram, used to call forth elemental forces to protect the circle, and
more. Erika faithfully carried out the
instructions, going through the motions with very little result.
It all seemed like a sham, a bad joke played by the master on
dull-witted students. Until she reached
the exercise called “rising on the planes”.
This is the first real magickal working.
To carry it out, the student must construct a “body of light,” a mental
representation of the self. It is
through this body of light that magick is really carried out; the physical
movements are just practice, or so one discovers. The body of light is more than an imaginary
image. It is, according to the theory,
the representation of the individual in the astral world, the first of the four
worlds that lies beyond physical matter.
Erika had an advantage -- she had seen that world, through
the mushrooms, and so knew what it was like.
Having properly set up her circle, she imagined around her body a kind
of glowing aura, similar to the sheets of light she had seen in her mushroom
vision. This she shaped into the image
of a fairy-tale wizard, in purple robes decorated with planetary and stellar
symbols. And why not? It was, after all her body of light, she
could make it any way she wanted.
Following
She tried casting the magickal circle in the body of
light. This time, it was no sham! What had been simply a pointless movement in
the physical body, produced a brilliant, blue-white glowing circle in the body
of light! She tried opening the elemental
watchtowers at the four cardinal directions with the pentagram ritual. In the physical body, there had been nothing
but dark, empty space, but in the astral world -- Oh! this was how magick was
to be done! In the astral world, at each
elemental watchtower appeared a grand castle, glowing in the proper light for
the elemental. There were creatures
running about, plants, animals, castle guards -- entire worlds! -- in each of
the quarters. It hadn’t been a joke
after all, just painstaking preparation for learning to work in the body of
light.
Having learned to properly cast the magickal circle in the
astral world, the next step was to actually rise above the circle, higher into
the astral world. Here one encounters
various beings and images, all of which have a meaning that can later be looked
up in a table of correspondence, which lists various characteristics and their
interpretations according to the Tree of Life.
“It matters not whether they exist or not,” wrote the Master, “and
students are most earnestly warned against attributing objective reality or
philosophic validity to any of them.”
Nonetheless, there was much to be learned here. Erika learned to use the Tarot cards as a
kind of gateway into this astral world, projecting her mind through their
images.
And there was the mischievous side -- the body of light could
do more than observe. Once, before a
lecture in a particularly boring class, the professor had been looking through
his lecture notes which he kept on note cards.
Erika entered her body of light, walked to the front of the room, and
gave the deck of cards a little push.
The professor dropped the deck, and had to cancel class because his
notes were in such disarray. “Wickedest
person in the world,” Erika thought to herself.
There is a limit to what can be gained from the astral world, however,
and the student who would continue study in these matters must move beyond the
world of mental imagery.
That next step would be the Knowledge and Conversation of the
Holy Guardian Angel itself. This is the
most fearsome rite in all of ritual magick.
Part of the reason for this is that it marks the transition from student
to adept; from one who seeks knowledge, to one who actually has discovered
it. It is the first meeting, within the
realm of the magickal circle, with something that is metaphysically other than the magician. The images and beings of the astral world are
of the same kind as the magician’s own thoughts; while they are personally different from the magician,
they still have the familiar qualities of mental contents. The Holy Guardian Angel does not come from
the order of the mind; it comes from somewhere else. It is something that has never been
encountered before: a dweller in a dimension of reality that is unthinkable and
unfathomable. The calling forth of the
Holy Guardian Angel is the first serious step in moving beyond the ordinary
world, and it is a step that carries with it the uneasiness of stepping across
a thousand foot deep precipice.
Perhaps the most frightening thing about it, though, is the
ritual itself. It does not rely heavily
upon gestures or prayers, there are no special images or procedures. Instead, it uses the “barbarous names”,
strange sounding phrases that appear as though they may have come from some
long-forgotten language, but in themselves have no obvious meaning. Their purpose is to create a kind of
resonance within the magician, a vibration that connects with similar
vibrations in other dimensions, setting up a flow of energy between the
worlds. It is on that energy flow the magician
must travel, to meet the Angel from beyond the astral plane. It is most distressing that, because one
cannot know the meaning of these terms, one can never be sure exactly what
energy is being vibrated. One has to
trust the author of the ritual, or at least the author of the book in which it
is printed, that he will have gotten the names right. In this case, it meant trusting Aleister
Crowley, the “wickedest man in the world.”
He had toyed with students regarding the nature of ritual magick
itself. Might he not have toyed with the
barbarous names as well?
It is pointless to worry about it; the student must go
forth. So Erika prepared herself for
this, the Great Work of magick: the meeting with the higher Self. Having learned to use the body of light, she
had dispensed with most of the ritual magick tools, preferring a small cloth
pad placed in front of the fireplace upon which rested incense burner, candle,
bell, tarot cards, and her silver dagger.
For a week before the ritual itself, she ceased her rising on the planes
work, focusing upon meditations and mind-quieting exercises, and perfecting her
body of light image. She studied the
ritual carefully. Each of the barbarous
names had an interpretation, which must be focused upon as the name is
spoken. She did not try to memorize the
rite, for it is dangerous to do so -- a moment’s confusion or forgetfulness can
disrupt the whole procedure. The
accomplished student can read with the physical eyes, and maintain a fully
conscious body of light at the same time.
The first night of the ritual arrived. Seated in her chair before the fireplace, she
began the banishings that quiet the mind.
Next came the visualizing, and the breathing of life into the body of light. Once she was fully conscious in the body of
light, next came the pentagram and hexagram rituals, completing the magickal
circle. Then began the ritual itself:
first with the Oath, proclaiming the purpose of the rite. Following this, the calls to the elemental
forces, using the barbarous names: first Air, then Fire, then Water, then
Earth. As she spoke the terrible names,
she felt herself vibrating, a pulsating glow rising within her as each name was
spoken. Then the calls of Spirit, and
the calling forth of the Holy Guardian Angel itself. As she read these, she felt a rushing of
energy about her; multi-colored lightning flashes and flames whirling about
her, amid the sounds of a thundering tempest.
She thrust her hands upward, as she screamed the words of attainment. She stood there, her hands reaching toward
the sky, awaiting the arrival of the spectacular being toward which all of her
studies and efforts had been directed.
She stood there, and stood there, for what seemed like
several minutes, hands reaching upward.
But there was no response from the heavens, just the rushing of energy
about her. Despite the spiritual
pyrotechnics, the rite had failed. There
was no inrushing of power or insight, no meeting with the unknown. In disappointment, she concluded the ritual,
shutting down the magickal circle and recalling the body of light. Well, this is the most difficult rite in all of magick, and maybe it would
take more than one try, she thought. So,
over the next several nights, she repeated it.
Each time she did the rite, although there was no Holy Guardian Angel, it
did seem as though some kind of gateway was opening above her. With each repetition, a feeling of cold
rushing air from above became more noticeable, as did a tingling throughout her
body, not unlike the effects of the mushrooms.
On the fifth night, things changed. Having made the final call to Spirit, she
thrust her hands upward, as before. This
time, when she opened her eyes, there were no flashing lights or rushing
tempest of energy. Everything was dark,
pitch dark, the blackest of blacks; there was only silence, and no sensations
of wind or air. She stood there in
amazement, and somewhat frightened; the oracles had mentioned “all things
growing dark,” and things could not grow much darker than this. After a few moments, she returned to her body
and concluded the ritual.
Six is the cabalistic number of the Adept -- the one who has
achieved mastery over the self, and entrance into the world of Spirit -- and it
was on the sixth night of the ritual that Erika’s life was irreversibly
changed. She performed the ritual as
usual, completing the calls to Spirit, and thrust her hands upward. Once again, she felt the cold rushing of air,
but this time a dense, gray fog descended upon her from above. She waited in anticipation, but nothing more
happened. Growing tired, she began
lowering her hands to conclude the ritual.
To her surprise, she found she could not lower her arms; something had
grabbed hold of her wrists, and she could not move! A pair of hands had firmly clasped her
wrists, and as soon as she realized this, she felt an upward pull. Air and mist began rushing downward around
her, as something pulled her up, up through the clouds, up out of the room, up
out of the magickal circle. She was
moving so fast, she could hardly keep her breath. It was then she realized she had been
fighting the force that was doing this; she closed her eyes, and surrendered to
its power.
As she did so, she felt her feet come to rest upon solid
ground. The rushing air stopped, and as
whatever had held her wrists released its grip, her arms fell to her
sides. She began to repeat the words of
attainment; “I am She, the Bornless Spirit, having sight in the feet . . . ”
“That is my line, I believe.”
A quiet, low voice, almost a whisper but with the force of a thunder clap,
cut her off.
Erika opened her eyes.
Before her stood a tall, magnificent figure, wearing a black robe with a
black sash around its waist, and surrounded by a glowing aura in which danced
multi-colored flashes of light. On
either side of this figure stood two smaller -- but still very tall, by normal
standards -- black robed figures without the aura, and with rounded hoods over
their heads.
“May I be the first to congratulate you, upon your winning of
adepthood,” said the glowing figure.
“The dagger, if I may.” It held
out its hand, evidently wanting her silver dagger. Erika hesitated, then placed it in the
hand. The figure made a gesture over the
dagger, and it began to glow a bright, bluish white. It then produced a silver chain, and attached
it to the hilt of the dagger. The two
other figures then took hold of the chain, moved toward Erika, and placed it
around her neck.
“You must never let this out of your possession. It is not only a symbol of your attainment,
but it is a mighty weapon, as you will discover, and it is also a kind of key
for entering this sacred vault.” As the
tall figure finished speaking, the two others disappeared out of the room.
Erika glanced briefly around the room. It was roughly circular, and made of gray
stones. In the middle was a glowing
magickal circle, inscribed with various sigils in different colors. There were four tables set up around the
room, each evidently dedicated to one of the elemental forces, and each having
a Tree of Life diagram hanging above it.
There was another table, cluttered with what appeared to be scientific
apparatus of some kind, another table with open books strewn about on it, and
an empty table with two chairs.
“I am the minister of
Hoor-Paar-Kraat,” spoke the figure in a thundering voice, “and I will
show you what you came to see.
Look.” The figure waved its left
hand in the air, and there appeared a gray cloud. Out of that cloud appeared stars.
“Nuit, the star goddess, mother of all things,” he said. Out of the stars, a cloud emerged, that
shrank and took form in the image of the Earth.
“The age of
“Isis and Osiris, the One having become Two, having formed
the world as you know it. But Isis and
Osiris are gone. What is foretold is the
coming of the One, the joining of the Two into One, and the coming of the
Crowned and Conquering Child. Behold!”
The images in the gray mist cleared, and there appeared a
golden light, growing brighter and brighter.
At the center of that light appeared a throne, upon which rested a
man-like figure, with the head of a hawk.
“What is foretold for your world is the coming of something
terrifying beyond your worst fears,” thundered the figure, “but also
magnificent beyond your greatest dreams.
The time for its coming is close, when the two shall become one in the
Hawk-Headed God. I am the prophet Ankh-”
“Will you stop it!” screamed Erika. “This makes no sense at all. I can’t understand anything you’re saying!”
At that outburst, the gray mist vanished, and the figure
dropped its hands to its side. A moment
later, it pulled back its tall, pointed hood, revealing thick brown hair and a
bespectacled face.
“So much for impressing you with mystical visions,” the Adept
said, for so it seemed that he was really an adept, and not an Angel after
all. He motioned toward the empty
table. He and Erika both sat, and he
produced a bottle and two glasses.
“This is not ordinary wine.
It is a non-alcoholic version we have prepared. We have found that alcohol is most damaging
to the astral body, and we do not consume it within these halls. I cannot recommend consuming it at all,
unless it is your will to get blind, vomiting drunk, which you can do at the
village tavern just outside the castle.”
He poured the brilliant red liquid into the two glasses. Erika picked up one; it smelled so sweet and
fruity.
“I’m sorry,” she said, after taking a sip.
“Ahh,” replied the Adept, “it is a ritual we all have to go
through for the new adepts. You’ll get
your chance too, someday. This room,
it’s a kind of landing pad, a place of arriving and departing. As for your dagger, now you merely need to project
your astral body into it, and you will be here.
This hall, a castle really, is the Vault of the Adepts that you have
read about. It is open to you whenever
you wish to use it. Through that door,
there are libraries, laboratories, working rooms, and everything else an adept
needs for work. It is much like what you
call a university, except here we are all both students and faculty.
“You can also leave the castle. There is a village just outside the walls,
and many other villages and castles scattered throughout the land. Beware though, the woods are not entirely
safe. In your world, your beasts and
monsters vanished along with the ability to imagine them. Here, the imagination has full reign, as does
everything it can produce.”
“There are dragons out in the woods? How about knights in shining armor?” asked
Erika.
“We have those too, the military orders, as they are
called. You will run into them. You will also find that you are treated with
a higher level of respect than what you are accustomed to, and sometimes with
outright fear. Remember, magick is real
in this world -- this is the world before technology seized control of the mind
-- and the dwellers of this world have llearned to respect those who wield its
power.”
“And I can come here whenever I wish?” asked Erika.
“Yes, of course,” said the Adept. “You have earned the power to enter. Even at the moment of death, if you can
project your astral body here, your soul will live on. You can then remain here, or choose to return
to your world in whatever form you desire.”
“You mean, whatever is determined by karma,” said Erika.
The Adept chuckled.
“Karma is power; it is that which sets you free, that which moves you
forth. It is not a prison. ‘The word of Sin is Restriction,’ or so one
of your fellow adepts once wrote.”
“The Book of the Law,” she said. “You, you dictated it to Aleister Crowley?”
“Well, not exactly. It
was dictated -- not by me, however -- to his wife, in a psychic vision; the
woman he later came to call the ‘Ape of Thoth’.
It is not surprising then, that there may have been some degree of
unclarity in what got written down.”
“Then is he here?” she asked, “Is Aleister Crowley here?”
“That is difficult to answer directly,” replied the Adept.
“The Master Therion is here, of course, though he comes and goes as he
pleases. The history attached to him as
Aleister Crowley is in his memory. I
should point out, however, that even adepts have a tendency to re-write their
own histories, so how much of it accurately reflects the events as other saw
them during his lifetime cannot be accurately judged.
“Now, as to the matter
we were discussing, the story of Horus,” continued the Adept. “It isn’t a joke, though the story may
obscure the facts a bit.”
“As I understood it from reading,” said Erika, “it is supposed to mean a great and terrible
change occurring in the world. I always
figured that meant
The Adept chuckled again.
“You have studied well. Yes, but
there is another truth hidden in the story.
The part about the one becoming the two, that’s not made up. It was long ago, over two millennia in your
world, that it happened. There was a
great war, a terrible battle coming. On
one side was a great man, an emperor, leading huge armies from the south. In the north were the lands of the
Druids. As the army approached, the five
great Archdruids allied themselves to meet the threat. They knew this would be the battle that would
end the world. To defeat the armies of
Julius Caesar, the Druids knew they would have to call forth magickal forces
that would change the very climate and structure of the world, forces that
would render it uninhabitable for life.”
“Caesar’s invasion of
“Not exactly,” replied the Adept. “Had the battle ever taken place, it would
indeed have destroyed the world. It was
all set to happen, great forces of might and magick ready to clash. The Druids would not give up the lands under
their protection, as their oaths forbade them to do so, and Caesar wasn’t much
interested in going home. Then someone got the bright idea that the world could
be saved if the battle never really happened.
And so a great magickal rite was done, and the worlds came apart. The world of the Druids, the world of magick,
separated from the world of Caesar, the world of military might. The one world split into two, each going its
own way. In the Druid world, the Roman
army never came; in the world of Caesar, the world you know, what he conquered
was what was left behind, a sort of token resistance.”
“So the world in which I live is the world that had Caesar in
it, and this world, I take it, is the one that had the Druids in it. But how could that be? How could such a thing be done?” asked Erika.
“It is rather complicated,” said the Adept. “Your sciences, having been obsessed with
technology, are only beginning to understand how these things can happen. Our sciences, growing alongside magick and
the spiritual studies, already understand this.
You see, everything that can happen has a certain energy to it, a
luminosity. Whatever can be, shines with
a certain energy. Whatever world can be
imagined has a certain luminosity to it, and it is by virtue of that luminosity
that we see it, that it becomes real to us.
So the world with the greatest luminosity, more than likely, becomes the
world that is, to us, reality. It is a
difficult thing to understand at first, for the mind accustomed to technology
generally believes the world is real and its own contents are false. That is not true; it is the mind which
creates reality, which sees the luminosity of the world and gives it reality.
“Once having understood that,” continued the Adept, “the rite itself was not that difficult. The luminosity of the world as we know it,
the world of magick and imagination, was greatly increased, and for those under
the protection of the Druids this world simply continued on its own, without the
invading army. So, where there was once
one world, now there are two. The worlds
went their own ways, but this separation cannot last forever. The luminosity of our world has grown, while
that of your world has faded. This is
because the forces which give a world its luminosity have all but disappeared
from yours. Luminosity is seen by the
mind, but it is also created by the mind; that minds knowing the magickal arts
have all but vanished from your world has dimmed its light. The day will come when the luminosity of your
world will be gone, and it will collapse back into ours -- when the two worlds
will become one. That is the Horus
story: that the powers that split the world will return to the world they
abandoned, and make the world whole again.
Only this time, because the powers of wisdom and magick have so far
outpaced those in Caesar’s world, the return will be a coming of tremendous
power. Hence, the Crowned and Conquering
Child.”
“I hope,” said Erika, “that I’m not really supposed to
understand all that.”
“No one really does,” said the Adept. “There are those here who claim they do, and
to hear them explain it, they might as well be speaking in barbarous
words. Nonetheless, the story of Horus
is at once a prophecy, a warning, and also a promise. It foretells great tribulations, but also
great liberations. What has taken the
very soul away from your world will be destroyed, and the days of magick will
return. I am certain of that much.”
“So the world is fated, then?
This is all going to happen?” asked Erika.
“What is fate, or so it was written, but an endless stream of
events, each influencing the other,” said the Adept. “You should know that there is no such thing
as fate, understood as inevitability.
There is prophecy, though; it is a looking forward into the future, to
see what will have occurred. We can
influence it to some degree, but to some extent prophecy is willed, and it can
no more be changed than any other willed act.”
Erika and the Adept talked for a while longer. She learned that the four worlds of her
vision allowed for contact between the two earth-worlds, and that much of what
passed for visions and dreams in the physical world was really contact with the
other earth in the astral plane. There
were, she was assured, other dimensions to reality that were not fractured by
the splitting of worlds: there are spiritual modes of existence, and these
formed a continuum between the worlds.
So her studies of these matters had not been wasted. The whole point of the Holy Guardian Angel
ritual, she was told, was to enable the adept to travel between the worlds,
back to the Vault of the Adepts, where he or she could further study magickal
matters.
As night began to fall in the world of the Vault, Erika
returned to the physical world. Standing
in the magickal circle, she withdrew the astral energy from the dagger. She found herself sitting in her chair, in
front of the fireplace, as though no time had passed at all.
Since that time she had made the trip to the Vault many
times, studying obscure works in its library, learning different rituals and
procedures from the other adepts. Once,
strolling through the garden, she saw a man in simple white clothing, with a
dark complexion, tending a small patch of mushrooms. He stood and introduced himself as Antonius
Romero, a curandero, or sacred
healer, from the mountains of southern
Like the other pirates, Erika had come into the Mountain
Militia in response to the government’s threat to clear-cut vast tracts of
forest for housing projects. It wasn’t
so much the destruction of the forest that had aroused her anger. It was the justification for doing so. The pronouncement that it was “humanity’s
sacred duty” to provide living space for its increasing population. Somehow, the notion of the word “sacred”
being applied toward mindless population growth brought forth some very deep
anger within her. It was an offense to
everything she had learned and done in the world of Spirit, to use the word in
that way. She had befriended Roweena,
the pagan priestess, and they had, together with the others, formed the
musician troupe.
*
* *
Erika continued to practice her magickal arts; but in the
confines of a ship, one still feels somewhat limited, despite one’s skills on
the astral plane. So, like the others, once
the performance was done, she went her own way.
Although the
The small stone house was located at the end of a long,
private road. Nestled among the trees
that could be found along the unpopulated sections of the coast, the house had
only one neighbor. Living in a small
wooden cabin, about a quarter mile before the end of the road, there lived an
old man, with his dog. The old man was
nearly crippled, and walked, even with his cane, with much difficulty. The dog was most obnoxious; it constantly
barked and pulled at its leash, making the old man’s walk even more
laborious.
“Yer come to stay at the stone house, eh,” he said, as they
met for the first time. “Well, that’s
good, it’s a nice little house. Gets
cold sometimes, but not this time of year.
Out of the way, here, with no power and all. But it keeps the city folk out.” He looked up, as a flock of birds flew
overhead, shifted direction, and went on their way. “The birds, ya gotta watch ‘em. Can cause trouble sometimes, ye know.”
What sort of trouble a small flock of birds could cause,
Erika could not imagine. She was more
interested in feeling the energies inside the house. It was a one room house with an upstairs
loft; at the top of the stairs was a small window. There were few other windows in the house, on
account, she reasoned, of rocks being thrown up by the waves crashing on the
cliff below. Her first night in the
cabin was quiet and restful; the sounds of the sea, quite different from those
aboard ship, were relaxing.
But in the morning, when she awoke, Erika sensed that
something was not right. Some energy in
the air, some force that didn’t feel right; it was hard to tell exactly what
the feeling was, but it was definitely there.
The walls of the house, made of carefully arranged stones, seemed to be
trying to comport themselves into an image or picture of some sort. Just the strange feeling of being in an
unfamiliar house, maybe.
Erika had not gone out much on that day, she spent most of
her time inside. The weather had grown
cold, and there was a damp mist in the air.
It was late in the afternoon when she heard the insane barking of the
old man’s dog. She opened the front
door, to find the old man standing in the road, the dog apparently attacking
him.
“Don’t come out, stay in there!” he yelled. Erika disobeyed, feeling certain the dog was
about to injure him. “Stay inside! It’s them damn birds. It’s called ‘em. It’s cummin, dammit to hell. Get back in there!” He turned, and began staggering as fast as he
could back to his cabin. A chilling wind
had begun to blow in from the ocean, getting stronger by the minute, howling as
it blew past the house. A few feet farther,
and old man turned back to face Erika.
“Dammit, do ya hear?
Close the door, stay inside. The
birds; it’s cummin’. It flies out of the
sky, sucks out yer soul. Get in there,
now, dammit!” He turned back toward his
house. As he reached the door, Erika
could see him swinging violently in the air with his cane. It looked as if a flock of black birds was
attacking him. He opened the door,
pushed the dog inside, and then himself, slamming it shut behind him.
Erika was no less than terrified at this point. She closed the door, locking the bolt. The rain began, pelting the windows and the
roof with huge droplets that sounded like rocks. Looking out one of the windows, she could see
only the trees blowing in the wind, the gray sky above. Then something caught her eye; it looked as
though a patch of darkness was moving in the sky above the trees -- a small
flock of birds flying close together, perhaps.
She sat down in a wooden rocking chair, her back to the fire, facing the
stone wall. Just to her side were the
stairs leading to the loft; the window at the top was rattling violently in the
full force of the gale and driving rain.
What could the old man have meant, about the birds? A bad omen of some kind, maybe something to
do with violent sea storms in the area?
The part about something being ‘called’; that was a term from magick --
calling forth spirits. Something had
called the birds out, or the other way around.
And that part about ‘sucking your soul,’ that was pretty strange. The whole place was strange, in fact. Why
would the birds have attacked the old man?
What about the dog’s insane behavior?
Maybe it was just a storm; maybe this kind of weather just makes people
and animals crazy, she thought.
Outside, the intensity of the storm mounted; the window in
the loft was rattling still louder, and the sound of rain on the roof was
becoming deafening. Erika could do no
more than sit facing the wall, as the fire warmed her back. Staring at the stones, she thought they were
beginning to form an image: a kind of mural, depicting a story of some kind or
other. As she relaxed, despite the
sounds of the storm, the story in the stones unfolded within her mind.
On a hilltop within a great forest, there arose a small
city. In the center of the city was a
stone temple, tended by priests and priestesses. In the temple was a large throne, upon which
sat the High Priest. Around the temple,
from burning bowls, rose the Smoke of Vision; produced by sacred plants, it
conferred prophetic sight on those breathing it. The priests and priestesses, aided by the
Smoke of Vision, gave advice and direction to the city, and it prospered. Then the story took an ominous turn. The city began to grow, crowding itself, and
pushing back the forest out of which it had emerged. Buildings went higher and higher, the old
wooden houses being replaced by towers of gray stone. As the city grew, the forest around it began
to die, poisoned by the activities of the growing town.
The priests and priestesses struggled against the blight,
arguing that the city should not be growing, but instead should remain such a
size that it could survive without injuring the forest upon which it
depended. But other voices emerged from
the city, voices condemning the priests and priestesses, and the High Priest in
whose name they acted. We do not need
the Smoke of Vision, these voices said; we do not need guidance from the
gods. We can guide our own future, and
should not listen to those who would hinder our prosperity and greatness.
And so the priests and priestesses were beaten and killed,
and the Smoke of Vision was outlawed.
But all feared the High Priest, for it was rumored that he had many
powers. Although there was an outcry
that the High Priest should be destroyed, none would venture into the
temple. So a huge stone wall was built
around the temple, growing higher and higher, and finally a roof was added to
the walls. The temple had become a stone
tomb, with the High Priest securely inside.
The town rejoiced; the High Priest had been eliminated, the Smoke of
Vision was gone. They had made
themselves the masters of their own destiny.
Destiny is one thing, however, the greedy and the
short-sighted can never master. As the
city grew, the forest around it died.
More and more people meant taller and taller buildings of gray stone,
and although the entombed temple stood in the center of the city, none would
even think of demolishing it. As the
city’s waste polluted the land around it, the woods took on an aura of death:
trees became twisted and black, animal and plant life were nowhere to be
found. The whole scene took on a dull,
grayish tone, as if enveloped by a musty, decadent fog. One night, out of the mist came a blackness,
a formless void descending upon the city.
As the darkness descended, all became still. Doom had come to the ill-fated town.
Outside Erika’s house, the storm raged with greater
intensity. The house shook in the wind;
from the roof came a crashing sound, and them movement and brushing about, as
though a tree had fallen. The window in
the loft rattled still louder, although it sounded less like a wind rattle,
than something pushing on it, trying to force it open.
Erika’s gaze returned to the stones. They had formed another image, a kind of
tablet upon which were inscribed strange words, written in great haste. She could not make out all the words, but
those she could understand told a frightening tale. There is a Seeker of Dead Souls, or some such
thing, seeing backwards through the
Smoke of Vision. It sees when the gods
have abandoned something, or when something has abandoned the gods, and comes
forth like a black night from the skies to cleanse the earth of its
foulness. Something about birds being
its watchers, and it coming in a great wind from the seas. Erika could make out no more; there was a
line of strange runes appended to the writing, of indecipherable meaning.
The strange story of the dead city, ending with the descent
of a dark thing from the skies; had she not seen a darkness floating about in
the stormy sky? A Seeker of Dead Souls, a thing that sucks your soul -- what
had the old man been talking about? The
window in the loft was now banging violently, and Erika had the terrible
feeling that something was looking in, through the window, at her. She was petrified, and could not move to
look. Had something indeed been
summoned, been brought forth; had her presence catalyzed some ancient horror,
and brought it to life in this place?
Could the stone house in which she now sat have been the remnant of some
ancient place, where an unspeakable horror had run its course?
Two sharp raps on the upstairs window were followed by the
sound of breaking glass, and through the howl of the storm, Erika was certain
she heard something hit the floor in the loft.
As this happened, she instinctively began to trace over the line of unintelligible
runes with her silver dagger; as she did so, they began to glow a bright,
purplish blue. Tracing the runes
carefully, her hand shaking, she was sure something was making its way down the
stairs behind her; an oozing, slithering sound as some abhorrent sliminess
inched its way closer and closer. She
traced the last rune as something landed on the floor behind her with a loud
splat, releasing the stench of rotting corpses.
The ground began to shake, and Erika felt her head being
seized by a strong force. The vision of
the city returned; dark, cold and lifeless.
The stones surrounding the temple began to move, and the walls fell,
revealing the temple within. From the
temple emerged first one, then another and another, bright greenish yellow tentacle-like
streams of mist. One by one, the
tentacles wrapped themselves around the towers of stone, bringing them down in
a crash of stone and dust. Soon, the
city was leveled, save the stone temple in its center, from which the tentacles
had emerged. The greenish yellow light
began to glow brighter and brighter, and as a white mist rose up from the
forest and engulfed the entire city, the whole scene exploded in a flash of
green light and the sound of a painful scream - the final shriek of the decadent
city as it vanished from existence forever.
Nothing was left but stars in a dark sky, between which drifted whisps
of glowing white mist. A faint sound of
chanting could be heard, along with a rushing sound that might have been quiet
laughter.
Erika opened her eyes; it was morning. She had fallen asleep in her chair. Looking up the stairs, the window was intact,
with the bright blue morning sky shining through. The stones in front of her had become quiet,
solid stones once more. Outside, the
brilliant golden rays of the morning sun cut through the trees. The sense of brooding misfortune was gone; it
was a new day. As she stood up, she felt
something in her lap. Her silver dagger
was there, but there was something else: a dark leather pouch, tightly closed
by a drawstring. Undoing the drawstring,
Erika saw what was inside. It was a bag
of rune stones, small flat rocks bearing odd symbols, symbols she recognized
from the dream as those that had been upon the wall -- the very ones she had
traced out with her dagger. The symbols
were painted with a glittering paint, that gave the effect of glowing and
motion when placed in the light.
She heard the sound of a dog barking, and, closing the bag of
stones, went to the front door and opened it.
The old man was coming down the road, with his dog. Instead of being angry, the dog was playful,
fetching sticks as the old man threw them.
“Some storm, eh?” he said.
“And that earthquake, we don’t get many like that. Need the storms though, once in a while. Keeps everything clean.”
Had there been an earthquake?
She had felt the house shake; maybe it had not been a dream after
all. Erika felt a sudden urge to get
back to the Wizard, and to her
comrades. A feeling came over her that
whatever the dream had meant, forces had been set in motion that would alter
the course of her future, and the future of her friends as well. Whether for good or for ill, powers had begun
constellating themselves, powers that could crush and destroy entire
civilizations. Perhaps it was the
will-to-power, the power of the Spirit world, that was readying itself for its
final pounce on the civilizations of humanity -- the great darkness come
calling for the dead soul of the world.
Excerpt from Meta-Consciousness:
The Not Philosophy of Phineas the !Pirate:
“The present age,”
wrote Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard in 1846, “is essentially a sensible,
reflecting age, devoid of passion, flaring up in superficial, short-lived
enthusiasm and prudentially relaxing in indolence.” It was not meant as a compliment. In contrast to the age of revolution, when
passionate determination drove individuals to heroic deeds and impassioned
struggle brought forth fundamental changes in the nature of the world, culture
in the present has degenerated into a stagnation of rationalized inaction. Punctuated by the emergence and disappearance
of “causes,” so seemingly important and so realistically insignificant, society
has become a passive bystander, so sure that it is better to do nothing and
keep what it has, than to move forward and risk losing everything.
Since Kierkegaard’s
time, there have been impassioned struggles, both for and against one idea or
another, and the face of the world has been changed by them. But not so in the present world, where
everything is subsumed under the banner of negotiation. Change is not wrought by negotiation, change
is prevented by moving the theater of action from the battlefield to the puppet
show of endless debate. Freedom and
liberty are absolutes, they cannot be rationalized or traded away. And so, in the present age, the struggle for
ideals has been replaced by indolent relaxation in negotiated comfort. Whatever valor and progress could have been
brought forth by those struggles has been traded for the monotony and emptiness
of carefully policed “peace”.
What replaces passion
in modern society is what Kierkegaard called chatter, endless babble about
things that are of no real interest and certainly of no genuine importance. Technology has intensified the stream of idle
nonsense. Talk-shows and soap operas
spew forth the innermost details of individual lives, while the indolent mind,
too indolent to consider that it is none of its business, soaks it up like a
towel soaking up fresh vomit. Therein
lies the deeper purpose of social chatter.
By bringing forth the innermost details of individual life into public
view, the mental space so necessary for consciousness to keep itself apart from
the world collapses -- both for speaker and listener. The self requires insulation from the gaze of
others for its existence. When its
contents are made public, it ceases to be a self, it becomes the world, and
consciousness collapses. Chatter is a
therefore a thing against consciousness, and a culture saturated with chatter
is a culture devoid of consciousness.
If the present age is
one of stagnation, then it is also one of anticipation -- of waiting on the
brink, as though something is about to happen.
A news flash of a death of someone far away, of an arrest or of a trial
stirs emotions to the boiling point.
Maybe now something is going to happen, it is thought, but it never
does. Just another jolt of enthusiasm
that quietly sinks into the mire of endless chatter. The reason for this stagnation is that by
abandoning the individual for the collective, will-to-power has been lost. The motivating force that drives individuals
forward disappears when individuality sinks into the social slough. Thus, all that is left to do is to watch and
wait, to remain on the brink of what might happen, since there is no passionate
drive to make anything happen at all.
So the world
waits. All art, science, religion and
knowledge are, according to Dr. Howard Hendrix in The Ecstasy of Catastrophe, ultimately about three questions: “How did it begin?” “How is it
going?” and “How will it end?” The
indolent mind delights in history, for its rationalization can toy endlessly
with re-writing its own inevitability.
Of how it is going Kierkegaard writes, “We must say that of the present
age that it is going badly.” “Its
condition is like that of the stay-abed in the morning,” writes Kierkegaard in Two Ages, “who has big dreams, then torpor, followed by a witty or ingenious
inspiration to excuse staying in bed.”
The present age is going badly because it is not going at all; it is
merely holding its place, waiting for some future that will extend the present
into the eternal. The end is
unthinkable, and yet that is all that is left.
When will-to-power is gone, passion is stilled, and movement is halted,
the only thing left to wait for is the end of the world.
The popularity of
apocalyptic literature will attest to this.
The social mind cannot wait for change; change is impossible in a state
of relaxed indolence. It can only wait
for the end. Society must embrace its
end enthusiastically, for it is essentially incomplete; it is missing
something, something that will finally rationalize its existence. Social order can only be finally completed
when it is destroyed; once the individual has been subsumed under the
collective, the only avenue for the expression of will-to-power is
annihilation. The world therefore waits
with its breath held; the news of a stray comet or asteroid, of an earthquake or a plague bringing forth a
cultural shiver that maybe now, at last, something will finally happen. Quoting Hendrix again, the public waits
“ecstatically for their tickets on the God Bus to be punched by global catastrophe.”
What the social mind
does not understand though -- what it cannot face and therefore will not
comprehend -- is that when that end comes, it will be the End. As Hendrix writes, apocalypse is a
transformation from what is to what ought-to-be -- a destruction of the outward
world that transforms the inner. Having
lost the inner -- having sacrificed will-to-power and individual consciousness
for relaxation and indolence -- there is no inner to transform. There will be no Day After the Second Coming,
no Angel on the other side of the Abyss; everything that “ought-to-be” has been
negotiated away. Without individuality
there is no ought-to-be; indolent chatter and indifferent propriety have
emptied the future of salvation. Just as
for the ancient cultures that vanished from the face of the earth, when the End
finally comes, it will be punctuated by a period, not a semicolon.
*
* *
The End was on St. Joe’s mind, as he lay on the bed in his
hotel room at the waterfront. Was the
world really doomed? All the prophecies
describing the end of the world were not optional; they were not there to offer
choices, but rather to describe what would come to pass. Why would someone offer, to beings with free
will and rational choice, such a picture?
The whole point of those abilities is having the capacity to alter one’s
future. What purpose could be served by
the inevitability of the future, if one could not choose otherwise?
The television news was on, and some public figure was
talking about the need for censorship.
It was, according to this man’s view, not so much an issue of free
speech, as it is one of “shared values”.
Controlling what can be seen, read and said defines who we, as a
community, are, said the man. That
certain views, words, and pictures should be kept from the public is essential
to keeping us, as a group, together, he proclaimed.
Of course it was never stated what these “shared values”
really were. It seemed as though they
could not be stated, for to do so would open them up to examination. Should they be peculiar to one religion, for
example, they would provoke reactions from all the others; should they be
specific for one race, one economic class, or some other category, they would
immediately provoke a reaction from all others.
To claim that child pornography is offensive to all, for example, is to
ignore the existence of the pedophile, as much a part of the “community” as the
parish priest. Preventing the expression
of racist views merely hides the existence of racism. Paradoxically, censoring racism belittles and
ridicules all who have suffered discrimination, pushes them out of picture and protects the racist from public
scrutiny.
To bring “shared values” out in the open would immediately
bring forth the obvious fact that they are not “shared”, and open them up to
discussion and debate, and eventual dissolution in social chatter. “Shared values” must remain an absolute
category, and therefore remain absolutely empty of content. This is the only way such “values” can be
used as tools for control. “Shared
values” does not, and cannot, mean anything, for if it did, it would be open to
debate -- its meaning would be exposed, its impact negotiated away in social
chatter -- and its controlling force diluted.
It is not a meaningful phrase; it is a psychological trigger, a stimulus
to the mechanisms of the brain that control social behavior. It serves neither to instruct nor to
persuade, but to synchronize the
behavior of members of society unconsciously.
Its intent is to provoke a behavioral reaction, not to stimulate thought
or reflection.
Jesus, thought St. Joe, maybe Phineas is right -- maybe
people in society really have lost consciousness. This is how bees and termites behave, not
sentient beings. They make noises and
physical movements that trigger latent behaviors. Honey bees do not explain where they have
found food, they carry out a dance that stimulates an already wired-in
behavioral pattern in the other bees to go out and get the food. There was no choosing involved; and that idea sent a shiver through St. Joe’s
body. Maybe that was the point of the
ancient prophecies: not so much to warn
conscious beings of what will happen, but to tell them of what will happen when the ability to choose one’s
future is lost.
He must have fallen asleep with these thoughts, for St. Joe
awoke into a dream, wandering a deserted city street, in a gray-misted
drizzle. There were large buildings and
vacant lots, with an occasional vehicle of one kind or another making its way
down the street. As he turned a corner,
St. Joe saw a line of people at the entrance to one of the buildings, filing
inside. He had something in his hand --
a ticket, it appeared to be -- and so he joined in the line. As he entered the building, someone took his
ticket, and he proceeded through a doorway.
The door led into a large auditorium; no, it was a stage, a television
studio. The rows of audience seating
descended toward the stage itself, with lights, television cameras, and other
equipment being set up. On the stage
were several chairs and a couch; it was evidently intended for some kind of
discussion, rather than a game show or action movie. St. Joe took a seat toward the back of the
room.
As the audience seats began filling up, the stage lights came
on, and cameras on long booms began moving about the building. A man dressed in a checked coat and pants,
off to the side of the stage, was adjusting a lapel microphone. The man gave a signal, and the “applause”
light over the stage came on. As the
noise from the audience rose, the man walked from the side of the stage to its
center, waving as he did so. Evidently
the show’s host, he began speaking to the audience, both in the building and in
the ether. The applause died down; even
so, St. Joe could not clearly hear what the host was saying. Something about a man with an unusual
background, who only through the strangest of circumstances could be with us
tonight. He motioned with his hand to
the side of the stage, the applause light and response from the audience came
on, and everyone’s attention turned to the spotlight.
From the side of the stage emerged an unkempt, dirty looking
man dressed in blue jeans and a gray, long sleeved shirt. The applause from the audience rose to
deafening proportions as he turned and showed the back of his shirt, upon which
the words “State Corrections” were stenciled.
This man is a prisoner, thought St. Joe, a convict of some sort, and yet
they’re applauding him?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the host, motioning toward the
prisoner, adding with a tone of sarcasm, “and not-so-gentle men, may I present,
the Red Light Strangler.” The audience
not only applauded, but stood up; a standing ovation for a felon. St. Joe sat back in his chair, partly
horrified and partly curious, as the host shook the man’s hand, and they sat
down in adjacent chairs.
“So, how did you come by the name, ‘Red Light Strangler’?”
asked the host. “I know most of your
victims were prostitutes, so I guess that explains the ‘Red Light’ part, but I
thought . . . ”
“You know that’s funny,” replied the man in a hoarse voice,
“I just used a rope to hold them down. I
killed those people with a knife, most of the time. It’s the name the homicide detectives gave
me, and it just stuck. No pun
intended.” He chuckled, followed by
brief laughter from the audience. St.
Joe felt himself getting sick.
“Well, it must have surprised you when the jury let you
go. It wasn’t just a mistrial, they
voted you ‘Not Guilty’.”
“Not really. I fully
expected to walk out of that courtroom.
The law is one thing; yes, maybe I violated the law, but everyone does
sooner or later. The point of the
justice system is not whether you have broken the law, but whether or not you
should be punished. That’s a different
thing. Some people get thrown in jail
because of their color, and so on.
Others go free that really shouldn’t.
Everybody breaks the law; some get jailed because that’s where society
wants ‘em, not because of what they did.
The law is there mostly to give society the chance to put people away
they don’t want around.”
“But you should be free, on the outside?” said the host.
“Oh yeah,” replied the Strangler, “I broke the law, but I
didn’t do anything wrong.” Something hot and wet began making its way up
St. Joe’s esophagus; he really was going to be sick. The Strangler continued: “That’s the
difference. I did what people wanted
done; I did their dirty work for ‘em. In
their eyes, the eyes of the jury, it wasn’t wrong
to kill a bunch of hookers and druggies and bums; it’s what they all wanted to
do, too, but never got around to it.”
“I really find it hard to believe that society, and more to
the point, the jury, would go along with killing as a way of solving its
problems?”
“So what do you think they do with prisoners -- move ‘em into
mansions? What in hell do ya think the
death penalty is? It’s the same thing as
what I did, it’s just that one makes people feel all righteous, and the other
disgusted. But we’re at a point where
righteousness overcomes disgust; that’s what my trial was all about. People putting their sense of right and wrong
over and above what a bunch of lawyers say.
Morality over the law, it’s what we need to set society right. People have to get out there and do what needs
to be done, if we’re gonna live in this world.”
“You see yourself, then,” said the host, “as a kind of
vehicle for the needs of society?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” replied the Strangler. “When I was taking care of those scum, it
wasn’t me cuttin’ em up, it was society.
All the men and women in their little houses, with their pretty clothes
and shiny cars, who don’t want their children growing up seeing those
scum. It was them that did the job,
through my hands. I’m sort of like the
janitor, the exorcist . . . ”
That was it. St. Joe
bolted up from his chair, out the door and out of the building. In the street, he propped himself up against
the building, feeling cold and nauseated.
The scene seemed too unreal, but then so did most everything else about
the world. The whole idea of “shared
values” came back into his mind, of unconscious behavioral control. Forget it, thought St. Joe, he did what he
did. You want to be an exorcist, you
want to get in the ring with the big boys?
I’ll show you an exorcism you . . .
To which St. Joe appended a word totally unbecoming an ordained priest,
even an excommunicated one.
He heard a sound in the sky above him, and looked up. Visible against the gray clouded night sky
was a large black bird, circling above the movie lot. Something Erika had said once came into his
mind, something about a hawk-headed god, a crowned and conquering child. He felt faint for a moment, then shut his
eyes as a jolt went through his body.
When he opened his eyes, he was circling in flight above the movie
lot. He felt his powerful wings beating
and cutting through the air. That was
the building, that one, straight ahead.
A door opened; he could see inside, he could see the stage with the host
and the Strangler seated, talking.
He began his descent from high in the air, remembering the
final lines from the Grand Inquisitor;
but this savior did not deserve to wait until morning. “For if anyone has ever deserved our fires,
it is Thou. Tonight I shall burn thee. Dixi!”
He folded his wings and flew in through the door like a missile. The Strangler stood up to face him; as he did
so, the bird hit him square in the chest.
All St. Joe could think was burn,
burn! The Strangler exploded in a
supernova of blue-white flame. The shock
wave brought down the sides of the stage, as the howls and shrieks of sound
equipment crashing to the floor mixed with the screams of the terrified
crowd. From the glowing ball on the
stage that had been the Strangler, blue-white tentacles of flame emerged,
igniting everything in their path. Walls
and equipment burst into flames as the crowd poured into the street. In a pathetic groan, the flaming building
collapsed, flames towering in the air above the studio lot in a gigantic
mushroom cloud. Dixi.
Awakening in his bed, St. Joe saw that the television news
was carrying the live story of a burning building at a movie studio. The building had burst into flames during the
taping of a talk show, the reporter said.
It was rumored that a guest on the show had been the Red Light
Strangler, a controversial figure whose trial and acquittal had aroused much
interest, and had prompted several “copy-cat” killings in the city’s poorer
sections. Investigators were considering
the possibility that a bomb had been set, the reporter said, or that some
terrorist group had started the fire.
Some members of the audience reported hearing the word “
St. Joe turned off the television. If tragedy is willful blindness to reality,
he thought, then stupidity must be willful blindness to obvious truth. It had to be a bomb, or a shooting; the world
would never be able to face the truth of the way the Strangler had died. It was far easier to believe in the Strangler
-- in the savior of “shared values” -- tthan to believe that there could be any
sense of right and wrong above social morality.
For the social animal, it is impossible to believe that there could be
any justice beyond what people mete out to themselves. Tragic and stupid, and blind in both cases;
terms defining the state of the modern world.
A state that would be considered clinically psychotic, if clinical states
weren’t defined by social norms.
Rolling over in his bed, he could see the distant glow of the
burning studio through the window.
Trying to relax and sleep, he could not help noticing that the glow had
taken on a distinctive pulsating character, a dimming and brightening of yellow
and orange, as if to remind him of something best not remembered.
*
* *
The morning was clear and cool; a breeze was blowing in from the ocean, doing
its best to blow St. Joe’s large, black floppy hat off as he stood waiting at
the bus stop. He had long ago abandoned
driving motor vehicles: an exorcist must pay careful attention to any kind of
movement, especially those seen out of the corner of the eye. That kind of attention pre-empts the safe
operation of a car. It is much more
important for the exorcist to pay attention to his surroundings than to ignore
them, for it is often things seen only in fleeting glimpses that foretell the
most serious and ominous events.
St. Joe alighted from the bus into a neat, quiet suburban
neighborhood. Leaves had begun falling
from the trees in
It made little difference; the horror he had come to see
loomed before him in plain sight. Atop a
small grass-covered hill stood a newly built church, with a neatly dressed man,
in suit and tie, pacing nervously in front of the door. The uneven color of the grass suggested there
had been a large tree on top of the hill, that had been removed for the
church. A fairy-mound, thought St. Joe
to himself, the idiots built their church on a fairy-mound. Now they wonder why there are problems?
The man at the door spotted St. Joe, and waved to him. St. Joe waved back, making his way slowly up
the steps to the door. How odd, thought
St. Joe, that a Protestant church should have felt the need to employ a priest from
his background. Other members of the
Order had tried, he surmised, and had failed, so the Superiors had chosen him
for the job -- assuming that an exorcism was really the intention.
Definitely something wrong, thought St. Joe to himself;
definitely a presence, but not so much from the past as from the present. Roweena had talked about fairy-mounds being
like teleporters between the ordinary world and the world of fairies. Fairy or not, something was out and about.
“Father Joseph?” asked the man in nervous anticipation. St. Joe nodded, and the man continued,
somewhat relieved. “I am Dr. Gardner,
pastor.” He reached out his hand and shook
St. Joe’s.
“No relation to Gerald, I presume,” said St. Joe.
“Excuse me. Gerald
whom?”
“Nothing. Inside joke,
sorry,” said St. Joe. “Now, what kind of
problems are you having? This church
doesn’t seem as if its been here long enough to acquire any, well, spiritual
problems. There was a tree here, an oak,
perhaps?”
“Why, yes, a large oak tree.
We had it cut down when we bought the property a little over a year
ago. Children used to think the place
was haunted or something; they used to celebrate Halloween up on this
hill. But things progress; where there
was once heathen child’s play there now stands a house of God.”
“And of something else, evidently, by what I was told,” said
St. Joe. “You have had problems with
your lights? I assume you have called an
electrician, and had the wiring checked?”
“Oh yes,” replied the pastor.
“And the plumbing, and the locks on the doors, and the air
conditioning. Doors opening during
services, broken water pipes and flooded rooms.
When we first opened, we had candles on the altar, but they would blow
out during prayer. We replaced them with
electric lights, and now the whole church goes dark, without any reason. But the worst of it has been the effect it’s
had on the children. Sometimes they are
so scared, they will get up during a service and run screaming out of the
church. Other times, it’s as though they
have invisible playmates. I’ve found
them dancing and joking with make-believe friends, right here in the
church. Not unusual for children to do
that, of course, but very unusual in church.
I’ve had them break out laughing during a prayer; when asked why, they
say they are laughing because the jokes are funny, or at the funny faces they
see in the windows. But of course no one
hears any jokes, or sees anything in the windows.”
Or wants to, thought St. Joe to himself. “Were there any unusual problems during the
building of the church? Anything
strange?”
“Oh problems. Yes,
quite a few. We were lucky no one was
injured. Most of the things happened at
night. Scaffolding collapsing, tools
turning up missing the next day, boards breaking or warping. We pretty much chalked it up to neighborhood
kids, upset at losing their playground.
Some people said that this was once an Indian burial ground, but no
artifacts have ever been found here. Just
obstacles. That’s what faith is for,
right, Father? Faith always overcomes
adversity,” said the pastor with a smug grin.
Whatever power St. Joe had that created fear in others, he
cranked it up to full. “Yes,” he said,
staring the pastor into nervous silence.
But, he thought to himself, stupidity has yet to overcome history.
“Perhaps we should go inside?” said St. Joe, motioning with his hand toward the
door.
“Yes, yes of course,” said the pastor nervously, glancing
toward the door, then back at St. Joe.
He opened the door, and both men went inside.
The door opened to the rear of the church, and the seating
was arranged much like an auditorium; much like the studio St. Joe had visited
the night before. As he tried his best
to push that image out of his mind, the pastor spoke.
“I was a missionary in
St. Joe turned to face the pastor, and turned on that power
again, riveting him to the wall. “I
don’t suppose it ever occurred to you to send for vegetable seeds, or
medicines? Maybe even a bar of soap?”
said the exorcist. The pastor fell
silent for a few moments, while St. Joe turned to face the front of the
church. It was built in an early
American colonial style, every effort having been made to show simplicity and
plainness. The simplicity of the
puritanical, thought St. Joe; none of the fancy torture instruments of the
Inquisition, just simple drowning or burning at the stake.
“Do . . . do you want
me to leave you alone, Father?” said the pastor timidly.
No, you pompous sonofabitch, you’re going to see this first
hand, said St. Joe’s ominous stare. St.
Joe merely motioned toward the front, and the pastor slowly, nervously, began
walking down the aisle with St. Joe behind him.
As the two walked, the inside of the church began to transform from the
neat, white colonial interior to a dark, frozen plain. Scrawny black plants and bare trees dotted
the desolate tundra, and gusts of gray, icy mist blew to and fro. There were occasional mounds of stone and mud
with small openings, from which emerged a greenish light; evidently the
dwellings of whatever creatures could inhabit such a place.
As the two men continued to walk down the church aisle, it
became apparent that they were also walking upward in the frozen world --
upward toward the top of a small hill.
The further they walked, the more real the frozen world became until,
having reached the top of the dim, icy hill, the world of the church was
gone. On top of the hill was a square
hole, about three feet long and a foot wide, surrounded by an improvised fence
of small sticks. Looking in the hole,
the pastor saw to his horror an open casket, holding the small, shriveled body
of a creature whose general build, save its size, appeared to be human, though
its facial features were distinctly not of the human race. Around the body were items of jewelry, and brightly
colored flowers looking more like the gardens near the church, than anything
that could have grown in the frozen tundra world.
“The oak tree was their God,” said St. Joe, “it was the lone
source of life in this forgotten place.
The oak tree you cut down was, in this world, the being you see lying
before you. You killed it, you killed
their God, and here you see the result.
These creatures can only survive now by moving between the worlds,
coming into your world to find food. It
is their passing that causes disturbances in the building, shorts out the
power, and fuels the visions seen by children in the church.”
“Get rid of it,” said the pastor. “Whatever this is, it matters not to us. You said it’s ‘their world,’ well, it’s not
ours. Break the connection. Get these things out of my church!”
“You really are so arrogant,” said St. Joe, “to think that
your little suit and tie and your white paint make you better than everyone
else. Better than these creatures, in
their world perhaps millions of years old?
Better than God, to decide who will come and who will go in the
world? Are you really that perfect, or
do you just think you are?”
“I’ll show you what perfection is,” said the pastor
angrily. From inside his coat, he took
out a small box. He opened the box and
removed a metal cross. Leaning into the
hole, he plunged the cross into the body’s neck. Instantly, flames exploded from the hole. The pastor jumped back and stood. “This is perfection,” he shouted
triumphantly, “this is the power of God!”
Shrieks and howls began to rise from the landscape, as the
cold breeze grew stronger. From the
stone huts, figures began to emerge: misshapen, humanoid in form, but covered
with coarse fur, and bearing lobster-like claws. Some carried ropes, other sticks or small,
axe-like tools. They were all moving in
the direction of the hill, grunting and hissing as they did so.
“You think you are better than the dead?” said St. Joe, more
with the tone of a judge reading a sentence than a priest giving a sermon. “You think you are better than God, better
than their god, too? All right then,
we’ll give you the chance to prove it.”
St. Joe put his left foot behind the pastor, and gave him a shove
backwards. The pastor toppled to the
ground, his eyes bulging in terror as crustaceous claws seized him, and began
binding him with ropes. “You are better
than God? All right, let’s see how well you can provide for this place.”
St. Joe turned back the way he had come, and began walking
down the hill, ignoring the pastor’s screams and curses. Other creatures were advancing toward the
hill; these were somewhat larger, appearing more fairy-like, bearing crude
weapons resembling pole-axes. As he
continued walking, he felt his feet beginning to climb the aisle of the church. He also felt searing heat against his face;
as the image of the church began to replace that of the tundra, he realized the
church was on fire. Reaching the top of
the aisle, he could see flames lapping up the sides of the walls. Making his way through the open door, he saw
a crowd gathering outside, and heard the sounds of sirens approaching.
Ignoring the crowd, he continued walking toward the street,
and noticed that a group of bikers had stopped in the street in front of the
church. He had almost passed them when
one of them called out.
“Hey man, you look like you could use a ride,” the stout,
bearded man who was apparently the leader shouted.
“No, thanks anyway,” said St. Joe, without interrupting his
gait.
“Father Joseph,” the biker called out, in a stern, less
friendly, tone. St. Joe stopped and
turned to face him. “There’s a guy who
wants to talk to you. He didn’t seem
like he wanted to be kept waiting.”
St. Joe took affront to the leader’s tone of voice. “No one likes to wait,” he said, “but
everyone can learn to. I have my own . .
. ”
He was cut off by a hand gesture the leader made, having
opened his coat so that only St. Joe could see it. It wasn’t the gesture he had anticipated; St.
Joe recognized it as a secret sign of the Order.
“He said if I showed you this, it might change your mind,”
said the biker.
“He was right,” said St. Joe.
“I’m sorry, it’s been a rough morning.
Let’s not keep him waiting.”
St. Joe climbed on the large motorcycle behind the leader as
the other members of the gang mounted their cycles and started their
engines. Amid clatter and roar, the gang
rode away. Down street after street,
they turned one corner after another, until St. Joe could smell the odor of the
waterfront. The sky darkened as they
rode into the fog-bound port. This was
not the modern, well-kept neighborhood of the Palace, but a much older part of
town. They passed broken and ramshackle
houses, many with broken windows covered with towels or plastic tarps of
various inappropriate colors. Finally,
the bikers stopped at a pier jutting into the fog from the street.
“Restaurant at the end of the pier,” said the leader,
motioning with his head toward the pier as St. Joe dismounted.
“Thanks,” replied St. Joe.
Piers and waterfront buildings always appear run-down,
thought St. Joe to himself, but this is more than appearance. This place really is run-down. He could not
see the end of the pier in the fog, but could see that it was just a wooden
pier, with areas for fishing along its sides.
As he walked down the pier, boards creaked beneath his feet, and more
than one seemed to bend alarmingly, as though about to break and drop him into
the sea. The smell of greasy, fried fish
entered his nose as the lights of the restaurant emerged from the fog. It looked to be a filthy place; rotting
boards covered with uneven coats of paint, large plate glass windows
overlooking the sea, revealing cheap tables and chairs inside. But the clientele looked decent enough, and they
had the good taste to be playing the music of his own troupe, albeit through a
sound system to which the word ‘quality’ could in no way be applied. As he entered, he was ushered to a table by a
busy waitress. He ordered soup, and
turned to stare out the window and wait.
“And so, have you killed the Antichrist?” said a low, quiet
voice, interrupting his mindless stare into the fog. “And twice yet, in so many days?”
St. Joe turned away from the window, and noticed that a man,
dressed like himself -- as a priest, with large, black floppy hat -- had taken
the seat across the table from him. He
wore no obvious symbol of rank in the Order.
It was said that certain high members of the Order never displayed their
rank in public, preferring to cloak their status in humility. St. Joe surmised that this man might be one
of those Superiors, and thought it best to simply avoid questions of authority.
The waitress brought them both bowls of soup, and after she
left, the man spoke again.
“Well, is the beast dead?”
“I don’t think so,” said St. Joe, “but we may have frustrated
his work a bit.”
“I should think so.
Two executions in as many days; you should have put in for the
Inquisition,” said the
“It will take more
than executions to rid the world of the Antichrist, should he actually be among
us. After all, he is one who can recover
from a mortal wound, can he not?”
“That’s true,” said the
“I suppose that it’s not so much a question of what sort of
creature he is,” replied St. Joe, “as it is a question of how the wound is
cured. Most have assumed there would be
a miraculous cure, or something like that.”
“Yes,” said the
“I don’t think it’s a sign of weakness,” replied St. Joe,
somewhat irked at the scolding. “It’s a
necessity of the logic involved. A
mortal wound is one that must be fatal, and recovering from it means it is not
fatal. Without divine intervention, it
is a contradiction, a meaningless and therefore useless assertion.”
St. Joe thought for a moment, and continued: “Unless . .
. unless it’s a riddle, a problem to be
solved, not a meaning to discover.” He
noticed the
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said the
“Historically, the alternative has always been the Church
that has been labeled the Antichrist, if it is not to be a man,” said St. Joe.
“In times past, that might have been plausible,” said the
“Some other religion, then?
Some belief system opposed to Christ?” asked St. Joe.
“You are forgetting that the word ‘anti’ is ambiguous as to
which of several meanings it can have.
One means opposite, as you are thinking.
Matter and antimatter. The other
meanings are ‘next to’ and ‘before’,” said the
“Next to Christ, well, that still points to the Church,” said
St. Joe. “That’s very much the argument
of the Grand Inquisitor, that the
Church now stands in place of Christ.
But you’re right, it doesn’t have the political power it had in those
times. No religion today has that kind
of power.”
“No,” replied the
“It’s like they are the tentacles of some giant monster,”
said St. Joe. “We cut off the tentacle,
but the monster lives, and sprouts new ones for each we cut off. But where is the monster? Of course even if we found it, it would make
little difference, since it will recover from whatever is done to it.”
“Not from whatever can
be done to it, Brother,” said the
“The Strangler said he was acting on behalf of culture,” said
St. Joe. “Is that the monster? Is society the Antichrist? I would think that society is very much alive
. . . ”
“And how would you kill it?” interrupted the
“So it can’t be killed,” said St. Joe, “and therefore can neither be wounded nor
cured, satisfying at least the logical form of the riddle. That does make some sense. Society certainly does place its mark upon
its chosen members. You can’t hardly get
a job without a drug test. That’s a mark
of sorts.”
“The word ‘upon’ is also somewhat ambiguous. As you say, society places its marks; whether
it comes to tattoos or some such thing is irrelevant. What matters is what’s on the inside.”
The
“The bicameral mind,” said St. Joe. The
“I think you have found your Antichrist, then,” said the
“The Savior, fighting the battle on two fronts; that is a bad
position to be in,” said St. Joe. “But
of course, if my friend the philosopher is right, similar struggles have
occurred in the past, and the Savior has always won in the end. Culture has always fallen in the face of
consciousness.”
“But at what cost?” said the
“The mark of the Beast is upon them already,” said St.
Joe. “People are fascinated with
end-of-the-world stories because it is their future, and at some level they
know it. It is unavoidable; that is the
whole point of consciousness in the first place. The ability to deal with the unknown, to deal
with it by living outside the rules of social order. Mankind has sealed its fate by having chosen
the city over the wilderness.”
“Yes, without consciousness,” said the
“Even worse,” said St. Joe,
“the trendiest idea for avoiding the End is the computerization of the
brain. The technophiles are convinced
that the human brain can eventually be replaced by a computer, one function at
a time, until the whole body and brain are reduced to a microchip. They call this evolution, but of course it is
the opposite. Evolution, whether natural
or divinely motivated, moved the human brain toward consciousness -- toward
rule-breaking -- and not toward computerization, rule following and
programming. Can you imagine that,
people so oversocialized, so in love with their technology, that they would
flock to abandon both evolution and God, and become their technology? One
glitch in the environment, that’s all it would take, and humanity would be
reduced to a bunch of hung processors, with no one to hit the reboot button. No soul, no archetypes, no consciousness, and
this is what they want? In the name of peace and social order, this
is where they want to go? When the End
comes, there won’t be anyone around to notice, at this rate.”
“That’s probably right,” said the
“What do you mean, wrench in the works?” asked St. Joe.
“The whole point of biblical prophecy,” said the
“I’m not sure that’s the fault of the Prophets,” said St.
Joe. “They always assumed it would
strike fear into those reading it, and that fear would recall the sense of
individual vulnerability. In modern
times, the isolation from faith brought on by culture has isolated people from
the fear prophecy is intended to provoke.
While people are fascinated by it, none of them actually believe it is
going to happen to them. There’s a good example of that. A press release put out by a group of
scientists -- culturally acceptable prophets, I would think -- a few years back
proclaimed that
“That is truly horrifying,” said the
“You make it sound as though the lots are already cast,” said
St. Joe, “as though the End has already been set in motion.”
“Prophecy is more than a warning, Brother Joseph. Prophecy is looking into the future, seeing
what will have occurred in the past from some future standpoint. It shows the fulfillment of a certain set of
possibilities, given that certain choices are made; it ordains what the future
will hold, given the meeting of certain conditions. The universe is constantly in motion, and
what is set in motion through seeing merely awaits the proper conditions for
its manifestation. Those conditions are
bound to arise, if not through action then by probability. Have you not seen it yourself? Have you not, Brother, seen that which will
be the End of your world?”
“What do you mean?” said St. Joe, agitated as memories of the
Thing poured forth into his mind. A
feeling of fear and loathing took hold of him; while he had consciously hoped
that the Thing was only a vision, the
unconscious knowledge of what his vision meant had always lurked in the
background. Had the
“You know what I mean, you have seen it yourself,” replied
the
As the
Excerpt from Meta-Consciousness:
The Not Philosophy of Phineas the !Pirate:
Throughout its long and
often painful history, much of philosophy has been consumed with perpetual
arguments over opposing positions that have yielded no resolution. Thus it is surprising that one of the most
vexing problems in philosophy actually did come to resolution, although not at
the hands of philosophers. The argument
concerns the nature of what we call reality -- the totality of what exists, and
what it is like. One contender in the
debate is objectivism, the idea that reality consists of objects that exist
with certain characteristics all their own.
The opposing position is idealism, that reality is something that exists
in the mind, that whatever characteristics objects may have -- and indeed
whether they exist at all -- they have those characteristics because they are
perceived to have them by a mind.
The debate between
objectivism and idealism came to resolution in 1926, when physicist Werner
Heisenberg proposed his Uncertainty Principle.
It states that the more accurately we try to measure one of an object's
physical qualities -- its mass, for example -- the more we change another, such
as its motion. The act of observing the
universe therefore changes what objectivists think are its fundamental,
mind-independent qualities. We also see
the Uncertainty Principle in operation in the double-slit experiment, in which
light can behave either as waves or as particles, depending upon how we do the
experiment. It cannot be both at the
same time -- waves and particles are different things -- so the very nature of
light depends on how we observe it. Yet
it also reacts predictably, within limits defined by probability, so the strict
idealist view isn’t correct, either. The
universe, it turns out, is participatory: reality is as much a part of us and
our minds, as it is of objects. The
Heisenberg Principle is, in the end, the re-introduction of participation
mystique into the world of science. It
is the idea that reality is a partnership between mind and object, the very
same idea that gave rise to magick, and perhaps to consciousness itself, in the
ancient world.
However bitter a pill
this has been for both science and philosophy to swallow, Heisenberg’s Uncertainty
Principle, and the quantum mechanics upon which it rests, have radically
changed the world. Modern physics has
given us computers, lasers, nuclear weapons, medical technology, and other
things that have altered the way life is lived in the world. Whether for better or worse is a matter of
argument, but the changes they have brought are undeniable. These technologies are the roadside stops
that have sprung up along the path of quantum mechanics; they are the results
of following its often bizarre and confusing rules.
Technology is not the
end of the quantum path, and the road blazed by the Uncertainty Principle leads
into very dark woods. Erwin Schrödinger
argued that any possible observation exists as a superposition of states with
all other possible observations, until it is actually observed. This means that for anything that can happen,
the world exists in a multiplicity of possible states until one of them is
observed. Physicists have extended this
argument with the theory that all of those possible states actually exist --
that superpositions are existing worlds -- among which we locate ourselves
through observation. What makes the
world “real” to us is that we observe it, but all other observable worlds are
also out there, worlds with observers and objects in them, some very much like
ours, and some very different.
We create reality, it
turns out, by choosing what we observe.
In so doing we choose the world in which we live from among many. This is the legacy of the science that gives us
modern technology. If we accept the
technology, then we accept the rules that give it to us, and we must take their
consequences, no matter how bizarre they may seem. That choice may, in the end, prove our
undoing. In attempting to make the
world, as one politician put it, into an image of what we’d like to be, we may
have made it into our worst nightmare.
Ours is not the only world, and we are not necessarily the only
observers. Ultimately, “our” world may
not be ours at all. Perhaps even worse,
we may not be making the world into what we’d like to be, but into what we, at
some very deep level -- some level hidden from ordinary understanding --
are. And that may be something very
different from what we think we’d like to be.
*
* *
Phineas had a long standing interest in astronomy. His studies in philosophy had led to an
interest in astrophysics, and there was a certain fascination in watching the
objects that had given rise to such elegant theorizing. Beyond that, his own theory suggested that
the energy feeding consciousness might come from the cosmic furnaces at the
centers of galaxies. Looking at the
stars, Phineas thought, he might just be looking at a part of himself.
He packed his telescope, star finding guide, and such things
as would be needed for an overnight stay, rented a car, and headed for the
desert.
Driving into the desert, he found an exit from the Interstate
leading to a small side road. Along that
road, a dirt road led away from the Interstate, out into the desert
itself. He drove several miles along the
dirt road, and came to a small turnout.
It was flat, and except for some low hills to the west and mountains far
to the east, had a clear view all around.
In the dimming evening light he set up his telescope a short distance
from his car, so that its lenses would reach temperature equilibrium with the
cool air. He sat in the car, eating a
sandwich, waiting for the coming of darkness.
Night fell suddenly on the desert, or so it seemed, as the
sun dropped below the horizon. Phineas
emerged from the car, wearing a thick overcoat for protection against the cool
desert air and carrying a flashlight covered with red cellophane, to protect
his night vision. He adjusted the
telescope, pointing it at different stars and planets. The constellation Cygnus was almost overhead,
and behind it the glow of the Milky Way.
In the darkness of the desert, it really did seem as though it were a
roadway in the sky paved with milk. In
the northeast, the great Andromeda galaxy was clearly visible; it was one of
Phineas’s favorite objects to view.
Looking at its greenish glow, he often wondered if, for someone in that
galaxy, the Milky Way was their favorite object.
But the real prize was the Great Nebula in Orion. One of the few constellations that actually
resembles its mythological namesake, Orion does not rise in the October sky
until late at night. Its presence in the
sky heralds the coming of winter, escorting the Pleiades, the Seven Sisters, on
their nightly jaunt through the cool winter sky. Hanging from the three stars in Orion’s belt
is the sword, composed of several stars, and several nebulae visible to the
naked eye. Among them, the Great Nebula
is one of the most magnificent sights in the sky: brilliant, fiery stars
heating the surrounding cosmic clouds to fluorescence.
Sighting in on the Great Nebula, Phineas studied it
carefully. Its hot, bright stars buried
in glowing mist suggested lighthouses in a magnificent, glowing fog-bound
ocean. As he looked, the image jumped
briefly out of focus, then returned to sharpness. An instant later it happened again, only this
time the image became distorted, much as a reflection from a pool of water is
jumbled when a pebble is thrown in.
Dammit, thought Phineas, there shouldn’t be any thermals on a
night like this. The desert should not
have been hot enough to generate the upward swirling columns of air that can
ruin stargazing on warm nights. He took
his eyes briefly away from the eyepiece, shook his head, and noticed that the
desert air had grown noticeably cooler -- downright cold, in fact. Putting his eye back to the eyepiece, he saw
a surprising spectacle. The telescope
was still pointing at the Great Nebula, but something had changed. It was now brightly colored -- brilliant
reds, yellows and blues -- the way it is usually seen only through very large
telescopes. But there were the colors,
and the nebula itself seemed to have a slightly different shape, as though
either it had changed, or the angle from which it was being viewed had changed.
Phineas dropped in a lower powered eyepiece, and noticed that
the stars in Orion had changed position, too.
Ever so slightly, it was still recognizable as Orion, but the stars were
not in quite their usual places. He
turned on his flashlight to check the settings on the telescope’s mount, and
found that it did not work. It flickered
off and on, as though the batteries were weak; but he had put in fresh ones the
day before. He turned around, heading
for the car to turn on the lights, and as he did so, he bumped head first into
something hard.
It was a tree, a huge tree, with a trunk some three feet
wide. He stepped back, and looked
upward; in the light of the stars, he could see only an outline of the tree,
but it must have been two or three hundred feet tall. It was not alone; Phineas was standing in a
forest of monster trees. It so happened
that his telescope was oriented such that it could see Orion -- or whatever
constellation it really was -- through an opening in the forest canopy. Aside from the view of the stars directly
above, and through the small opening, everything was dark -- in the shadows of
tall, wide trees.
No, no, no, thought Phineas; this can’t be happening. This is the desert,
Phineas had no idea what to make of this scene. It simply could not be, but it was also
impossible to deny that he was not where he thought he was. He felt his mind coming to a halt; there was
just no way to come to terms with this situation. He had forgotten the match; it burned down to
his finger, and he dropped it, cursing. In
the darkness, looking down the path, he saw a dim light. Lighting another match, he made his way down
the path toward where the light had been.
After about ten minutes of walking, and nearly exhausting his
supply of matches, Phineas came to a small log cabin, through the window of
which came a yellowish-orange glow. He
could not see in the window; it was covered with some sort of paper. A short walkway led from the path to the
door, and as he knocked, the door swung open.
The room into which it opened was empty, except for two chairs and a
wooden table, on top of which stood a lighted candle. He stepped into the room, and closed the door
behind him.
What was standing in the corner, hidden behind the open door,
took his breath away. He recognized the
red hair, green eyes and tall, lean build of the woman he had seen at the
ship’s store. Instead of a tight green
dress, she was wearing the gleaming plate armor of a medieval knight. In her left hand, she held a helmet that
looked as if it must have weighed more than the girl herself, as Phineas had
remembered her. From her waist hung a
gleaming sword with a sinister, curved blade.
“For a man so gifted with thought, you always seem so short
of words,” she said. “Why don’t you sit
down? The Warden is expecting you.”
Warden? He was expected in this place? Someone had brought him here? But how?
The knight, for such she seemed to be, motioned toward the table, and,
holding his questions -- for they were coming too fast to speak any of them --
he quietly sat in the chair, just staring at her, and at the menacing scimitar
hanging at her side.
From a small doorway in the wall behind the table emerged a
tall, black robed, black hooded figure, wearing a golden sash about its
waist. In its arms it carried a disheveled
mass of paper and books; around its neck was a bright, gleaming silver chain,
from which hung a black-hilted silver dagger.
The figure turned to face Phineas, and he saw that it was the old man
from the ship’s store; his dirty appearance had vanished, however, and his
robes and hood were spotlessly black.
“Ahh,” he said, glancing briefly toward the knight, “here is
the man who knows what he wants when he finds it. Tell me, did you find what you wanted at the
bookstore?”
Phineas had completely forgotten the incident. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose I did. I’m not sure quite how, though.”
“How? Well, let us
just say it was meant as a hint,” said the Warden. “Maybe too subtle a hint; we shall have to
clarify some of that before we finish. I
certainly did find what I was looking for there.” He put the mass of papers and books on the
table, and as he sat down, Phineas noticed that on top of the pile was a copy
of his doctoral dissertation.
“You . . . you read my
dissertation? Someone actually read it?”
asked Phineas.
“Oh yes, yes, I read it.
Very carefully, several times.”
“Who are you,” asked Phineas, quickly glancing at the knight
and adding, “if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I am a Warden of the Circle,” said the man, “which in itself
is probably not a very enlightening answer.
In the days when magick was more primitive -- in the condition you and
your friends now know it, for example -- it was necessary to protect the places
magick was worked from outside forces.
That was the job of the Warden.
When magick became more sophisticated, that job became less necessary,
so the Wardens took on other functions.
There are different kinds of Wardens.
Path Wardens, for example, are involved in physical defenses; they head
the military orders. Our friend here, as
you can see, is a member of one of those.
Circle Wardens, such as myself, have always been more involved with
thoughts and ideas, and so we developed into a group specializing in the
critical analysis of ideas, and later, in the development of theories of
various kinds.”
“So you are philosophers, or scientists?” asked Phineas.
“We do not distinguish between the two. The early history of your world is enmeshed
in military conflict, which drove the sciences in the direction of technology,
military technology. Our direction,
while not devoid of technological development, has always stressed the
theoretical, and we arrived at a point where separating ideas of religion,
science and philosophy served as too much of a deterrent to progress. So, I would say, we are theoreticians,
without prejudice as to discipline,” said the Warden, finishing with a smile.
“Speaking of theories,” the Warden continued, “I found your
book most fascinating, particularly your notion of relating consciousness to
cosmological entities such as black holes.
That’s an approach I haven’t seen before. How did you arrive at it?”
“It’s all based on the idea that consciousness is fractal,”
replied Phineas. “Consciousness is, at
least according to Jung, a kind of interface between mind, body and
Spirit. Since those things are all
different from one another, they don’t really mix, but intertwine with one
another much like oil and water. It gets
kick-started from the body side by psychoactive drugs, which drive the brain
chaotic, and by archetypes from the spiritual side, which connect the mind with
Spirit. It all intermixes in a
self-generating pattern, creating a unique self and giving rise to individual
consciousness.
“Mystical experiences happen,” continued Phineas, “when consciousness encounters an interface
between the world and Spirit -- something that is not a part of the
spatiotemporal world. That meeting
creates a fractal, and the patterns of consciousness lock into the Spirit-world
fractal pattern. That’s a mystical experience. For consciousness to lock onto that
world-Spirit pattern, the pattern has to be there, it can’t just be in the
mind. We already know of one such case
where that pattern exists: at the event horizon of a black hole. Professor Hawking’s work suggests that the
event horizon is indeed chaotic, and if so, then it is a fractal pattern
generating enormous energies.
Observations tell us that chaotic, fractal systems tend to lock onto one
another, so it seems logical that the fractal system of consciousness, of the
event horizon, and of the world-Spirit interface could lock onto each
other. In which case, they behave as one
system.”
“And that is where you think the entelechy, the vital force,
the universal consciousness comes from?” asked the Warden.
“Yes, it is all one system,” said Phineas. “That there is more than one world or
dimension of existence, a fact that seems to be supported by theoretical
physics, means that this kind of interface must exist. Call it world-Spirit, or
space-time-other-dimension, or whatever.
If the universe exists at all, these kinds of interfaces must also
exist, and therefore there is the kind of universal system that could be
understood as universal consciousness.”
“So, therefore,” said the Warden, “if the universe exists,
then consciousness is inevitable? I take
it your theory is that this is not only so, but that the universe is evolving
toward a kind of total consciousness, a complete universal consciousness. What happens, if that occurs?”
“I don’t know,” replied Phineas. “Maybe it all blows up. Maybe it just stops evolving. Or maybe it big-bangs all over again; maybe
that’s what the universe does, progresses to universal consciousness, big-bangs
itself, then progresses again. Perhaps it’s a circle of some kind.”
“Well, I won’t pretend to know the outcome of that,” said the
Warden, “but your theory has some interesting implications. One of which is an interesting paradox: that
to exist, there must be non-existence.
To have consciousness, there must be other worlds, non-existences from
our point of view. To exist, at least
according to
“I guess that’s right,” said Phineas. “Sort of solves the ‘problem of other minds’
in philosophy, the question of whether there are other minds than one’s
own. If one has a mind, I guess it
pretty much means there have to be other minds.
Period.”
“Good,” said the Warden.
“Having laid that to rest -- but don’t bet on it -- we need to get back
to the issue of the bookstore, which has an interesting relationship to the
work of
“Under oath?” asked Phineas.
“Oh, yes,” replied the Warden. “A pre-condition for acquiring
certain kinds of wisdom is that it not be used to violate the free will of
another. I can argue until I’m blue in
the face, but I cannot conceal or reveal knowledge in such a way as to control
your actions. I’ve always taken that to
mean that the best way to the truth is to get one to find it for one’s self,
hence my tendency to give hints instead of lectures. But this is a special situation, as you will
discover.”
“Knowledge is a kind of power or energy,” said Phineas,
“maybe even the basic structure of the universe itself.”
“The basic structure of the universe, yes, that is perhaps a
good place to start,” said the Warden.
He fumbled through his stack of papers, and pulled out a yellowed
parchment, placing it in front of Phineas.
It was some sort of design, curved lines intertwining with each
other. “The basic structure of the
universe. Look at it, for a minute or
two, and tell me what you see.”
Phineas stared at the drawing, and as he did so, the lines
appeared to begin moving. Some of the
lines expanded, others contracted and disappeared; some formed themselves into cups,
swallowing other lines, and others danced to and fro, weaving themselves among
the other lines. The whole scene started
to make Phineas feel dizzy.
“Whoa,” said Phineas, “put that away.”
“Well, behold, the structure of the universe,” said the
Warden with a chuckle, as he shoved the paper back in among the others in his
stack. “That mess is what lies at the
bottom of existence; quantum foam, your physicists call it. Wavelike motions, fluctuations, that underlie
the matrix of space-time itself. It is
the source of energy from which the physical, the mental and the spiritual are
derived.”
“So that’s what energy looks like,” said Phineas.
“Yes,” said the Warden, “that’s it. That is the source of it, anyway. Everything that happens, everything that exists,
draws its energy out of that underlying structure. Things change -- radioactive materials decay,
particles are made and destroyed -- because of their interactions with it. There is no such thing as chance or
randomness; everything interacts with the energy matrix according to some kind
of probability distribution. Everything has some chance, depending upon its
circumstances, of capturing or releasing some of that energy.”
“Where does this energy actually come from?” asked Phineas.
“You yourself know the answer to that,” replied the
Warden. “From the fractal interfaces
found at event horizons, in the centers of galaxies, from deep within the
psyche. These are the sources of energy
that form the matrix; from those interfaces, energy waves propagate throughout
the universe.”
“Is that the energy that magick supposedly relies upon?”
asked Phineas.
“Supposedly!” said the Warden. “Certainly is a better way of putting
it. There are two kinds of magick,
roughly. The first might be called
transformative or spiritual magick, and it does work with the energy
matrix. Because that matrix is fractal,
it can connect up with consciousness, just like your entelechy or black
holes. This type of magick transforms
things: most often, the mind of the magician, from one state to another --
higher on the energy spectrum, as some put it.
Expansion of consciousness, mystical experience, initiation -- all of
those terms basically refer to the same thing, the acquisition of energy from
the matrix. Fractal consciousness uses
certain cues -- colors, scents, and the other items of ritual -- to lock into
the matrix and channel the energy.
‘Control’ is a misnomer; you saw for yourself what the matrix is like,
it is not the sort of thing that can be controlled, but it can be channeled and
directed.”
“So, what you’re saying is that physics and metaphysics are
really an interconnected discipline,” said Phineas. “Knowing one leads to understanding the
other.”
“That is the lesson we learned long ago, said the
Warden. “The other kind of magick,
sympathetic magick, is a little different, and leads into the subject we need
to discuss. This is the kind of magick
used in the casting of spells, but it is also the kind involved in seasonal
celebrations, and other nature magicks.
While it may rely upon drawing energy from the matrix to some extent,
its purpose is really to transfer energy from one point in space-time to
another. A spell caster may use a candle
or a doll, for example, symbolizing love or luck or some such thing, and use it
to make something happen somewhere else, or in another time. Again, ‘make’ is a bad word for this, for
interactions between things and energy are probabilistic; ‘encourage’ might be
a better word. Doing this relies upon a
kind of symbolic resonance between the world of the caster and a
non-spatiotemporal dimension, which acts as intermediary. The spell caster can’t directly touch the
object to be ‘encouraged’, so it is touched through the medium of another
world. The caster focuses energy and,
through the fractal mind, that energy activates something in another world
through a kind of resonance, like one tuning fork causing another to
vibrate. That vibration in the other
world, in turn, sets in motion another vibration in the caster’s world, only
one that may be far distant in space or time.
Does this make sense?”
“Yes,” replied Phineas, “but it seems like a pretty long shot
whether, at the end of that train of resonances, one will hit the object one
wants to hit, in the way one wants to hit it.”
The Warden laughed.
“It is a matter of training, experience and study, to be able to do it
at all, much less be good at it. It
isn’t easy, and very often the magician gives up, and just uses the energy to
move on to a higher plane, above the fray.
But the point that matters for us is about the different worlds. So far, we have considered two different
kinds of worlds: the dimensional kind, such as described by physics, and the
‘higher energy’ or spiritual kind, such as used by magick. Those worlds of different energies are like
mirrors of each other; objects and beings in one have counterparts or
correspondences in the other worlds.
That’s how the resonance is done: one feeds energy into the object’s
counterpart in a higher world through fractal consciousness, and the effect
trickles down. There is, however,
another kind of world, one that is directly connected to the present
situation. You noticed, while watching
through your telescope, that the stars you were looking at don’t seem to be in
their proper arrangement, right?”
“It looks as though I’ve either gone backward or forward in
time,” said Phineas, “or moved in space,
because the stars aren’t where they usually are.”
“Neither has happened,” replied the Warden, “but nonetheless,
you are not in the same place you were earlier tonight.”
“And that’s supposed to make some sense?” asked Phineas.
“No, not according to the ordinary rules of space-time, it
doesn’t,” replied the warden. “But in
talking about dimensions and energies, we have moved out of the domain of
ordinary space-time anyway. We are in
the realm of probability and energy, the world of quantum space and time. The rules are a bit different, as you know. Do you remember Schrödinger’s explanation for
radioactive decay?”
“I remember some of it,” said Phineas, feeling like he was
being examined by a dissertation committee member -- only this time, by one
that knew something about the
subject. “The whole idea is that since
it’s probabilistic, then there exists a wave-like state in which the atom has
decayed, and a wave-like state in which it has not. Superpositions, he called them. When we observe the atom, we see one of the
states or the other; one state becomes real, the other collapses. The chances of seeing one state or the other
are determined by the probability of decay.
That’s what they mean by saying observation creates reality.”
“In order to create reality, as you say,” said the
Warden, “it must be a special kind of
observer. A machine, for example, won’t
do. Right?”
“That’s correct. It
must be a conscious observer,” replied Phineas, with the distinct feeling that
the Warden’s questions were leading him somewhere. “The issue of the conscious observer has
raised all sorts of questions about the relationship between consciousness and
reality. The idea that the universe is
participatory -- an interplay between mind and matter -- started with this
idea.”
“Of course that idea is nothing new,” said the Warden. “The idea of participatory reality goes back
to ancient beliefs, beliefs that the individual and the world are integrated,
and can affect one another.
Participation mystique, it has been called. What is it about consciousness, though, that
gives it this special power?”
Phineas thought for a moment; that was an issue that had never
been satisfactorily resolved. “I
suppose,” he said, “it has something to do with the fractal nature of
consciousness. No one really knows, but
my guess is that among these different states or possibilities, only one makes
its way into consciousness, according to probability. Consciousness then has something to do with
concretizing the energies, stabilizing them in a way that keeps one state
alive, and allows the others to disappear.”
“Now that is something like
“Well,” said Phineas, “he proposed a thought experiment, in
which a cat is placed in a sealed box, along with an apparatus that detects
whether an atom of radioactive material has decayed or not. If the atom decays, the mechanism releases
poison gas that kills the cat. What he
said was that until someone opens the box and looks inside, there’s no way to
tell whether decay has occurred, and consequently whether the cat is alive or
dead. Since the life of the cat depends
upon a quantum event, the cat in the box is in a superposition of states: it’s
both alive and dead, until someone looks inside.”
“Which all rests upon the notion that the cat is not
conscious,” said the Warden, “that the
cat is not a competent observer, and that the ‘someone’ is. We shall let those ideas go unchallenged for
the moment. Now, what gives a state, or
the event upon which it rests, its probability?”
“Each possibility, each state, has a certain amplitude, from
which its probability of being observed is derived,” answered Phineas.
“As we say,” said the Warden,
“each state -- we shall call each state a ‘world’-- has a certain
luminosity, a certain level of energy.
The more energy it has, the brighter it shines, so to speak, and the
more likely consciousness is to interact with it; observe it, in other words.”
“Amplitude, luminosity, I suppose they’re the same thing,”
said Phineas.
“What determines the probability of a given world being
observed is the amount of energy it has,” said the Warden. “What determines the
amount of energy a world has is related to your idea that consciousness is
connected with other fractals, such as black hole event horizons. Consciousness stabilizes a world by directing
energy into it, energy it gets from its connections with fractal energy sources
such as black holes and the like. To say
that consciousness ‘concretizes’ or ‘stabilizes’ a world means that, through
observation, it increases the energy of that world.”
“But observation is partly dependent upon probability,” said
Phineas.
“Observation depends upon probability, and probability
depends upon observation. That’s why the
universe is participatory, and neither ideal nor objective,” said the
Warden. “By directing energy,
consciousness stabilizes existence, as you say.
Now according to this theory, consciousness collapses states -- destroys
worlds, in other words -- by observing, and what is most likely to be observed
has to do with its energy. Do you think
it might be possible for the opposite to be the case -- that consciousness
could create worlds, through
observation? If it can destroy them, why
not create them as well?”
“That’s nuts,” said Phineas.
“Yes, of course it would appear that way to you,” replied the
Warden, becoming noticeably agitated.
“Given your world’s refusal to understand how physics and metaphysics
interact with one another. Given that
the state of your sciences, and certainly the state of your spiritual
understanding, has been held in check by your romance with military power,
technology, and building bigger and bigger cities, to the point of exceeding
the ability of your resources to . . . ”
“OK, OK,” said Phineas, “so maybe it is possible, but you
asked me, and I don’t see how.”
“It’s not difficult to understand,” said the Warden, having
calmed a bit, “but the doing of it is not easy.
Suppose one envisions a world that is a certain way, say with or without
certain objects in it, with a different history, and so on. By itself, that world might have an exceeding
low luminosity; no matter how hard one tries, one always finds one’s self observing
the same old world. But now let us
suppose that one were highly skilled in manipulating the energy matrix, that
one’s consciousness had the power to connect directly with the matrix, and
channel energy from it into the world one envisions. One could brighten it a bit, raise its amplitude,
if you wish; one could in fact connect it up with energy sources like black
holes and galactic cores, and increase its probability a great deal. Now suppose one is very good at this, that one is in fact the most powerful at it,
that there are several with this same ability.
They all create a vision and fill it with energy, so that it shines
brighter than the ordinary world. Then
others observe this new world; because the luminosity of this new world has
been made greater than the old by conscious manipulation, these other observers
move into this new world. Suppose they
do this with objects, with oceans, perhaps with an entire planet. Well, what then?”
“That’s crazy,” said Phineas,
“that really is crazy. You’re
suggesting that a parallel world could be created magickally.”
“And why couldn’t that be?” asked the Warden. “Suppose what you call science had grown
alongside magick, instead of opposed to it?
What might the possibilities be?
This world we are talking about, it is not so much a parallel world,
more like a perpendicular one. Once they
break off from one another -- that is to say, once one has a higher luminosity
for some observers, and the other has a higher luminosity for others -- then
they don’t really interact that much.
Unless one knows how to travel between them, which a fractal
consciousness could do, the one doesn’t exist any more, in terms of the other.”
“It’s inconceivable,” said Phineas, “that one could simply
create a whole new world, a really existing world, by just wanting to observe
it.”
“Not wanting, willing.
They are different things,” said the Warden. “One can want anything, and there is a
certain probability of getting it.
Willing it is something else. The
Cheshire Cat is the revenge of Schrödinger’s cat; instead of being at the mercy
of observation, it wills to observe, and reality is at its mercy. Will is a resonance throughout one’s being,
an interconnection with the reflections, or correspondences, of one’s being at
all the different energy levels. On your
theory, it is the channeling of the energies at the event horizon through
consciousness. It is a feature of
existence, not a mental frivolity. It
must be a very powerful will, I’ll grant you that, to hold and direct that kind
of energy. But you will agree, in
principle, it does not violate the rules of quantum mechanics?”
“It would seem to violate the laws of thermodynamics,” said
Phineas. “Energy can neither be created
nor destroyed, and creating a new world would require creating new energy.”
“You are right, in terms of total energy over total time,”
said the Warden. “But events can borrow
energy from the matrix; the total energy in the universe need not be constant
from instant to instant, only spread out over time and space.”
“You have to give the energy back, at some point,” said
Phineas. “At some point, the new world would have to collapse.”
“That’s right,” said the Warden, whose gaze took on an
ominous expression. “At least one of
them would have to collapse, at any rate.
Or they would have to come back together, become one world again.”
“Wait a minute,” said Phineas. “Let’s stop this game. I know I’m somewhere I can’t explain; things
aren’t the way I think they are, I get that idea. Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?”
“All right, let me come to the point,” said the Warden. “Think back long ago, over two
millennia. The great Druidic Empire
covers most of
“Until the energy runs out?” asked Phineas.
“Until the circle of the spell is completed,” said the
Warden. “The energy must flow back the
way it came; there can not be two worlds forever, there can only be one. Unless one is destroyed, the two must
merge. What that means, in terms of
modern history, is that the battle we so sought to avoid may happen
anyway. The outcome is not uncertain
this time. We have the power to render
your military capabilities ineffective, we have military capabilities of our
own, and our world is structured for survival.
By choosing to live in massive cities, you have set your world up for
extinction, whether at our hands or otherwise.”
Both sat quietly for a few moments. Phineas was the first to speak.
“If what you say is true, and I find it hard to believe --
but then it’s hard for me to believe I’m not still standing in the desert --
then what you’re saying is there’s going to be a massacre. Is this what your great powers, your science
and your magick, have come to? Killing
for survival?”
“It is not our wish that this happen,” answered the
Warden. “Believe me, if we could
continue on our separate ways, we would be delighted. But it would be equally a massacre for us to
destroy ourselves in favor of your world.
The laws of physics are insensitive to ethics, I’m afraid. Our whole purpose in doing this in the first
place was to avoid a destructive war.
Now, it seems, the completion of the circle may force that war
anyway. There is one possible ray of
light in the situation, however dim it might be. According to your own theory, most of humanity
has lost consciousness -- ‘social animals’, I believe you call them. All right, we may be able to save those who
still have consciousness. And those who
have the capacity for it as well. Those
who have the mental capacity to span matter and Spirit, we can bring them here,
in the same way our world was originally populated. We can protect them, they can survive in our
world. It is not much to offer, but it
is the only consolation we can offer.”
“You mean,” said Phineas, “evacuate all the conscious beings
from earth, before the destruction occurs?
I’m sure some of them will not be thrilled with that, let alone believe
you.”
“Believing us will not be a problem,” said the Warden, “or at
least believing that serious destruction on a global scale is in motion will
not be a problem, given the sequence of events that is about to occur in your
world as the two worlds draw closer. The
unconscious minds will see only their world coming apart; the conscious ones
will see the two possibilities. It is
for them to choose; we cannot force the choice.
Each observes what he will.”
“There’s going to be a war, then,” said Phineas.
“That is not exactly clear,” said the Warden. “Some think that as the two worlds draw near,
the one that has the greater luminosity will simply absorb the other. Since we know how to manipulate luminosity,
the conclusion is foregone. Others think
the two will flow together, becoming a kind of double image, and that may well
lead to armed conflict. Again, it’s a
matter of luminosity. Your city people
won’t much like seeing their concrete and steel hives collapse; I think if that
scenario is right, war is inevitable.
And so is the outcome, given the circumstances.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” asked Phineas, “You said there
were choices to be made, actions to be taken?”
“You can choose for yourself; to some extent, you must chart
your own future,” said the Warden. “We
expect the actual collision between worlds will happen over a short period of
time. Although the effects are beginning
to be seen, the actual merging, however it happens, should only take a matter
of days. It will be up to you, and your
friends, and other conscious beings as well, to choose their own course during
that time. Others are being contacted,
as well as yourself.”
Phineas stared down at the table, with mixed feelings of
disbelief, apprehension and sorrow. “So
this is what you brought me here for,” he said, looking up at the Warden, “to
give me the bad news?”
“I wish I had better news for you in all this,” answered the
Warden. “I suppose there is one thing
you can take heart in. If consciousness
really has disappeared from your world in the way you have argued, then you
will finally be free of it, free to live in a world of conscious beings,
instead of being a prisoner in a zoo run by social animals. This is not the way any of us want it, but
given the casting of the lots, it’s where we are. We can no more change the laws of
thermodynamics, which ultimately govern this process, now than we could in the
past. We have to play by the rules, and
these are the consequences of those rules.”
*
* *
“I’m going to have to think about this,” said Phineas. “I’m not sure how much of it makes
sense. What did you mean, for example,
by your world being structured for survival?
I understand why an urbanized population is to some degree fated to die;
throughout history, all urbanized societies have disappeared without a
trace. But how is yours different?”
“It would be easier to show you,” said the Warden, rising
from his chair, “than to merely explain.
Besides, a theoretical discussion is always best punctuated with a visit
to the tavern.” He looked at the knight
behind him; somehow, she had propped herself up against the wall, and fallen
asleep. Raising his voice, the Warden
repeated, “With a visit to the tavern!”
She started out of her sleep, and with a yawn, placed her
helmet on her head. The Warden motioned
toward the door, Phineas rose from his seat, and the threesome exited from the
cabin into the night. The Warden carried
a lighted oil lamp from the cabin, and they began walking down the dark, narrow
road.
“I have to ask, and this isn’t exactly my favorite subject,”
said Phineas, as the group made its way down the path, “but it’s about
language. How do I understand you, and
you understand me, if our worlds came apart before my language really
developed?”
“You’re right,” answered the Warden, “the language we speak here is nothing like
your own. It’s a sort of Germanic-Gaelic
combination, with different dialects in different places. You forget, however, that this is a conscious
world, and the observer-participation relation applies. We speak our language, you hear in terms you
understand, and vice versa. A clever
trick we discovered way back, and it does simplify things greatly. Ahh, here we are!”
The road widened as it entered a small village. Rows of wooden buildings lined either side of
the road, for about a quarter of a mile.
Beyond that, the road re-entered the woods. Candle and oil lamps hung outside some of the
buildings; most were dark, save one, from the windows of which streamed bright
light. That, and the music and voices
coming from within, suggested that it was the tavern. The knight opened the door, and the group
went inside. As Phineas walked through
the door, his head brushed against an oil lamp.
“No electricity?” asked Phineas.
“No. Because the
metaphysical and physical planes lie so close together here,” said the
Warden. “Or to put it another way,
because things here are more closely tied to the activities of the energy
matrix, energy fluctuations make power transmission through metallic lines
impossible over any distance. Some
electrical things will work, but only over short distances; we have
successfully built some small devices, but their operation is not reliable. More for entertainment, I suppose.”
The inside of the tavern consisted of rows of wooden tables
with benches, and a few chairs arranged in a corner next to the fireplace, in
front of which a group of minstrels played unusual, but vaguely recognizable
instruments. The customers all appeared
human, though of widely differing sizes and builds, and all wore the kinds of
rustic clothing one associates with the middle ages. The tavern owner, a stout, ill-tempered man,
dispensed drink from behind a bar, while other workers carried food out of the
kitchen to customers seated at the benches.
The whole scene was a chaotic mess.
Loud voices and shouting, rising above and falling below the general
level of racket, while food and drink pushed their way through the crowd, and
the minstrels strained to make themselves noticed above it all.
The threesome sat down at a table near the fireplace, where
it seemed a bit quieter. The tavern
owner, noticing their presence, made his way toward the table.
“Supper and drink,” said the Warden, in an ill-tempered voice
of his own.
“And I suppose you’ll be paying for this,” said the owner,
eyeing Phineas with a look of distrust.
Phineas reached into his pocket. He had kept several of the gold coins from
the bank with him, just for luck. He
pulled one out, showing it to the owner.
“Aye, that’ll be a fine payment,” he said, reaching for the
coin. The Warden grabbed his hand and
pushed it aside. From his pocket, he
took a small red gem, and tossed it on the table.
“There’s payment enough, you scoundrel,” said the Warden, “and be glad I don’t set the wild toads at
you. Now go!”
The owner grabbed the gem, gave the Warden a foul look, and
disappeared into the kitchen. When he
had gone, the Warden turned to Phineas with a grin.
“You have to understand, this is not exactly the academy,”
said the Warden. “Most of the villages
are crude, compared to the city life you know.
That coin there, that’s enough gold to pay for meals for the whole
village for at least two weeks. He would
have taken it, you know, and said nothing about it.”
“The dark side of consciousness,” said Phineas, placing the
coin back in his pocket. “It is a
requirement for thievery and deception, as well as mental growth. To know one thing and do another, to be what
one isn’t -- those require a conscious mind.
One of the pitfalls, I guess.”
“Yes,” said the Warden, “and you should keep in mind that
gold and other metals, gems, magickal potions and the like, those are the
currencies here. We don’t have
dollars. Keep that in mind, should
circumstances or decision result in your returning here.”
“Well, this seems very quaint and all,” said Phineas, “but
what are the cities like?”
“The cities?” said the Warden. “These are the cities. There are no metropolises, not even any
polises. The settlements are all villages
like this, some larger, but mostly around this size. A few hundred people, usually. Scattered across the land, interconnected by
roads such as the one we walked.”
“But surely the villages must grow, into larger cities. Where do all the people live?” asked Phineas.
“The villages do not grow,” said the Warden. “You forget, this is the world that abandoned
the
From the noisy crowd emerged the tavern owner and another
worker, carrying platters of food and a large pitcher, along with various
eating implements. The main course
appeared to be roast turkey, or something resembling it, along with an
assortment of vegetables, some recognizable and some not. The meal having been served, the tavern owner
gave the Warden an evil stare, and with a grunt, turned and made his way back
into the crowd. The Warden filled their
stone mugs with the contents of the pitcher.
It appeared to Phineas to be beer, and he took a healthy drink. It was a lot stronger than he had
anticipated, and he tried his best not to cough it up.
“Local ale,” said the Warden.
“One can never be sure of its quality, but one can bet one’s life on its
strength.” Phineas took a bite from the
roast turkey, or whatever it was, and found it a little on the smoky side, but
otherwise delicious.
“Is that what you meant by ‘structured for survival?’” asked
Phineas, looking up from his meal at the Warden. “You said that this world is structured for
survival, and ours is not. I assume you
mean that because of the social interdependencies in large cities, a disaster
can bring the whole thing down. Instead
of shotgunning the world with offspring, you’ve shotgunned it with
villages. So if you lose one, the whole
thing doesn’t fall apart.”
“Yes,” said the Warden, “we do lose some villages now and
then; it’s not a pleasant thing. But as
you said, we don’t have concentrated population centers, so we don’t have the
kind of social structure that can collapse in the face of disaster. Each of the villages specializes. This one, for example, specializes in wooden
products, furniture and the like. These
people you see here are skilled craftsmen, though you wouldn’t know it to look
in their own tavern. Anyway, villages
specialize, and there is free movement throughout the land, so one can settle
into whatever village one wants. Each
village has a specialty, but also provides for its own needs from the
surrounding land. So being cut off from
other villages because of weather or disaster is an inconvenience, but not a
threat to survival.”
“So everything here is villages and small towns?” asked
Phineas.
“Oh, there are castles, magnificent castles,” said the
Warden. “There are dangers here --
remember, this is the world of magick.
There are dragons, fairies, the whole bestiary that is only a
mythological memory on your world. Hence
the need for knights, and the military orders.
The Druids mostly stay in their castles and temples, though they once in
a while venture forth into the villages; even a master mage enjoys a good glass
of ale, now and then.”
“What about government?” asked Phineas.
“What’s ‘government’?” asked the Warden.
“Who makes the rules?
Who is in charge? Social
hierarchy, economic regulation,” asked Phineas, adding, “I’m beginning to think
that may have been a stupid question.”
“You get the idea,” said the Warden. “Government is an artifact of social
interdependence run amok. You only need
rules if you don’t have adequate resources.
You only need laws if you don’t have enough respect for yourself that
you can’t respect others. That’s what
consciousness does. In an unconscious
society -- or at least one in which consciousness is not in control -- there
isn’t the mental structure to understand the interconnectedness between
individuals. That is an
interconnectedness based upon being,
not upon selectively distributing limited resources.”
“All right,” said Phineas, “maybe that works on a cultural
basis, but what about on an individual basis?
What controls individual behavior, so the system works?”
“Every man and every woman is a star,” said the Warden. “That’s a basic principle upon which we build
our culture. Being a self is also seeing
a self in others. ‘Do unto others as you
would have them do unto you’, but in a much more sophisticated way than in an
insect-hive society. Like the oath I
told you about earlier, having free will entails not obstructing the free will
of another; as soon as you do that, you become constrained by the other
person’s needs, and your will is no longer free. So here, all paths are open to everyone, and
individual conscious control over behavior means that the mind operates in
balance with nature.”
The Warden took a drink of ale from his mug, and continued:
“In your world, consciousness is not in control. What runs individual behavior is the
bicameral mind, as you call it. It is an
unconscious mental process. What that
means is that there is no consciousness to reflect upon behavior; it is largely
automatic. The problem with that is that
without conscious control, other unconscious processes can seize control of
behavior -- processes other than the bicameral mind -- and there is no
consciousness to hold them in check. So
destructive unconscious behaviors, which range all the way from impulse killing
to over-reproduction, run rampant throughout your culture. Unconscious processes act independently of
one another, so the social mind, the serial killer, and the man with twenty
children live side by side. Sometimes
they are one in the same man.”
“Conscious people have those same impulses, too,” said
Phineas, “but the conscious mind keeps them under control. That’s why a bicameral culture can never
really work,” he continued, thinking out loud, “because destructive behaviors
from the unconscious mind -- Freud’s id -- keep coming to the surface. The bicameral model doesn’t work after all --
it’s inherently flawed. At least, it
can’t produce a perfect order. No matter
how hard they try to suppress consciousness, a social system based on brain
wiring can’t work.”
“Surprise!”, said the Warden.
“That’s what we figured out, watching your Roman invaders. They fought among themselves as much as they
fought the enemy, and we couldn’t understand why. We concluded that they weren’t really
conscious; that they were basically what you would call psychotic, although in
a socially conforming way. Interesting
twist of terminology, that.”
“But surely disputes must arise here,” said Phineas. “Even among conscious beings, even ideal
ones, there have to be disagreements.”
“Sure there are,” said the Warden, “even thieves and such as
almost took your money. But we can
always resolve them among ourselves because, in the end, harming another is
harming one’s self. There is a kind of
moral interconnectedness, an interconnection of being, that limits how much one
can allow another to be injured without injuring one’s self. No one starves here, no one suffers disease,
no one goes without shelter, and so on.
Not because of some social ‘cause’, but because allowing that to happen
is in a very real sense damaging one’s own being. A social animal will never figure that out.”
Phineas thought quietly for a moment, then said, “If no one
starves here, if there is always enough to go around, then why do you have any
kind of money at all? Why does one need
to pay for one’s meals, if there are sufficient resources that no one must go
without?”
The Warden tipped his head back, emptying his mug. He dropped the mug to the table with a loud
thud, which only on account of the general noise in the place, no one took
notice of. Looking down at the table for
a moment, then looking up at Phineas, he began.
“Your economy, in your overpopulated world, is based upon
scarcity. Things have value because
there isn’t enough to go around. Gold is
valuable because not everyone has it; food is valuable only because some must
starve. Notice that you do not pay for the
air you breathe. . .”
“Not true,” interrupted Phineas. “Not always.
In some of the cities, where the air quality is bad, they sell air from
tanks through a mask.”
“Exactly the point,” replied the Warden. “They sell it because there isn’t enough, in
those places; where there is enough, it has no value. It is an economics of scarcity, of suffering,
of competition and of doing without.
Things are valued because without them you die or suffer, and some must
die or suffer to prove their worth.
Here, we rely upon a principle of sufficiency. There is enough to go around, because there
are not enough people to compete for resources.”
“But if there is enough for everyone, then why must one pay
for a meal?” asked Phineas.
“Because you want a choice as to what you have for a meal,”
said the Warden. “Sufficiency does not
insure variety. You want fish for
dinner, all right, but there are no fish here.
In the places where fish are caught, there is no wild beast to
roast. Here, there is no wine, and in
the next valley there is only wine but no ale.
So we trade, but an even trade is never possible. There are costs of transportation, and so
on. Our money is a token for trade; it
is valuable because of what it can buy, not because of what happens to you if
you have none.”
“Hmmm,” said Phineas.
“In our culture we have a term, ‘wage slave’. People held hostage by culture. They cannot survive without money, but
earning enough money to live takes all their time and effort, so they can do
nothing other than earn money, which in itself costs money -- food, housing,
and so on. It’s a game people can’t
win.”
Having refilled his mug, the Warden took another drink. “Which again means that consciousness has to
be out. You can’t hold a conscious being
hostage like that. They rebel, they find
a way out. In the end, they will destroy
that which seeks to enslave them. As
another philosopher once said, a slave can’t be a rational being, but maybe
it’s more appropriate to say a slave can’t be a conscious being.”
“No,” said Phineas, thinking quietly for a moment.
“Lighthouses,” he said, breaking his silence, “do you have lighthouses?”
The Warden chuckled as if privy to the mystery. “Oh yes, sea travel is very important. We have no air travel, of course, for reasons
already mentioned. There are some craft
belonging to alien peoples that can fly here; they mostly have photonic
circuits as opposed to electronic circuits, so they can fly about here in
relative safety.”
“Aliens? You have
contact with extra-terrestrial civilizations?”
“Of course. We aren’t
the only ones in the universe you know.
They avoid you because you avoid them; the urban mentality can’t stand
intruders, so you are left alone, for the most part. Here, we try to keep this world as open as
possible. They mostly congregate in the
port towns, but you can see them anywhere.
Pirates, too, or so it is rumored,” said the Warden with a grin.
“So you’ve achieved a perfect world through consciousness,”
said Phineas. “That’s how it works. Our people always say they want a perfect
society, but they can’t ever have it because it’s based upon flawed mental
processes. Here, you have utopia, not
through social order, but through individual consciousness.”
“It all depends upon what you mean by ‘utopia’,” said the Warden. “Literally, the word means ‘nowhere’, and I
suppose you’re right. As far as your
world is concerned, this is nowhere, quite literally. If you mean ‘ideal social order’, as you
observe, that is quite impossible. The
mental processes required to sustain a structured social order are inimical to
survival. This is a social disorder, a
world linked by synchronicity. The most
important difference boils down to this: ours is a world of being, while yours is a world of becoming. That’s the Platonic vocabulary, anyway. We are not striving to be what we are not,
because we are a conscious world. We are
interconnected with the forces through which existence moves; we make reality,
and reality makes us. In your world,
there is no connection, so you are always striving, moving toward something,
and away from where you are because of its emptiness. You look at this world, and you see nothing
happening. It’s not much different than
it was some two thousand years ago. It
doesn’t have to go anywhere, we are already there. We learn and progress, but it shows itself
through continuity, not through growth and destruction.”
“But if this is a world of being and not becoming,” said
Phineas, “how can it progress?”
“By constant striving,” said the Warden, “ but striving in a
different way than in your world. This
world is not stagnant, but its progression is different than yours. Scholars seek to be better scholars, but in
the sense of expanding their own being, not in the sense of competing with
others. The further any individual gets,
the further we all get. Since we do not
enlarge our culture beyond the means of its own support, there is no
competition. There is room for everyone,
and for everyone to follow their own path.
Everyone seeks to be better than they are, yes, but that does not entail
seeking to be better than others. Growth
and progress are an expansion of one’s own being, not an overcoming of someone
else’s being. Things change and evolve
here, of course -- our knowledge of magick and science is an example. But progress does not carry the price of
competition; the future is a continuation of the present, not a destruction of
it.”
“So this is a sustainable world, then,” said Phineas, “a
world with knowledge and power beyond what our people can imagine. And this is what we’re up against.”
“I wouldn’t think viewing it as an ‘us against them’ scenario
would be very productive,” said the Warden.
“Every possibility is an opportunity, every eventuality is an overcoming
of stasis. Though I wish I could be more
comforting, this is the way of evolution, as it has been set in motion. It is now for you, and the others of your
world, to take it as an opportunity. The
outcome is predictable, but its details are not decided. That is what you must carve out of the
matrix.”
They finished their dinner, and the threesome left the
tavern. Walking down the road, they
passed the cabin, stopping at the small clearing where Phineas’ telescope
stood.
“What will it be like, when the worlds finally come
together?” asked Phineas, turning to the Warden.
“I can’t really say,” said the Warden. “I would think the world will at first become
more malleable, more moldable by consciousness.
You have already seen some of that, such as in the bookstore. But my own opinion is that it will come on
with a bang; that there will be no doubt that the End has come. How it will be perceived by your world, I’m
not sure; I suspect they will see it in terms with which they are familiar. When the time comes, your friends have the
knowledge to carry out whatever your decision might be, as to whether you come
or stay, or whatever other course you choose.
I only hope that our little conversation will have shed some light on
your possibilities.”
The Warden said no more; he and the knight turned away from
Phineas, walking down the road in the direction of the cabin. He watched them disappear in the dim
starlight, the Warden’s lamp vanishing in the dense woods. He wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to
do; he took a look through his telescope.
He could see the stars of Orion’s belt, then the fading in and out of
focus of the image as before. When he
stepped back from the telescope, he was back in the desert. He packed up the telescope, and got into the
car. Before he started the motor, he
reached into his pocket, and pulled out a cloth-wrapped leg of smoked
turkey. Not a dream after all, he said
to himself, as he turned the key, beginning the trip back to the Wizard.
*
* *
The Great Hall of Meadow Mist Castle glowed with sunlight streaming
through stained glass windows, projecting a kaleidoscope of color that mixed
with the candles and burning incense to create an ethereal, magickal
atmosphere. In the altar circle at one
end of the hall, a lone figure, robed in black with high pointed hood,
surrounded by a soft purplish-blue glow, slowly picked up a picture from the
earth altar. Carefully holding it in her
hand, she studied the picture of the musical troupe, her eyes lingering on one
figure in particular, the tall dark woman in the long gypsy dress. Tears came to her eyes, as she held the
picture close to her chest. Absorbed in
grief, she did not notice a figure, similarly attired, approaching from behind.
“There is much joy in your return,” said the figure, with a
deep, resonant voice. He took the
picture in his hands. “But not without sadness, too.” The two embraced, their auras merging into
one, and held each other in silence for several minutes. Finally they
separated, the male figure placing the picture back on the altar.
“We meet in council tomorrow,” he said, “but I wanted to see
you first, alone.”
“We cannot do this, it cannot happen this way,” said the
woman, still sobbing. “Thunder Strike,
this was not foretold. It cannot be done
this way.”
“Yes, I know. I, too,
have been out . . . wandering. It is not what we suspected, Meadow
Mist. Another way will have to be
found.”
“They are our own people, the ones we left behind, their
descendants. If we destroy them, we
destroy a part of ourselves. That was
not the bargain.”
“No,” said Thunder Strike, “and there are alternatives. They do not have to be chosen yet, not by us
or by them. But we have reached the
point that some must be given the choice.”
“I agree,” said Meadow Mist.
“Two nights from now. I think we
should do it then.”
“That is the night of the great festival. Well, you are right, it would make for a fine
ending. All right, let it be done
then. Two nights. That should give them time.”
The two embraced again, then walked arm in arm out of the
Great Hall, into the herb garden.
The mood was somber aboard the Wizard’s Bane, as the five pirates returned from their jaunts into
the outer world. No one spoke to anyone
else for most of the day, with the members of the group either staying in their
own cabins, or wandering aimlessly about the deck. The silence was first broken in the early
evening. It was not a voice, but the
sound of Robinia sobbing that attracted
“We’ve all had a bad time over the past few days,” said St.
Joe, in as reassuring a voice as he could manage, given his own state of
uneasiness. “Maybe we need to try to support each other instead of weathering
it alone. Sometimes it . . . ”
“It has nothing to do with what time I’ve had,” said
Robinia. “It has to do with the fact
that she’s gone. My best friend, my only
real friend, ever, the only person who ever really understood, and now she’s
gone. And fuck the damn world that took
her from me!”
“Angela, you mean?
Didn’t you see her at the fair?” asked St. Joe.
“I saw her,” said Robinia.
“She was very upset about something, like a sense of impending
doom. I guess she was right, and
godammit that I didn’t listen to her.
That damn thing she had, I should have thrown it off a cliff. Now she’s gone. It’s like every trace of her has been
obliterated. I went to her apartment; it
was empty, and the manager said it had been empty for a long time. That’s a crock -- I visited her there last
year, and it was the same manager then.
She hasn’t just disappeared, she’s been
disappeared, made to vanish.”
“What is this ‘thing’ she had?” asked Phineas.
“I don’t know what in hell it was, some kind of round
thing. She said she got it in a
dream. I thought that was nonsense.”
“What did it look like?” asked Phineas. “I’m sorry, Robbi, but it might be very
important.”
“It looked like a large white marble,” replied Robinia. “Had just a faint little blue glow around it;
I thought that was my imagination. I
tried to read it psychically, but I couldn’t get anything from it; like someone
was hiding something about it.”
Phineas turned from the table, speaking to himself in a low
voice. “A white hole, they know how to make white holes. Bet that’s how they did it in the first
place.”
“What are you talking about?
What’s a white hole?” asked Erika.
“Oh,” said Phineas, turning back to the table, “it’s the
opposite of a black hole. It creates
space-time. I think that’s how they
created their world in the first place, with a white hole. They must know how to make them, which means
they know how to make black holes that destroy space-time, too.”
“Who in hell are you talking about?” asked Erika.
“You know who I mean, you all know who I mean,” answered
Phineas. “We’ve all met them over the
last few days, they’ve contacted us. They’re
not archetypes after all, they’re people, just like us. Only they evolved differently; their world
went a different way from ours. Your
tears may be a bit premature, Robbi; she’s not gone. Gone from our world, but still very much out
there. And she isn’t what you thought
she was, not what any of us could even imagine.”
“She was my best friend, my only real friend, whatever else
doesn’t matter,” said Robinia, collecting herself. “You mean one of those beings with advanced
magickal knowledge, or so they claim?
Whoever those bastards are, they took her away. I’d like to find one of them . . . ”
“I think you may have known one of them, very personally,”
said Phineas. Robinia looked at him, and
he nodded his head. “It figures, if they
were scouting us out -- if they wanted to find out what this world is like --
they would have blocked all their prior knowledge, so they could experience
life here as one of us. What was that
you always said, about learning magick for her was more like remembering? It might have been just that. I’m sure you two were very close, but even
she might not have been aware of who she really was. They probably sent the white hole to her in a
dream, to call her back.”
“If you’re right,” said Roweena, “then they’re sending more
than a white hole. They’re going to blow
this world of ours clean out of the universe.
They showed me a comet, a bright yellow, sparkling thing flying in from
the sky. When they left, the comet was
gone, but I think it was a warning, or maybe a threat.”
“A yellow, sparkling thing?” said St. Joe, casting a glance
toward Robinia. “I had a vision like
that, too, only many years ago. I
understood from it that the end of the world would come at the hands of such an
Evil, only I thought it was a mindless Evil from another dimension. Maybe I wasn’t so far off; I thought it would
be coming from the stars, but it never occurred to me that it might actually be a star, or something like one. It is a thing that feeds on our minds, our
fears; we give it life, or at least
sustain it, by thinking about it.”
“I saw a whole city
laid waste,” said Erika. “It was
crushed, everyone killed. The people
tried to tell themselves they had it under control, they ignored it. Something broke out and destroyed them. But the worst of it is, I felt good about
it. The thing that did the destroying,
at first I hated it, but then I realized it was saving the world from a great
evil, the evil the city had become. And
these,” she said, taking the bag of
runestones from her belt, emptying it out on the table. “I was left with . . . Oh shit!”
As the stones fell from the bag, they began to pulsate and
glow in different colors. It clearly
wasn’t an effect of the light; the stones were actually glowing, emitting their
own light. Phineas picked one of them
up; his fingers tingled as he held it, turning it over, examining it. He put it back in the pile of other glowing
stones.
“It’s happening, it’s started. The Seeker’s come calling,”
said Erika.
“What’s happening?
Who?” asked St. Joe.
“In my vision,” said Erika, “something called a Seeker of
Dead Souls destroyed an entire city. It
had to do with the people losing their attachment to their spiritual
origins. It sucked all the energy out of
the city and its people, and left nothing but a wasteland.”
“This Seeker must feed
on energy, a kind of cleanup crew,” said Phineas. “Apparently, in ancient times, the Druids had
this huge empire throughout most of
“I got a similar story,” said Erika. “Only in terms of the myth of Horus. The one becoming two, then re-uniting into
the one. A time of destruction, but also
of overcoming and conquest. I heard that
story a couple of years ago, but I think the vision I had this week was meant
to reinforce it. I wonder if they are
going to have to fight that battle after all; maybe there will just be a
wasteland when it’s done.”
“They aren’t going to do that,” said Roweena. “Their plan is to blow this world away first,
so there won’t be anything to collide with, collapse into, or whatever. They aren’t going to fight that war, because
they aren’t going to leave anything to fight with. They’re going to wipe it out with a
comet. At least, I think so. They said something weird, about fate not
being a sequence of events, but a reaction to events. Maybe they want us to believe they’re going
to hit us with a comet.”
“And kill the Antichrist,” said St. Joe. The others looked at him puzzled, and he
continued. “The Antichrist. That was my little lecture: the Antichrist is
culture, society. Phineas is right,
according to them. The kind of mentality
it takes to sustain city life is unconscious.
The Antichrist lives inside the head, it’s a brain process. That’s the mark of the Beast. The Antichrist, the comet, the Seeker:
they’re all the same thing. It’s a
phantasm of the mind, a thing that feeds off the fears of socialized humanity,
drains the energy out of human culture.
If they can disrupt culture, they effectively destroy the world, except
for what few conscious beings are left.
Then they don’t have to fight at all.
Just appearing to destroy the world will be enough. Whether they physically destroy it or not, it
will be gone, at least as is necessary for their purposes.”
“I can’t see Angela doing that. Whatever she might be, I know her,” said
Robinia. “She’s not Hitler.”
“Maybe it’s not a matter of choice,” said St. Joe. “Maybe it’s out of their hands. Sort of like this world is their bad karma,
the result of the choice they made. Now
they have to live with it. Their world
can’t be completed until ours is gone.”
“Or maybe they haven’t figured out what to do yet,” said
Roweena. “We’re getting mixed
messages Each of us getting the same
idea, but a slightly different story.
Maybe they don’t know what to do; they’re testing the waters with
us. Using us as guinea pigs, to find out
what will work and what won’t.”
“It could really be a matter of completing their own world,”
said Phineas. “A complete and consistent
system is impossible according to Gödel’s theorem. That’s true only if the system is
self-referential -- only if it points back to itself. Our world, it points back to what their world
is not; it really is a kind of bad karma.
A complete and consistent system, world, or consciousness is possible
only if it avoids referring back to itself; if it can be dynamically adaptive
rather than self-referential.
Consciousness always points beyond itself, beyond what it is; it is constantly
creating reality, and therefore never collapses back on itself.”
“And because consciousness has been lost on our world,” said
Erika, “it is self-referential. It
always concerns itself; society always points to itself. So it’s incomplete or inconsistent, and
because their world is tied to ours, they can’t be what they set out to be,
until we’re gone. They have to do
something about us, but maybe they haven’t figured out what to do, yet.”
“The aliens aren’t coming in flying saucers after all, it
seems,” said Phineas. “They’re coming from
inside the mind. These things, these
beings or whatever they are, they’re consciousness. The same consciousness that erupts
spontaneously in children and psychotics and drug users. They are what we would have become, had our
history been different. Their world,
it’s a world of consciousness, not of cities and wars.”
“Could such a world really be possible?” asked St. Joe.
“From what we know about brain science, it’s clear the human
brain did not evolve to support the lifestyle of an insect,” answered Phineas. “That’s the way the brain is mostly used
today, but that’s not what it’s there for.
Who can imagine what its full potential might be? We see glimpses of it with psychedelic drugs,
meditations, magick, and so on. But
those are only glimpses. Imagine a world
in which the brain runs at full throttle, all the time. Fully conscious, a world of fully conscious
beings. Maybe not all of them, most to a
greater or lesser degree, but at least some of them are. A complete union of body, mind, and Spirit. It’s unthinkable, but why not? They created their own world, evidently; they
could have made it any way they wanted it.”
“A fully conscious world?” said St. Joe. “But what could that world be like? It couldn’t have cities, if the theory is
true that urbanization requires loss of consciousness.”
“They don’t have cities,” said Phineas. “At least not large ones. Their social structure didn’t go much beyond
what it was some two thousand years ago.
It didn’t have to. Most of their
growth has been inside, growth of the mind.
They’ve gone for a sustainable culture, one that doesn’t deplete its
resources. They just don’t have the
winner-take-all mentality, because everything they need is always there. While we live in a world of material objects,
they live in a world of Spirit and magick.”
Night fell over the Wizard
as a gust of wind blanketed the ship in a cloud of dark gray mist. Roweena opened a box of matches, and lit the
oil lamp suspended over the main cabin’s table.
As the ship rolled in the waves, the lamp’s movement illuminated the
face of each member of the troupe, one at a time. An interesting metaphor for the events of the
last several days, thought Roweena.
“Spirit and magick, Phineas?” said Robinia, after a short
pause. “They must have really gotten to you.”
“If quantum mechanics is true, or is even close to being
true,” said Phineas, “then the world is nothing like we think it is; it is
nothing like we can think it is. I saw the energy you talk about: quantum
foam, we call it, the energy matrix is what they call it. It comes from black holes, from galactic
cores, from space-time warps; it connects up with consciousness, and can be
manipulated to increase or decrease the probabilities of anything happening,
anywhere throughout space-time. If
that’s right, then whatever can be, is, somewhere. Spirit and magick are pretty easy to swallow,
compared to that. That’s what they
showed me.”
“It seems that magick and science are the same things, to
them,” said Erika. “I suppose if the
underlying energy is the same, then they are just different ways of
manipulating it. If they have arrived at
a point in the evolution of consciousness that they can manipulate the energy
directly, then they can do anything.”
“What exactly is the role of consciousness in all this?”
Robinia asked Phineas. “It seems that
everything revolves around it. What
makes it so special, so important, as the determining factor in everything that
happens?”
“I don’t think anyone really understands that,” replied
Phineas. “It has something to do with
its fractal character, and that it connects up the physical, mental and
spiritual. It’s sort of like a conduit
between them, a way of channeling energy. They talk about ‘luminosity’, which seems
to mean that consciousness channels energy from the energy matrix into a world,
increasing its probability of observation, and stabilizing reality against
energy collapse. It works because
consciousness is fractal, and connects up with other fractal energy
sources. Observations affect the nature
of reality, and that seems to be true only when those observations involve
conscious observers. That’s why
non-fractal machines don’t function as observers.
“The Schrödinger’s cat problem suggests that consciousness
makes real worlds out of possibilities,” continued Phineas, “creates reality out of imagination. That has something to do with this situation;
they used consciousness to create their own world somehow, to increase its
probability of observation over ours, at least for themselves. I think they still have some conscious
control over what is happening. The
dilemma they’re in is that consciousness always chooses for the self, and now
it seems they have to choose for us what will happen. That’s a tough place for consciousness to
be.”
“So consciousness imagines something as possible, according
to this theory,” said Roweena, “and then channels energy into that vision to
make it real. That’s seems pretty far
fetched, when put that way, but that is really what magicians have always done,
or at least claim they have done. Once
one does this, however, one is impressing one’s will upon reality. Doesn’t that mean that consciousness is
choosing for the world, ‘choosing man’, as Sartre said?”
“Consciousness always
chooses for the self, as opposed to the social mind, which always chooses for
everyone,” said Phineas. “Take the
censorship issue. The individually
conscious mind says, ‘I don’t like this, therefore I won’t read it,’ while the
social mind says, ‘I don’t like this, therefore no one will read it.’ The social mind can’t separate itself from
others. Everything it does, it
necessarily does as culture, not as a self.
The conscious mind recognizes the ability to choose for the self in
other conscious minds, and therefore doesn’t seek to impress its will upon
them. That’s the problem these other
people have: they are in a position where they must decide what happens to us, and that’s a difficult thing for
them to come to grips with. Erika may be
right, they may be looking for a solution that won’t undermine their whole
concept of being. Blowing us away would
be one possibility, preferable at least to conquering us in a war.”
“What about just taking everyone off this world?” asked
Roweena. “They could do that, just
transport, or teleport, everyone to their world, and blow this one up with a
comet or a black hole.”
“No way,” said Phineas.
“Their world exists as a sustainable culture; they live very close to
the natural resources they depend upon.
This world is a resource depleting culture. With so many people, it destroys its
resources faster than they can be replaced.
Besides, it’s that very urban mentality that leads to the bicameral
mind, to wars and conquest, and so on.
That would defeat the whole purpose they set out to accomplish. It would destroy their world, and they aren’t
going to do that, they’ve made that clear enough. They intend to survive; it’s us that are in
question.
“That does however raise another possibility,” continued
Phineas. “They claim to be in contact
with alien civilizations. I didn’t see
any aliens, or anyone obviously alien, while I was there, but they supposedly
come and go all the time. Maybe they
could relocate all the people to different planets, spread them out so the
impact wouldn’t be so great.”
“I thought the whole point of the consciousness versus
society thing was that all those people out there, with their social minds,
live only because they are a part of culture,” said St. Joe. “When you think about it, it’s not the
people that are alive, but the culture that is alive, living vicariously
through the people. The people in a
society are surrogates for the being of culture, they have no existence of
their own. If you split them up, culture
dies, the social mind dies, and the people die, or at least most of them
do. The same thing happens as with the
ancient Egyptian or Mayan cultures -- they shrivel up and disappear. So they would be killing them, all the same. Now there are conscious minds here, and they
could adapt if relocated. But the vast
majority would perish just as surely, under that scenario, as if hit by a
comet.”
“What if they just took the conscious people off the world,”
asked Roweena. “Their world, if it’s
like ours, must be quite large, and sparsely populated. They could probably fit the conscious people
on it. Then they aren’t choosing for
other conscious minds; they’re leaving the unconscious to go their own way,
whatever that might be.”
“That assumes there won’t be a collision, and a battle,”
replied Phineas. “One of the possibilities
is that this world will be blown away before the two collapse into each other;
that would work in that case. I think
they may be trying to avoid that possibility by using the Seeker, the
Antichrist, the comet, or whatever it is.
They are trying to drain the energy out of this world before there can
be a collision. The other possibility is
that the worlds will melt into each other.
Social animals always fight to destroy anything that isn’t like them, so
then there would be the very war they sought to avoid. There again, they are using the comet to
drain the energy out of culture, so there will be nothing left to fight. If that’s there plan, then they will have to
bring over the conscious people. But I,
for one, would somewhat resent the idea that I was being spared, while the rest
of humanity is left to perish. I think
that would cause problems down the road.”
“I’m not sure how much I would resent it, how much any of us
really would,” said Robinia. “The
independent thinkers, the loners, the outcasts of this world -- at least as far
as I am concerned, being one of them -- are sick of being spit upon by
society. This isn’t, in any sense other
than by an accident of history, ‘our world’.
We don’t belong here; we’re made to feel that every step of the
way. We don’t have any ‘shared values’,
or any of that kind of crap. We are as
much aliens here as someone from another galaxy. Frankly, if I had the chance to go to another
world, especially one with people in it who at least have some understanding of
who and what I am, and people who think before they spit on me, I’d take it,
right now. I don’t owe this world a damn
thing but a lot of pain.”
“What about that, ‘I am not free as long as any are
imprisoned’ bit of yours, Robinia?” asked St. Joe. “And the other thing is, there are a lot of
conscious people out there, outside the Druid lineage. There are Buddhists, Hindus, Christians, and
countless others. They have
consciousness, too, and weren’t a part of this great escape. Don’t these others deserve to be ‘saved’,
too?”
“There would have to be a way of identifying who is conscious
and who is not,” said Erika. “Otherwise,
they would be completely undermining their own intentions. Maybe they have a way of doing that; they
certainly found us. As far as the masses
are concerned, it is a hard thing to come to grips with, but you can’t choose
for everyone, as Phineas said. You can
only choose for yourself. You just have
to accept that people go their own way, and you can’t be responsible for their
motivations or actions. Everyone has
consciousness at one time or another, at least according to Phineas’s
theory. In some it stays, in most it
gets traded for ‘maturity’, meaning the individual gets traded for
society. That just isn’t our problem, or
this other world’s problem, either.
Sorry to be so cold-hearted, but I see this as being given a chance, a
chance for us to live, not in hiding but out in the open. Live with others who will respect us; live
among others who feel what we feel. If
there’s a chance of that coming about, I’m all for it, and I’m not going to
give it up for a society that will burn me at the stake if it ever gets the
chance.”
“You can count me in on that, too,” said Roweena. “From what I saw of their world, I’m ready
for the trip. They could find others
with signs, prophetic signs. Most
religions or belief systems have some vision of the end of the world. Culture itself doesn’t, but the culturally
acceptable remains of religions do. Look
at how popular the end-of-the-world books and movies are. They could use signs that the end of the
world is coming. The social minds won’t
react to them, they’ll just keep on with their jobs and so forth, until it gets
to the point that culture falls apart.
Then they will panic, focusing all their energy on the end of the world,
and eventually go catatonic. The
conscious minds will go supernova; even the latent conscious minds will spring
to life. They can find them that
way. If consciousness is fractal, the
connections of the conscious minds with Spirit will strengthen, and this can be
detected psychically. So it is possible
to identify conscious minds.”
“I sort of want to see it, though,” said St. Joe. “The end of the world, I mean. What it would be like, for all those prophecies
to actually happen. Maybe I’m latently
sadistic, but I want to see what happens.
At first, you’re right, the social animals will ignore them; it is worth
pointing out that such ignoring is a part of the prophecy as well. But later, when things start to get
disrupted, it will be hell on earth. It
will be a glorious thing to watch, even if ultimately tragic as well.”
“I wonder what it really will be like,” said Robinia. “Some people think those prophecies are all
symbolic, that they are figures of speech; it won’t really happen that way.”
“I would imagine,” said Phineas, “that the end of the world
will come as people expect it. The
mixing of the two worlds, no matter how it happens, will create a fractal
interface. What will be seen in that
fractal will be a matter of how the mind interprets it. Conscious minds might just melt into it, and
thereby be identifiable; or maybe that melting itself will be enough to
transport them to the other world.
That’s a possibility. But it will
be strange here. Fractals exploding
everywhere, everything going chaotic. It
will be seen by the mind as what it has come to expect the end of the world
will be like; the fundamentalists will see red seas, hail storms, locusts. The scientists will see a comet, radiation,
shock waves. Everyone will see it in
their own way.
“I guess for my part, though,” Phineas continued, “I would like to see it from the perspective
of observer, and not participant. I
wouldn’t mind being in that other world, too, or at least with one foot in it,
when the time comes. I think the time
may already be upon us, given the experiences we have had, and the appearance
of those runestones. The fractalizing of
the world is beginning, first with conscious beings, then later for everyone,
as the metaphysical and physical planes start to collapse into each other.”
“I think it would be good if we could go there together,”
said Robinia. “So far, they have
spoken to each of us through our
histories. If we were there together,
they couldn’t play that head game. For
better or worse, we are more likely to see them as they really are, as multiple
observers, than one at a time. I guess I
still don’t trust all this. You were
shown things, I lost something, and I still haven’t forgiven. If we did this, maybe I would find out what
happened to Angela.”
“I don’t think they’re playing any games with us,” said
Roweena. “I think they’re dead serious,
and they’re telling it as straight as they understand it themselves. But I agree nonetheless, there would be a better place than here. At least, we would
have the chance to influence what is going on, maybe.”
“OK, I’ll go along,” said St. Joe, “but how are we supposed
to get there? Just standing on the
beach, waving our hands, saying ‘We’re here!’ isn’t going to work.”
“It might be that simple in the end,” said Roweena. “If the worlds really are coming together,
then it’s more a matter of choosing to observe which world we’re in, rather
than asking them to come and get us.
Tomorrow night is Halloween, the feast of Samhain, Night of the
Dead. It’s the traditional night, one of
them anyway, when the connections between this world, and the worlds of Spirit,
of fairies, and so on, are the strongest.
It’s also one of the two major Celtic fire festivals, and if these
people are of Druid descent, they will be celebrating, too. The paths should be wide open; it’s a matter
of us choosing to walk through the gate.”
“That’s all fine and well,” said Phineas, “and I can tell
you, they make the damn tastiest roast turkey I’ve ever eaten. I’d love to go back, but I have no idea what
you mean by ‘walking through the gate’.”
“If we’re all agreed, it’s easy enough to do,” said Erika, as
the others around the table nodded in agreement. “It’s a matter of a ritual, constructing a
ritual to open the gate. If they are
celebrating, as Roweena said, they will be conscious on the metaphysical plane;
so will we. It’s a matter of meeting
them on the astral plane, and going back with them into their world instead of
ours. This might not make too much sense
to you, Phineas, but it can work, if they really are what they claim to
be. It’s asking a lot, I know, for you
to believe it, and even more for you to join in it, but these are things at least
Roweena and I have done before. It’s old
hat.”
“From what I saw of the energy matrix,” said Phineas, “I’ll
believe anything in the present situation.
But what happens to the bodies?
If this spiritual transfer works, what happens to our bodies?”
“I would think,” said Roweena, “that if things really are as
these other-world people say they are, the bodies will transfer along with
consciousness. We will transfer over,
body and soul, the instant we are aware of being in the other world. If not, then this thing is bogus, and it
won’t work. It’s an easy test of the
closeness of the worlds, if nothing else.”
“Can we bring things with us?” asked Phineas. “I’m sorry, I’m not privy to the ‘purity and
spirituality’ side of it. They told me,
or at least hinted very strongly, that if I came back, it would be well to
bring gold and gems, as those are the currencies they use. Better to go prepared, I would think.”
“Yes, and other things as well,” said Robinia. “Things that are of value. What would you take, if you were going to
another world? That’s an interesting
choice. My cards, a few other magick
things. The things I normally work with,
anyway. It’s something to think about.”
“Oh, and dress warm,” said Phineas. “They took their northern European climate
with them, too. It’s bitter cold, at least
where I was.”
*
* *
The next day was spent in preparation for the ritual. Roweena prepared the actual spell; if this
was Druidic magick, she was the closest to it.
The others busied themselves with choosing items they would take with
them. Phineas went for the gold, the
logic being that whatever could be needed, it could be bought, rather than
trying to second guess what to take.
Erika and Robinia sorted through their magick implements, while St. Joe
selected items related to his spiritual past.
In the end, all realized that if they were going to a truly conscious
world, in which magick and science lived together, it didn’t matter much what
one took, as anything could be made. It
was more a matter of sentimental value.
As evening approached, they headed away from the Wizard, toward the beach. Each of them had selected their favorite
clothing, covered by the warmest coat they could find. The night was cool and clear; too cool for
the usual bonfires and drinking parties that dot the beach on holiday
nights. This was to be a very simple
ritual: since everyone came from different backgrounds, the use of symbology
would only confuse things. They found a
particularly dark area near the water, and arranged themselves in a
circle. Roweena provided a specially
blended oil, and each was instructed to place a drop of it on the forehead.
Robinia brought some of her smoking herbs; both to strengthen the astral
vision, and to avoid any nausea that might accompany the transfer process,
should it be successful.
The ritual began with the usual banishings and purifications;
all of this done in the mind, the purpose of which is to quiet other thoughts
and focus attention. As they joined
hands, each could feel energy beginning to flow. From the right side to the left, they passed
the energy around the circle, growing stronger and faster with each passing
moment. This would be a cone of power,
the same sort of rite used to focus energy for the casting of spells, but it was
not to be used for that purpose. Instead
of thrusting forth energy, using it to charge some object or influence some
event, they would be thrusting themselves with it. During this energy raising process, Roweena
asked them to visualize
They found themselves standing in a group, facing an opening
in the circle of stones. They had
successfully transferred to
“Five acorns,” whispered Roweena. “The highest Druidic rank known on earth is
three.”
“Where are we?” asked Phineas, in a low whisper.
“Between the worlds,” answered Robinia, in a whisper. “We are in that dimension where our worlds
touch; we are in neither world, and also in both. As such, this is a somewhat unstable
situation.”
A moment later, the center figure from among the arches moved
forward to the altar stone. It opened
the wooden box, and from it removed a round, black object. As it moved through the air, the object
pulled a shower of white and yellow sparkles behind it.
“A black hole,” whispered Phineas. “My god, they’re going to . . . ”
He was cut off by the sound of a voice, at once both a
whisper and a thunder clap. It spoke one
phrase, which caused Robinia to face it and step forward.
Game Over.
The figure tossed the object toward Robinia, and she caught
it in her right hand. There was an
explosion of bright, colored light, and the pirates felt themselves being
pulled lengthwise, from head to foot, and squeezed inward from the sides. The visible world drew upward, forming an
ever smaller and smaller circle of light above them. The feeling of being stretched became so
strong that they all passed out, as air rushed past them in a deafening
thunder.
*
* *
The following day, newspapers reported the sighting of a
bright glowing fireball over
Let those who will
understand, receive these greetings:
We are from a time in your
past, a time when our worlds were one.
In the past that lies beyond your memory, your world was filled with awe
and majesty. This was a time when the
fires of cosmic energy rained wonders upon your world, and the seas churned up
lands of mystery and splendor; when magick crackled in the air and the honor
and joy of being filled the hearts of the people with respect and admiration
for one another. Every man and every
woman is a star, and each swam in the brightness of the others, each glowing
more brightly with the luminescence of their individual Spirit.
But there were those
among you on whom this splendor was lost.
You wanted not to shine, but merely to reflect. Jealousy and greed soon followed, and you
joined together into great cities, like insects in a hive. You built your civilizations, and the
radiance of your spirit faded into the order of your culture. Being gave way to doing, and one’s measure
became one’s ties to others; the inside was forgotten as the outside solidified
into a dull, opaque shell.
In your zeal to polish
your lifeless shells, you conquered, burned, and destroyed. Incapable of tolerating the light from
still-shining stars, you hunted, persecuted, and drove us out. Know, as even you must now realize, that you
did not destroy us. Our worlds merely
uncoupled, our world of splendor drifting away from your dull, lifeless world
of empty shells, like ships passing silently in the night. The shining stars cast themselves forth into
what, for you, is a dark void beyond the limits of your experience. Our world continued onward, growing ever in
power and knowledge, as you plundered and overpopulated yours to the brink of
extinction.
As surely as the snake
that consumes all must eventually swallow its own tail, your world now stands at
the brink of destruction. Whether
through your own actions, through ours, or by circumstance alone is irrelevant;
the imminent death of your world has set you on a collision course with ours. As your world approaches its fate, it draws
ever nearer to ours; the metaphysical and the physical draw once again
together, and we will, as we choose, walk among you. Your world and ours will intermix. We shall once again walk the streets of your
cities, meet in sacred groves and light our festival-fires on your hilltops,
and you will once again feel our powers.
Be warned that caution may be the wiser part of valor; for since our two
worlds were last together, our powers have increased greatly, as has our
distaste for your intolerance, ridicule and hatred.
Your world will not
survive; what is to befall you is a calamity of unimaginable proportion. Its nature will be revealed in the coming
days. It is of little consequence to us
that this should happen, as we have learned to shape our own world, and have no
need of your empty shells. The past is,
however, a form of the present, and we have not forgotten the events of
old. Those among you who harbor signs of
what you once were will be chosen by us, to walk among us as the kindred we
are, and escape the doom into which your world inexorably falls. We have great powers, and we will call you
forth; those who have not forgotten themselves will not be forgotten by
us. Still others will come to us by
their own choosing, and those we will welcome as we welcome each other. Most have forgotten, and those will by us be
likewise forgotten, cast into the emptiness of the pit they have dug for
themselves.
The coming days will be
filled with wondrous sights, and will for many be filled with great fear and
turmoil. Know that those who fear us are
those who fear themselves, for in the end, we are only what we are, what you
once were, and what you may yet choose to become. Our ways are the ways of your past, the ways
of your inner being, and our ways are open to those who have the soul to feel
and remember.
Robinia awoke slowly, feeling an aching pain in every muscle
and joint of her body. She realized she
was lying in a bed, covered with heavy blankets. The air of the room felt cold on her face,
and she could smell burning incense, a mixture of frankincense and herbs. She opened her eyes slowly; the room was
dark, save for a yellow and orange flickering light, like the flame of a candle
or fireplace. In her blurred vision she
could see a black-robed figure with a high-pointed hood standing near the
bed. As her vision cleared, she saw the
five acorns on its left shoulder, a black-hilted silver dagger hanging from its
neck, and a purplish-blue haze that surrounded it. Through the glowing haze, she could see a
green sash, and a green scarf decorated with astrological signs, and other
symbols she could not recognize.
The figure had evidently noticed that Robinia was awake, for
it moved to the bed, placing a candelabra on the table next to it. It reached up to its hood with its hands, and
as it pulled the hood back, long shiny black hair poured forth. As the figure pulled the hair behind its
back, Robinia sprung upward in her bed at the sight of the face that was
revealed.
“Angel- ow, shit!” she whimpered, as pain shot through her
body and she fell back into the bed.
“Lie still,” said Angela, in a quiet, reassuring voice,
placing her hands gently on Robinia’s shoulders. “You’re not hurt, it’s the effects of tidal
gravity. I’m sorry we had to bring you
here that way, but there wasn’t time for anything else. Here, drink this,” she said, producing a
metal cup filled with aromatic liquid, helping Robinia to sit up and put it to
her lips. “These herbs will ease the
pain and quicken your recovery.”
As the cool liquid made its way down her throat, Robinia
could not help feeling as though she had swallowed a bouquet of herbs and
brightly colored flowers. The hot,
agonizing pain in her joints and muscles faded away, and was replaced by a
feeling of cool, aromatic flowers blooming in meadows among snow-capped
mountains. As the pain receded, Robinia could feel her mind clearing, too. So this is the state of the healing arts, she
thought to herself.
“I’ll leave you for a while, so that can finish its work,”
said Angela, making her way to the door.
As she walked through the door, she turned back to Robinia. “There may be certain things you will see
here, things that will happen over the next few days,” she said, “that will try
your faith in . . . well, challenge your
thinking of me as being your friend. I
am your friend, and I hope you will understand that we have difficult
responsibilities.” With that, she turned
back through the door, closing it quietly.
As Robinia lay in the bed, she heard the sound of chanting,
accompanied by what sounded like an organ.
The singing grew louder, and as it did so, the dark stained-glass window
in her room began to glow. Moments
later, bright sunlight streamed through the window, casting a mosaic of color
onto the bed. Slowly, Robinia got
herself out of bed. The room was bitter
cold, but her overcoat was hanging from a peg in the wall; she put it on, and
opened the brightly colored window.
Outside, the morning sun rising over the mountains slowly banished
the shadows of night, as it revealed the stone battlements of the castle
below. Looking down from her window,
Robinia saw soldiers in silver armor, wearing black scarves and various other
vestments, extinguishing and collecting torches. Beyond the castle walls, a thin white mist
receded into the woods beyond lush meadows and streams. This must have been how Columbus felt,
standing at the brink of the New World, she thought to herself, then sensed the
irony of the idea -- she had not come to conquer, but to escape. The train of thought was broken when she
looked into the sky. She saw not one,
but two moons, disappearing into the bright blue of the morning sky.
Behind her, there came a gentle tapping on the massive wooden
door, followed by a creaking sound as it opened. Through the door stepped Angela, though no
longer in her thick black robe. She wore
a long, flowing green gown; the only vestige of her Druidic rank being the
silver dagger hanging from her neck. She
quietly closed the door behind her, and walked toward Robinia. The two embraced.
“I was so afraid, we wouldn’t be able to bring you here,”
said Angela, “afraid it wouldn’t work.
But you’re safe now, what happens out there can’t harm you here.”
Breaking the embrace, Robinia asked, “But who are you,
really?”
“I am Angela, as you have known me. I am also something you didn’t know,
Archdruid Meadow Mist, member of the Alliance Council, one of the spiritual
rulers of this little place we call Earth.”
“This isn’t the Earth,” protested Robinia. “Look, two moons. This isn’t the Earth, as either I or you knew
it.”
“It is the Earth,”
replied Angela, “only it is in a
different way than what you have known.
There are, by the way, three moons, and several other planets close
enough to see at night. It is the Earth,
but the Earth gone a different way. It
is the reality of a set of possibilities, different from where you used to
live. What we call the world is a certain set of possibilities, solidified by
experience and belief. This is simply a
different set of experiences and beliefs, but it is in a very real way the same
Earth you have known for most of your life.”
“For most of my
life,” said Robinia, “I would say for all
of it, until now.”
Angela snickered, and staring out of the window, composed
herself. “You think so?” she said. “Fairies, dragons, sea monsters, princes and
princesses, great castles and dark woods, invisible friends and voices heard in
the night. All of the things that make
up the world of fantasy, of children’s stories, of fairy tales and forgotten
legends. It never occurred to you, no,
it never occurred to Frazer, to Jung, to
“No,” said Robinia, hiding her amazement behind the flatness
of her voice.
“The conscious mind,” said Angela, “even the fully conscious
mind, sees the world through blinders.
Selective awareness, it is sometimes called. You perceive only a small subset of what you
see, you are aware of only a small portion of the contents of the mind at any
one time. But the unconscious mind, it
sees all. It works its way through the
cracks in the world you make for yourself in your mind, and it sees beyond that
world. The memory of our world, the
world that was once the only Earth, remains locked in the collective
unconscious. We haven’t been forgotten,
just ignored. The unconscious mind sees us, a world that is as much a world as
any other. It sees us because we are so
very close, though it occasionally catches glimpses of worlds even farther
away. And the images of our world rise
to the surface like bubbles, popping into awareness when least expected. No, dear, the fantasies and stories are not
make believe; they are the sights and sounds of the very world in which you now
stand.”
“Archetypes,” said
Robinia, “Then you really are the archetypes?”
“Archetypes,” replied Angela.
“Bringers of consciousness, makers and breakers of spells, givers of
thought and inspiration, destroyers of worlds . . . No, we are not the archetypes. They are as much a part of us as they are of
you. You see, when these visions of
other worlds come in through the unconscious mind, it widens the crack in one’s
mental shield around the world. Other
forces come in, constellating themselves in those fantasies and visions, taking
root in the mind, growing stronger and brighter. We may, on occasion, have acted as vehicles
for archetypes, and it’s true that we live a bit closer to their energies than
what you are used to. But we are as much
creatures of Spirit, manifesting through archetypes, as are you. We may have acted as messengers, but we are
not the message.”
“But for there to be a messenger, there has to be a message. Phineas is right; for there to be
consciousness, there have to be other worlds,” said Robinia.
“That is for the Wardens to dispute,” said Angela, “I prefer
to rely upon experience as a guide. We
know, as you do, that archetypes must exist for there to be consciousness. Where they come from, I cannot say, as there
is no direct experience of these other worlds -- only our interactions with
their messengers. Still, it is an
interesting thought. There will be
another member of the Council visiting here today; he is more interested in
that kind of thing. We should go now, to
the dining room. The rest of your crew
should be there. I’m hungry, and you
must be, too.”
Robinia hadn’t thought about it, but yes, she was very
hungry. As they made their way down the
hall, it occurred to her that the food in this world might be very different
from what she was accustomed to. Dragons
and sea monsters; what would poached dragon’s egg taste like? At that thought, she let out a quiet “Hmmpf!”
“What?” asked Angela.
“I was just thinking, what with the beasts you have here,
what meals must be like. Dragon’s eggs?”
Angela stopped at a window in the hallway. “In those woods, beyond the meadows,” she
said, “there are dragons. Fire
breathing, as well as cold breathing, and some much worse than that. I suppose if you wanted, you could take your
chances at trying to steal an egg. But
we find chickens much easier to keep.”
*
* *
As they turned the corner, the other four pirates were
standing in the hallway, in front of a door guarded by two armored
soldiers. With a motion of Angela’s
hand, they opened the door.
“Please, come inside,” said Angela. “This is my private dining room. There are other dining rooms in the castle,
which you are free to use as you please, but I thought it would be good for us
to meet, at least once. I am Archdruid
Meadow Mist, and as guests in my castle, you are free to come and go as you
please. You will notice that certain
doors and rooms are guarded; I ask only that you respect our privacy in these
instances. I think it would be wise,
too, for you to remain here, at least at night, for the next few days, until
this situation is over.”
Inside the dining room was a long table with chairs. Angela sat at the head of the table, and the
pirates took seats on either side of the table.
Through a door in the back of the room, attendants brought plates,
eating utensils, and platters of food.
Some of the food was recognizable, some of it was not.
“It’s all edible,” said Angela, amused at her guests’ stares
of curiosity. They began helping
themselves to the food on the platters.
It was indeed edible, and excellently prepared.
“This situation,” said Phineas, looking up from his plate,
“you mean, the end of the world?”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” replied Angela, “it really
isn’t our intention. Look, you all know
the story. When the Council undertook
this experiment -- and it was an experiment, we didn’t know if it would really
work -- we knew that we were setting a cycle in motion, one that would sooner
or later bring itself to completion. It
seems the time for that has arrived.”
“What’s driving it?” asked St. Joe, “What is making this
happen?”
“It has to do with the disappearance of consciousness in the
world of civilization,” replied Angela.
“A world exists only because it has a certain luminosity, a certain
level of energy. What keeps that energy
going is its interaction with consciousness; observation, as it’s called
scientifically. Through consciousness,
spiritual energy flows into the world, and that keeps it luminous. There is a feedback relationship between the
world and consciousness; consciousness sees the world because of its
luminosity, and the luminosity of the world increases through its interaction
with consciousness. When consciousness
begins to disappear, the energy flow is interrupted, and luminosity fades. As luminosity fades, the world becomes
unstable -- there isn’t enough energy to maintain it. An unstable world can collapse into the
energy matrix; there isn’t enough energy to prevent its being swallowed up by
energy fluctuations. So when
consciousness declines below a certain level for a world, it is only a matter
of time before that world collapses, and is gone.”
“So
“That’s the problem,” said Angela, “it might be that simple,
and it might not be. We broke our world
off from yours, and used consciousness and energy to keep it alive. But there is a certain kind of energy stored
up in your world, and it isn’t clear what will happen if it is consumed in an
energy fluctuation. Your world is not in
the same reality as ours, and it’s not clear what the energy relationships are
between the two. It could explode, it
could try to re-merge with our world, or it could just simply disappear. What we do know is the cycle is nearing
completion. Whatever is going to happen
is going to happen soon. We want this to
happen under will, with a certain amount of control, so we are doing what we
can to move the process forward.”
“Why, then, did you bring us here? You want to keep us out of the process, for
some reason?” asked Erika.
“You are here, in this castle,” said Angela, “because I know
you, or at least I know Robin. That’s
why you are here. But you are not the
only ones. You see, for the cycle to be
completed, we have to finish what was started long ago. We have to get consciousness off your world. That’s why the two never really split off
completely. This time, we need to make
sure it’s done. There may be imminent
danger to ourselves, if you world collapses while there is still consciousness
upon it.”
“So, you’re pulling all the conscious beings off the Earth,
or at least what we thought was the Earth?” asked Phineas.
“That is what it comes down to,” said Angela. “It’s the only way the cycle can be
completed. You are here because I know
you, but others will wind up in other places.
This is a very large world, with a very low population. We can absorb those we are bringing over.”
“Then you aren’t bringing everyone, only those who are
conscious,” said Robinia.
“Right,” said Angela.
“We have to get the observers off your world, before its luminosity is
gone. Otherwise, there may be a
collision. That could mean the battle we
didn’t want to fight, and still don’t want to fight. It could mean any number of other
possibilities, all of them with dire consequences.”
“What about everyone else?
By consciousness, you mean spiritually conscious,” said St. Joe. “If Phineas, and you, are right, that’s not
very many people nowadays. What about
the rest, some six billion people? What
happens to them?”
Angela sat back in her chair with a deep sigh. “You of all people will appreciate,” she
said, “that hard choices sometimes have to be made. What will happen to the world itself is what
will happen to the rest. I don’t know what
that is. Maybe this
“The comet,” said Roweena, “is that your insurance policy? That you will blow the world away as a last
resort?”
“The comet is a sign,” said Angela. “It is a calling, to those who are conscious,
and those with the capacity for consciousness as well. When we took you, we left a scroll, explaining
who we are and what we are doing. It
will, I am sure, get as much attention as global warming and earthquake
warnings, namely none. But when coupled
with signs, such as the comet, and other things that will happen in the next
few days, it is our hope that it will provoke reactions in those who are
conscious that will allow us to identify them and bring them here.”
St. Joe had become nervous at Roweena’s mention of the comet,
and while reaching for his stone mug, accidentally tipped it over. He looked up, staring into Angela’s
eyes. “I had a vision once,” he said, “a
vision of the world ending, its destruction brought on by a glowing thing from
the stars. You say that you are sending
it as a sign, but is that the truth? Is
my vision wrong or right; are you going to destroy the world, or aren’t you?”
“Your vision was not wrong,” said Angela, “only it is not
right in the way you assumed. You did
indeed see a vision of the end of the world, but it is an end to the world as you know it, not as it is in
itself. The world that has been built up
out of civilization and social order, built up out of the way culture looks at
the world, will come to an end, and the vision of the comet will catalyze that
end. But the end of the social world is
not the end of the world in itself. It
is only perceived that way by the minds of those who cannot think beyond their
culture. The vision of the comet will
activate elements of the unconscious mind that civilization cannot control.”
“Like a subliminal cue,” said St. Joe, “activating the
collective unconscious. Those who can respond to it, you’re going to --
what? Rescue them? That’s what this is, an evacuation?”
“We most sincerely hope it can be done that way. People will just disappear,” said
Angela. “Others may have to be actually
rescued; we are prepared for that, too.
They will be brought here, to various places. Once the event itself is over, they will be
free to travel and settle as they wish.
Remember, we regard them as ourselves, those who were left behind when
the experiment was done. We’re picking
up the stragglers, so to speak. What
happens after that, well, it will test the more esoteric aspects of quantum
theory, I guess.”
“What about the others, those of other faiths?” asked St.
Joe. “There are Buddhists, Moslems,
Taoists -- the list is huge, of different faiths that nurture consciousness one
way or another. You can’t be doing this
just for your own people; there are other contexts in which consciousness
exists in the world.”
“An interesting non-problem,” said Angela. “It’s a non-problem because consciousness
creates its own reality. The Buddhists
will be going to a Buddhist reality, and so on for each way individuals have
come to their own consciousness. This
world is not a rock that exists in one and only one way. It is a multiform reality that is shaped by
the consciousnesses that exist within it.
To pick on the Buddhists again, they will see the end of the world
coming as they expect it to come, and they will be transported to the world
they expect to see. Their consciousness
will illuminate a different set of possibilities than what you see, yet all are
real. Buddhist mysticism has a somewhat
better understanding of this process than is common in the West, so in a way it
will be easier for them.”
“Then you’re not going to blow it up?” asked Roweena.
“Not unless it is absolutely necessary for our own survival,”
said Angela, “and very few things turn out to be absolutely necessary. We don’t think it will be necessary; if we
are right, then the reality of that world will simply collapse, once
consciousness is removed from it. The
mere appearance of the comet will be enough to set social destruction in
motion, and send consciousness fleeing out of the world. Once that happens, we just have to wait for
the world to collapse into the matrix.
In the mean time, it’s not going to be a nice day down there. What these signs will provoke in culture is
unthinkable. There will be hell on
earth, but it will be a hell of its own making.
I can’t prevent that; it is the only plan we could come up with to get
the conscious beings off the world. That
is how we intend to avoid fighting a war, but there is still great uncertainty
as to how it will all unfold.”
“There are some who think that nature, that the world itself,
is conscious,” said Roweena. “What about
that? How do you take away the
consciousness of the world?”
Angela stared in silence for a moment, then taking a deep
breath, spoke. “That the world may embody one or more conscious systems is an
idea we are familiar with. The key to it
is that it is a system: that it involves its inhabitants as much as its
structure. Unconscious civilization has
so damaged the conscious world-system that it can not provide the energy
balance needed to sustain itself.
Remember, most of that came over with us. Your world has essentially been running down,
system wise, since we left. It could
have been built back up, but civilization went the other way. You could say that modern civilization killed
the soul of the Earth, or at least the Earth on which it resides.”
Angela took another deep breath and, staring down at the
table, let it out with a deep sigh. A
moment later, she looked up from the table, composing herself. “Sorry,” she said, as the blank look on her
face was replaced by a smile.
“What exactly are you doing, to complete the cycle?” asked
Roweena.
“The ritual itself is a burning of seven candles,” answered
Angela, “each charged with different
energies. The first candle will be lit
tomorrow, before day break, in the Great Hall; another will be lit each
following morning, until all seven are burned.
As each burns, the worlds draw closer, and as they do so, our world
becomes more visible in yours. The two
draw together, and that will make it easier to find and recover conscious
begins. The luminosity of your world
begins to fade, as well. At the end,
there is nothing left, or at least that is the intention. We find out what happens when we get to that
point. I wish I had a better answer, but
that is as much as is known. There is a
catch in this, you see. We have to
disconnect ourselves from your world, otherwise we count as observers. We have to remove our own consciousness from
your world, completely. That is also
part of the ritual. We have to
relinquish all control over your world, otherwise our consciousness is there,
and the cycle can’t complete. So we
cannot control what happens. That’s one
of the reasons you were brought here; I had to know that you were safe. Else I would have worried about it, and that
would have counted as observing your world.”
“Aren’t you worried about the others, thousands, maybe
millions, who have to be ‘saved?’” asked St. Joe.
“Like us, you have been responsible for the care of souls,
and so you know the answer to that,” said Angela. “I am worried sick, sick to my heart. I will go to any means to protect those in
our care, and those are the ones who were left behind, and those in whom their
consciousness has continued. This was a
condition of completing the cycle, that they are cared for. I mean what I said, the Council will go to
any means necessary, even if that means war.
I only hope it doesn’t.”
“May I see where the ritual is to be done?” asked Roweena.
“Of course. I hope you
will be there when it is done. You might
find it interesting,” said Angela.
*
* *
Having finished their meal, the party broke up. Robinia, Roweena and St. Joe followed Angela
to the Great Hall. Erika and Phineas
took their own tour through the castle, walking side by side, in silence,
through hallways, past doors and walkways, some of which were closed and
guarded. At the end of one hallway, they
emerged through a portal into the cold outside air. Looking over the edge of the stone wall, they
saw that they were very nearly at the top of the castle, looking down over
meadows disappearing into thick woods.
“Do you trust them?” asked Phineas, turning to Erika.
“No, not really,” she said.
“No one starts a magickal ritual without knowing how it will end, or at
least having a plan. They have a plan,
but they aren’t telling. Maybe they
don’t know how it will turn out, but they have an idea of what they want to
see.”
“Maybe they really don’t know,” said Phineas. “When you start messing with the energy
matrix, as they call it, you are leaving the world of rules and controls, and
entering the world of probability and shifting states of reality. And then there’s the issue of culture. Culture will react psychotically, when word
gets out that the end is coming. You
can’t predict the behavior of a psychotic, as you can’t predict which mental
process will seize their behavior at any given time. There’s the quantum variable, and the culture
variable. Maybe others. They’re taking a chance. I just wonder if they can really do it; if
they can really get all the conscious minds off the world.”
“Oh, that they can do,” said Erika. “I think they’re right about that, using
signs of the end of the world to bring consciousness out of hiding. Most people will ignore it, like the
earthquake predictions. Others will get
out, and I suppose they can get them the same way they got us, or something
else. That’s really not a problem. The problem is with what happens next.”
“If there is a next,” said Phineas. “If
They continued on their walk, back into the castle. Turning down another hallway, they came to a
door opening into a large room. The room
was filled with shelves from the floor to the ceiling, overflowing with books
and papers. It reminded Phineas of the
bookstore, and going inside, he noticed a familiar figure at one of the tables,
pouring over a disheveled volume.
“Hello again,” said Phineas.
Looking up from his book, the Warden greeted him with a
smile. “Well, you are here once
again. And this, this the adept we were
told about? So you are here for good
this time?”
“I don’t know about, ‘for good,’” said Erika.
Phineas added, “There are certain issues that are not yet
resolved.”
“You are the physicist,” said the Warden. “You of all people know that nothing is
resolved until it happens, and even then things can go different ways. You are too used to living life backwards.”
“Backwards?” asked Erika.
“Yes,” replied the Warden.
“You are used to your vision of the world, your ideas of what is
possible, being constrained by reality, by the world as you see it. That is backwards. The purpose of vision is to create reality,
not to be limited by it. As events
unfold, our vision of the world weaves them into the tapestry of reality, which
expands our understanding of what is possible.
You are used to things backwards; you think that reality is some real,
existing, independent state of affairs that constrains your ideas about what is
possible. The truth is the other way
around: vision makes events into reality, creates reality through observation,
if you wish. So you see, we cannot
predict what will happen until things happen; the possibilities take off as the
action unfolds.”
“In other words,” said
Erika, “every step you take, takes you deeper into the woods, and the deeper
you go, the more possible pathways there are.
But until you take that step, there is only one pathway into the woods.”
“That’s an adequate metaphor, though one that will take a
while to absorb,” said the Warden. “If
we try to impress an ending upon the beginning, there is only one path to walk,
and the probability of that being the actual path we walk is indeed low. We have to work with the probabilities, not
against them. It is tempting to want to
fall back on things like causation when the stakes are high, but that is the
point at which we must put the greatest possible trust in the rules of
probability, and in our own abilities to alter the probabilities as we go
along.”
“I guess I feel a little better about it now,” said
Phineas. “It’s just the enormity of it
all. A whole planet, a history, everything
that has happened there, coming to an end.
It’s a hard thing to wrap one’s mind around.”
“It is,” said the Warden.
“But I think you, and the others who are coming, will find this a much
more hospitable place. It is not really
that different; it is, after all, your
Earth, too. It’s just that different
choices were made in the past.”
*
* *
Angela, followed by Robinia, Roweena and St. Joe, had gone
down several flights of stairs, and came to a door guarded on either side by
armored men bearing halberds. As Angela
approached, the guards opened the door, and the foursome stepped inside.
Roweena gasped at what she saw. Sunlight
streaming through stained glass windows exploded in kaleidoscopic patterns
throughout the room, while candle flames and incense burners added eerie
movement. Creeping vines clung to the
walls, weaving themselves among the windows and archways. Sounds of chanting and faint music could be
heard.
“The Great Hall,” said Angela, closing the door behind
her.
St. Joe, Robinia and Roweena could only stare in silent
amazement. The door through which they
had entered was near the front of the hall, which was arranged in a
semicircle. Around it were four altars,
each adorned with the signs and colors of the element it represented. In the center of the semicircle was a large
table, the main altar. On its top were
seven colored candles: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and
black. Each candle had colored designs
carved into it, and rested atop a square of parchment with a seal drawn upon
it.
First St. Joe, then the others, slowly approached the
altar. Staring at the candles, St. Joe
could feel the powers with which they had been charged. They were energy reservoirs, intended to
release their energy as they burned down.
The seals were combinations of elemental, planetary and astrological
signs: gateways through which the energy was to be released upon the
unsuspecting world on the other side of the veil.
“It begins tomorrow morning, the lighting of the first
candle,” said Angela.
Roweena felt faint, and reached out, grabbing the altar to
steady herself. Angela took hold of her
from behind.
“Are you all right?” asked Angela.
“I don’t know, I feel very strange,” said Roweena. “As though all of this is happening around
me, like I am a part of it, and yet I am not.
I feel left out; I feel the energy, but somehow left out of its flow.”
“That will change in the morning,” said Angela. “You will be able to focus better then. I would suggest working on protections,
everyone. The energies will be very
unstable when they connect with your world.
There will be much to do then.
There will be a need to focus those energies once they arrive. Perhaps you can help with that.”
“You mean go back?” gasped Robinia.
“Yes, but not alone. It will be very dangerous; you can’t go back
without protection. We can provide
that. There may be situations where
channeling the energy will be necessary, and that is something you can do.”
The door through which they had entered the Great Hall opened,
and through it strode a figure in black robes, wearing a purple sash and silver
dagger, and surrounded by the same purplish-blue glow they had all seen
before. Angela ran to the new arrival,
and they embraced for several moments, whispering things back and forth. Finally, they parted.
“Archdruid Thunder Strike, member of the Alliance Council,”
said Angela.
“The wandering friar, Brother Morien, wasn’t it?” asked
Robinia.
“You have met before?
You told her your name?” said Angela.
“Why not?” said Morien.
“Yes, we have all met before, under somewhat less clear circumstances,
however. And if you could trust her with
your name, why shouldn’t I? They are
very much our brothers and sisters, after all.”
“We were discussing the circumstances of our . . . of our possible intervention,” said Angela.
“Oh yes,” said Morien, “not exactly something we look forward
to, but perhaps unavoidable given the circumstances.”
“What circumstances would those be?” asked St. Joe.
“It is our intention that those of conscious mind separate
themselves from the social world,” answered Morien. “To that end, we will send forth signs of
imminent destruction, recognizable from religious literature, from contemporary
scientific culture, and from the collective unconscious as well. There is a kind of reaction that we have seen
in consciousness, that it tends to seek isolation as opposed to socialization,
when such signs appear. For some, that
will mean physically leaving the cities.
We will be waiting for them in the countryside. They need only cross the barriers, which they
may not even notice they have done. Once
they are here, they will be picked up and taken to villages and castles. They will be kept there until the ritual is
over, then they may go wherever they wish.
“We also realize, however, that the social mind will react to
these signs with its own mechanisms of destruction, which may include the
persecution or detainment of individuals it sees as different. These, we will have to rescue, and that will
mean intervention by armed force, and perhaps by other means as well. In the worst case, we may have to carry out
direct attacks against population centers; crush the socially psychotic mind,
in order to complete the evacuation. We
are prepared for that, too.”
“You mean war?” asked Roweena. “I thought your whole point was to . . . ”
“Calm yourself,” said Morien, “and hear me out. I have no intention of fighting a war. There are other means . . . ”
“You could just go in and bomb all the cities, that would
work,” said St. Joe in a sarcastic tone.
“We have no need to do that,” replied Morien. “If we want your cities destroyed, we need
only stand back and wait for someone or other to push the buttons. There will be great unrest, and the
temptation to use powerful weapons will be irresistible for those in
power. Our main concern is to prevent
that, and that may mean the use of the military orders to seize control of
those weapons and destroy them. No, I
had in mind something a little different for the cities. If it becomes necessary to neutralize social
oppression to carry out our work, we can do that without weapons, as such. That’s why I was out in the woods.”
“You met with them?” asked Angela.
“After a fashion, yes,” replied Morien. “I think we reached an understanding. It’s difficult to tell, from a conversation
consisting of mostly snorts and grunts.
I’m sorry if the realities of this upset you,” said Morien, noticing
Robinia’s sigh.
“This is not some arbitrary discussion,” said Robinia. “This is a world we are talking about, a
world with people in it. Your intention
is to destroy it, one way or another.
You are asking us to just accept this, to sit back and watch it? Maybe we can’t stop it, but we have feelings
about it. It is our world, too, and it
matters what happens there. You’re
talking about it like a bunch of generals plotting a war, with no thought of
the human costs.”
“Robin,” said Angela, “of course we have thought about
that. We aren’t generals, we’re priests,
after all. Of course we have thought through
what it means.”
“I think that maybe you have not thought through the
situation,” said Morien. “Pardon my
ambivalence, but is this not the very same world that has conspired to root out
our kind and murder us, since before one can remember? Is this not the world of inquisitions and
witch-hunts, the world that killed some nine million people for the single and
sole purpose of eradicating our beliefs?
For you, that is in your past.
You can forget and ignore, but we cannot. For us, the past must be immediately present;
we must smell the smoke of innocent bodies burning in righteously kindled
fires. I’m afraid I cannot forget or
forgive; my oath obliges me to care for those who have been tortured and
murdered. The one thing we might be able
to do is to be justice for those who
received none.
“It is not the people of your world toward whom I bear
malice,” continued Morien “It is their culture.
Those people -- you know this all too well -- they are not alive in any
sense of conscious life. They are pieces
in a machine; it is culture that lives through them like a parasite. The greatest gift we can bestow on your world
is to purge the parasite, and that we shall do.
In so doing, it is our obligation to rescue those in whom conscious life
is brought forth. As for the rest, that
is not our business, quite frankly. They
are not our people, in any sense of being members of the lineage of
consciousness. Theirs will be the fate
of every civilization in the world’s past: disappearance, oblivion. For my own personal part, I would that I
could resurrect every victim of the burnings, every child that has been made
ashamed of his thoughts, every one who has been cast out or made to recant
their beliefs. Bring them up, give them
torches, and send them forth into the cities.
But calmer voices have prevailed, and justice comes to civilization by
its carving of its own fate; it needs no doing on our part, after all.”
“This is a very difficult time, full of uncertainties. We all have personal feelings about it,” said
Angela. “To some extent we must subsume
those feelings within official duties.
In the end, this world is in our care, and we are responsible for its
well being. We are also responsible for
those left behind, and must do what we can to provide for them. Civilization has rejected us, and we must
reject it in turn. Remember that the end
of the world, if it comes, comes as a result of certain choices having been
made; choices that were made differently than ours.”
“So, we’re not the benevolent, ethereal god figures you
thought we were?” said Morien.
“I understand the difficulties, and what you are trying to
do,” said Roweena. “It is the spectacle
of it that is frightening. If it could
only be over with the snap of a finger.”
“It could be,” said Morien, “but that would require
abandoning the oaths to which we are committed, and it would require that we
decide for your world its outcome. We
will not be executioners; if culture burns, it must be by its own hand, and not
ours. We are required to relinquish our
control over your world, if the cycle is to complete itself. You might say that puts us in the role of
active observers. There comes a certain
point at which one must learn to abandon the ‘want’ for the ‘will’, and beyond
that, one must learn to make one’s will in accord with the will of the
universe. If that means universal
consciousness, then so be it. What it
definitely means is that we cannot control the progression of events, only
affect how they are unfolded in our world.
They will unfold in your world -- in your former world, that is --
according to the will of that world, which very likely means in a destructive
way.”
“This is hard because it is happening on so many different
levels,” said Robinia. “There is the
scientific aspect of it, the spiritual, the social, and on and on. It’s hard to understand how they all relate
to each other.”
“You begin to feel the same thing we do,” said Angela,
looking at the candles. “There are many
dimensions to existence, and when one confronts the end of existence, those
dimensions intersect with each other in unpredictable ways.”
*
* *
Leaving the Great Hall, St. Joe and Roweena went their own
ways, while Angela and Robinia walked slowly together. They climbed a flight of stairs, and walked
in silence down a long passageway, stopping at an open window that overlooked
the meadow and forest outside the castle.
Robinia stared into the distance, ending a deep breath with a sigh.
“Spit it out,” said Angela.
“No, it’s not that,” said Robinia. “I’m not in a position to judge, and I’m not
completely sure what I would be judging, anyway. It’s just that,” she said, turning to face
Angela, “it’s just that I know even less about you than I did before. One moment you’re like some kind of physics
professor, then philosopher, then priestess.
The more I know you, the greater the depth of what I don’t know. Yet, there is also something about you I
know, something that other stuff can’t cover up. You’re still Angela, but I can’t make contact
with it.”
“Me, the person I really am?” said Angela. “Is that what you want to see? I’m all of those things. Why would you think that I couldn’t be them?”
“I don’t mean all that crap,” said Robinia. “I mean the feeling, thinking person
inside. The one I cut off the wall in
that initiation thing, the one who dreamt the white hole. That’s the person I don’t see, but I know
you’re still there. You’re hiding
something, and I feel that. This isn’t
what you really want, is it? Are they
forcing you into it?”
“No one is forcing anything on me,” said Angela, “and this isn’t some kind of impersonal,
mindless process, either. It’s just that
what I am, on the inside, well, it’s a little complicated. Sometimes I do lose track of myself. I have to retreat back into where I really
live.”
“That’s what I want to see,” said Robinia, “Where you really
live. What’s on the inside. You’re keeping that hidden, and that’s not
the way it used to be.”
“All right, I’ll show you,” said Angela, as she embraced
Robinia. “Close your eyes, let your mind
relax, and you’ll see me as I really am.”
Robinia closed her eyes, and felt a warm mist swirling around
her, penetrating through her body and her thoughts. Opening her eyes, she saw everything become
cloudy and dark. Suddenly, the dark clouds
collapsed into a single point, as though being sucked into a single unit of
being in time and space. An explosion of
blue light followed, and from the single point, rays of light poured forth into
the darkness. The light was followed by
stars, nebulae, galaxies, and other unrecognizable cosmic structures pouring
forth from the point into empty space.
The darkness filled with stars, while around Robinia’s body, a glowing
white mist appeared. The mist swirled
and twisted around her, then poured downward, spreading out at her feet.
The mist continued to spread outward, and as it did so, it
grew deeper, engulfing Robinia, hiding her view of the stars. Robinia felt a warmth come through the mist;
until then, she had not noticed how cold it had been. It grew warmer, and she felt solid ground
beneath her feet. The mist began
clearing, revealing a thick forest, with rays of sunlight streaming through the
trees. She was standing on a dirt path,
along side which ran a small stream. As
the mist vanished, the thick, green forest carpet emerged, covered with grasses
and brilliantly colored flowers. The
sounds of bird songs and the babbling stream mixed with the warmth and odors of
the forest, creating a feeling of tranquillity within Robinia that she had never
before felt.
“Angela?”, she called out.
No voice responded. Robinia
walked down the path, not sure which direction was which. As the path turned a corner, she saw several
large boulders up ahead, bathed in sunlight.
Walking toward the boulders, she saw that one of them had a recess
formed into it, much in the shape of a chair.
Seated in that chair, wearing her long, flowing green gown, was Angela.
“Welcome to me,” said Angela, as Robinia approached the
rocks.
“Wow!” said Robinia.
“I was worried I wouldn’t find you in this.”
Angela tossed her head back, looking into the forest canopy,
and sighed. After a moment’s
contemplation, she spoke.
“You missed the point, I guess. This is
me, all of it. The darkness, the stars,
the forest, the stream, the sun, these rocks, this body. All of it, this is me.”
“The star goddess!” gasped Robinia. “Nuit, the source of all possibilities?”
“The star
goddess? One of them, anyway,” said
Angela. “And of the earth, and
everything else. And yet,” she said,
turning her eyes toward Robinia, fixing her with her gaze, “and yet, so very
much like you.”
“Like me?” asked Robinia.
“In what way could all of this -- cosmos, macrocosmos, microcosmos, all
of this -- in what way is this like
me?”
Angela pushed herself into the corner of the chair-rock, and
motioned for Robinia to sit next to her.
It was an uncomfortable squeeze, but they managed to both fit.
“You are so tragically blinded by your culture,” said
Angela. “You think of persons as
one-dimensional, a series of events passing in time. Every event cuts off possibilities for you,
restricts what you can become. You see
yourselves in terms of what you are not -- you are not the sky, not the stars,
not the earth -- but an ever shrinking set of possibilities. Life lived backwards, as we say here. You become less and less of a person, less an
less of an incarnation of infinite possibility, as you live your lives. You see yourselves as reductive, compressive,
and finally collapses of what you once were.
Culture has blinded you to the obvious truth that every moment, every
thing that happens is a superposition of infinite states, a point from which
infinite possibilities radiate outward.
You push yourselves into your own pigeon holes, leaving the universe an
empty void where you could be filling it.”
“But I’m not a goddess,” protested Robinia.
“Oh no?” asked Angela.
“And what prevents you from being one?
Your own blinders, and that is all.
I am no different than you, no different from your friends, no different
from the ‘social animals’ of your world.
I am only different in that I chose a different way, followed a
different path. All right, to be honest,
that choice was long ago, and our manifestations are different because our
potentials have been played out through our histories. I’ll give you that. But there is no difference in being between any consciousness and
another. This way, the path of the
stars, is as open to you as to me.”
Angela stood up from the rock, and held out her hand. Robinia took it, and they both jumped down
from the boulder. They walked silently
down the path for several minutes, before Robinia spoke.
“How is all this you?”
asked Robinia. “Everything here seems to
have its own being. You’re not the rock;
we were sitting on -- well, in it, I suppose.
It’s different from you.”
“Not really,” said Angela.
“What you see around you, including my body, is a crystallization of
possibility into reality. That suggests
both connection and disconnection. When
you look at something, you are both connected to it and separated from it. You are connected with it by the physical
mechanisms necessary for you to see it, but if you were not also separated from
it, you would not see it as something different from yourself. The apparent paradox is resolved by the
fractal nature of consciousness -- things in the world are not us, but we share
an underlying unity that connects us together.
A grain of sand is not the beach, but it also is the beach -- they are both elements of the same fractal
structure. I am not the world, but I
also am the world, interconnected
with it by . . .”
“Wait a minute!” interrupted Robinia. The path ahead led out of the woods, and in
the clearing Robinia could see a castle.
Although it was some distance off, it was obviously Meadow Mist castle.
“I thought we were on a different world, or in your mind, or
whatever,” said Robinia, noticeably confused, “but here we are, back at your
castle. How can this be? Now I’m really
lost, in your mind, or my mind, or . . .”
“Relax,” said Angela, taking Robinia’s hand. “It’s all interconnected, the mind the world,
where we went and where we are. We have
a verse to explain it:
“Every man and every
woman is a star,
Every star is a
fractal,
Every fractal is
consciousness,
Every consciousness is
creative,
Every creation is
reality,
Every reality contains
infinite possibilities,
Every possibility is
interconnected within every man and every woman.”
“This is what you gave up for civilization,” continued
Angela. “Or maybe, this is what we took from
you when we left.”
Robinia looked into Angela’s eyes, and saw the same look of
sadness and frustration she had seen in her tent at the fair. It passed quickly, as Angela composed her
face into a cheerful smile, but Robinia had seen it. She let her guard down, but now was not the
time to pursue it, thought Robinia.
“Well, we should be getting back,” said Angela. “These woods, even if they are me, they are
also others as well. Mixed, composite
reality. Things out here that aren’t
always so friendly. Night time isn’t the
time to run into them.”
The two walked briskly down the path, across the drawbridge,
and through a doorway into the castle.
As they did so, a group of armor-clad guards toiled at a winch, raising
the drawbridge. Other guards made their
rounds atop the castle walls, placing lighted torches that cast dancing shadows
on the castle walls as the stars emerged from the darkening sky.
A hint of purple glow in the sky toward the East heralded the
coming of morning to Meadow Mist castle.
Inside the Great Hall, torches positioned outside stained glass windows
cast stroboscopic patterns of color, as robed figures moved about in near
darkness. A chorus of chanting and music
rose, as five black-robed Archdruids, each surrounded by a purplish-blue glow,
took their positions at the altar. A
large white candle was passed, and each anointed it with oil, whispering the
secret words of power. As the last of
them finished with the candle, its top burst into flame. Slowly, the long candle was lowered to the
top of the first of seven candles resting upon the altar.
*
* *
On the first day, the red candle was lit, and strange
apparitions in the sky were seen.
*
* *
NEWS ITEM:
NEWS ITEM:
*
* *
“According to this,” said Alicia, giving her GPS receiver a
hard thump, “we’re in the middle of the
“I don’t think so,” said Roger, “unless the climate there has
changed drastically.” Looking out of
their apartment window, overlooking the waters of
“It’s not too late for a hike,” said Alicia. “After all, we’ve been to
“Might be a good place to be, anyway, just in case,” said
Roger.
“Don’t tell me you’re spooked by the comet,” said
Alicia. “That’s for the tabloids to pick
up on. They’re right, it’s a figment of
evolution, that people go crazy over this kind of thing.”
“Well, whether it hits or not, people will go crazy,” said
Roger, “and the city ain’t where I want to be.
Not that I want to be here anyway.
I could do with being out in the woods for a few days.”
“I know,” said Alicia.
“I just have that feeling, too. I
want to be out in the trees. Been here
too long without a break, I guess.”
*
* *
NEWS ITEM:
In
Ironically, the chief of
NEWS ITEM:
NEWS ITEM:
Citing the “recent agricultural crisis throughout the
countryside having rendered the central government ineffective,” the
announcement further stated that the central government would remain as a
coordinating and communication tool for local governments, but would retain “no
further authority over the affairs of state.”
Western diplomats were shocked by the announcement, as there
had been no indication of an “agricultural crisis” in
*
* *
On the second day, the orange candle was lit, and faint
sounds of piping could be heard from deep within the woods.
*
* *
NEWS ITEM:
Chairman Gonzalo, leader of the provisional revolutionary
government and reputed to be former philosophy professor Dr. Abimael Guzman,
issued a statement warning against outside aggression by Peru’s neighbors. “It would be foolhardy on the part of those
who seek to impose their oppressive and corrupt rule upon the world, to take
advantage of the current situation and attempt to steal our country away from
its people.” No formal statement on the
situation has yet been issued by
The ideologically Maoist Shining Path movement has waged a
protracted war to overthrow the government of
NEWS ITEM:
A Senator opposed to the bill, who insisted upon remaining
anonymous, stated that it is a direct violation of “every damn thing the
Constitution and the Bill of Rights stand for.”
Proponents of the measure claim that the availability of nuclear,
biological and chemical weapons on the illicit international market, along with
commitments by
A White House spokesperson stated that aides to the President
had been involved in the congressional discussions, and the text of the bill
was both “acceptable and desirable” to the President. The bill is expected to pass both Houses, and
be sent to the President for signing by this afternoon. The White House stated that the text of the
bill will be made public “as soon as security measures are in place to prevent
tragic and violent action against the American people.”
*
* *
“Be careful,” said the park ranger, handing Alicia her signed
permit. “There are reports of dense fog
banks in the forest, and several cars have been found abandoned along the
roads. We don’t know what has happened
to the passengers. We’ve never seen a
problem like this.”
“Abandoned cars in the Park?” asked Roger.
“Yes, it started yesterday,” said the ranger. “Rangers have been finding cars, some in
ditches alongside the road, others just parked right in the middle of the
road. All abandoned, with no one in
sight. At first we thought they had just
gone for a walk to see the comet, but there are too many of them. We will be closing the roads if it continues,
so you may want to get up there today.”
“Well, we’ve been hiking up to
“Not like this,” said the ranger. “We also thought it might be because of the
fog. It’s been so thick in places you
can’t see your own nose. We thought
maybe people just stopped so they wouldn’t get in an accident. But that doesn’t explain why, or how, they’ve
disappeared. So be very careful.”
“Maybe it’s aliens,” said Roger, with a playful smile. “You know, alien abductions?”
“Not funny,” replied the ranger. “I was a ranger in
Ignoring the ranger’s advice, Roger and Alicia returned to
their apartment. The day was cool and drizzly,
and they hoped that waiting until morning would mean drier weather. Loading her backpack, Alicia, felt a sudden
urge and, opening the drawer in her night stand, took out a silver knife.
“You’re taking that?” asked Roger. “Your witch knife? Now who’s spooked?”
“My athame. Yes, I’m
taking it. And my tarot cards,” said
Alicia. “Something’s happening,
Roger. Something strange. In the Park office, I saw that list of
license numbers of abandoned cars. One
of them is Carl’s car. He called me last
night, said he was having weird dreams, that he needed to get out of town. Now he’s vanished into thin air? If it’s really comet spookiness, it’s for a
reason. Maybe it’s going to hit us. Damn what the scientists say, they’re on the
government payroll. Something is going
down.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Roger.
“I tried to log on to the Internet today, but before I could get a
connection, I felt sick to my stomach.
Like I was being told not to do this.
I just wanted to jump up and run.
It’s like the world is falling apart, with everything in the news. It can’t be all coincidence.”
“A synchronicity, maybe,” said Alicia. “Unrelated things happening together,
connected by a hidden inner meaning. It
feels like the city is going to explode.
They both sat silently, staring out the window for several
minutes. Toward the North, the faint
greenish glow of the aurora borealis could be seen, hanging in the sky like a
glowing gateway to the stars.
*
* *
NEWS ITEM: San Francisco, California -- Authorities sealed
off one wing of the international terminal at San Francisco International
Airport this afternoon, as a flight from Germany arrived, reportedly missing
several passengers. Before being
sequestered by security personnel, one of the passengers stated that the plane
flew into a dense fog bank, and “from inside the fog a bright, blue light
appeared. The light grew stronger and
stronger, and I had to close my eyes.
When I opened them, the light was moving back into the fog. That’s when I noticed that the seat next to
me was empty. There had been a lady
there only a moment earlier, but she was gone, her purse, flight bag,
everything. Several other passengers had
disappeared, too, and everyone was panicked.”
Unconfirmed reports indicate that Canadian air traffic
controllers momentarily lost radio and radar contact with the plane as it flew
over the polar ice cap. The anonymous
source indicated that this in itself was not an unusual occurrence during
periods of intense auroral activity. The
source also mentioned that auroral discharge sometimes not only obscures radar
traces from aircraft, but can also produce random blips on radar screens that
appear and disappear quickly. Several of
these were reportedly observed during the time the aircraft lost contact with
ground controllers.
Speculation that a UFO might have abducted the missing
passengers was quickly dismissed by a security official as “absolute
nonsense.” The security official stated
that there is “no evidence for the existence of flying saucers or alien
spacecraft,” and even if there were, it would be impossible to carry out a
mid-air abduction without causing the aircraft to lose cabin pressure, lose
instrument control, and plummet to the ground.
“There is a rational explanation for these incidents, and we will find
it,” said the official. Immediately
asked by a reporter if “incidents” meant there had been other such
disappearances, the security official said, “No comment,” and himself vanished
behind a locked door. While tight
security measures have been imposed at most American airports in response to
the situation in the Middle East, such measures apparently have not been widely
adopted, as of yet, elsewhere.
NEWS ITEM: United Nations Headquarters, New York -- Shock and
disbelief reverberated throughout the international community this evening, as
Chairman Gonzalo of the new Peruvian government displayed before horrified
television audiences around the world a document found in the Presidential
Palace in Lima. The document is a
facsimile transmission from the United States Department of State, indicating
that the
The document goes on to suggest that governments should take
whatever measures they deem necessary for their own internal security, as a
comet impact could be expected to “adversely affect the normal function of
society.” Contacted after the broadcast,
an infuriated Secretary of State said that the announcement by Gonzalo “was
irresponsible and a criminal violation of international trust.” Asked if the information allegedly in the
document was true, the Secretary replied, “I know nothing about comets. You’ll have to contact NASA about that.”
Attempts to contact NASA have so far been unsuccessful. All telephone calls to NASA headquarters go
unanswered, and the headquarters itself has been sealed off by military
security troops. News agencies have
therefore been unable to confirm from any reliable government source whether or
not the Sparkler comet is on a collision course with the Earth.
*
* *
On the third day, the yellow candle was lit, and strange
mists ascended through the trees.
*
* *
NEWS ITEM:
Speculation that the Dalai Lama may have changed his mind and
left at the last moment was laid to rest when guards at all hotel entrances
reported that no one had passed during the night. There were unconfirmed reports that a
brilliant blue light had been seen shining from inside the hotel windows during
the night, but these were dismissed by authorities as “superstitious.” Attempts to contact officials at the Dalai
Lama’s exile headquarters in
NEW ITEM:
A strict dusk-to-dawn curfew is now in place throughout the
NEWS ITEM:
“This has nothing to do with either the comet or
international affairs,” the statement continued, “but is an outright attempt by
an out-of-control federal government to seize control of the lives of each and
every American, and it will not be tolerated.”
No details were given as to what sort of response the governors were
considering, but in the hours following the reading of the statement, officers
of several state national guard units were seen arriving at the
conference. It is also rumored that the
leaders of several militia groups have been asked to attend the conference, and
there are unconfirmed reports that lines of volunteers have formed outside
national guard armories in several western states. Outside the
*
* *
As soon as Roger and Alicia heard the news about martial law,
they jumped in their car and headed for
“We have orders to go to
As the road into the Park climbed its way through the forest,
the temperature began dropping rapidly, far more quickly than was usual. Along the roadside, they could see cars
parked; at one point, for about a quarter of a mile, the side of the road was
completely lined with abandoned vehicles.
Continuing to climb, they could see the road ahead disappear into a
thick fog bank. Just then, the engine
sputtered and choked.
“Whatever’s gonna happen, it’s gonna happen to me,” said
Alicia, as she pulled the car off the road.
“That’s the way it appears,” said Roger, continuing the old
Mama Cass song. “The trail toward the
mountain runs right alongside the road, on the other side of those trees. We won’t get all the way up, but maybe we’ll
see what’s going on.”
“Sure you want to?” asked Alicia.
“Like the song said, it’s gonna happen right here, so let’s
get on with it,” said Roger.
They put on their backpacks and headed up the trail. The fog bank was farther ahead than they had
thought. After about two hour’s walking,
they stopped to rest as the trail ahead disappeared into gray mist a few feet
in front of them. Finishing their snack,
they headed into the mist. Soon, with
condensed water dripping from the trees all around them, they noticed that the
clouds above had started to clear. The
brilliant blue light of the sky appeared through the trees above them. The clearing was short-lived, however, as the
sky soon darkened again. After an hour’s
further walking, the fog cleared, and the forest came to life with the sounds
of birds and rushing streams. Bright
sunlight poured through the trees, and the smell of the forest filled their
lungs.
They continued their hike until what they suspected was late
afternoon. The battery in Alicia’s watch
had evidently run down, for the watch had stopped at about the same time their
car had stalled. As the sunlight began
to dim, they found a fallen log alongside the trail upon which to sit. Wondering where they would make camp for the
night, both Alicia and Roger realized, at the same time, that something was
very wrong.
“Look at these trees!” said Roger. “They must be three, four feet across. Talk about old growth; this one must be three
hundred feet tall!”
“And the bark, it’s almost smooth,” said Alicia. “I haven’t seen anything like it. We’ve hiked this trail maybe twenty times,
but I never saw this.”
“You know, ever since we cleared that fog, things have been
strange,” said Roger. “I didn’t pay much
attention, but the birds and all. And
the trees; this is almost like a . . . ”
“Shh! Listen!” said Alicia in a whisper.
In the direction from which they had been walking came a
sound much like a speeding freight train in the distance. It quickly grew into a deafening roar, and
moments later they saw movement within the trees. First the glint of shining silver in the waning
sunlight, then dark shapes, moving rapidly along the trail toward them. As the apparition rounded the corner behind
them, Roger and Alicia could hardly believe the spectacle thundering toward
them. Horses, covered in gleaming silver
armor, atop which rode soldiers -- more like medieval knights -- wearing chain
mail and plate armor, and black scarves.
Some carried flaming torches, others carried passengers behind them,
whom Alicia recognized as the women she had seen arrested in the city
park. As the squadron careened past
them, Roger noticed something even more disturbing.
“Blood,” he whispered to Alicia. “Their swords -- they’re covered with blood.”
They watched the soldiers ride off; the sound of thundering
hooves was so loud that they did not notice another group of soldiers riding up
from behind them.
“Ho, stand clear the road!” shouted a low, gruff voice that
made them both spin around on their heels.
Another member of the group rode to the front; this man was not dressed
like the others, but wore a black robe, over which he wore a suit of chain
mail.
“Captain, these must be brought with us,” said the black
robed man, whom Roger and Alicia assumed was some kind of priest.
“Who are you?” asked Roger in a voice broken with fear and
amazement.
“I am Brother Joseph,” said the black-robed man. “You must come with us. It’s getting dark, and these woods are
dangerous at night.”
“But how . . . ” said Alicia.
“Please, sir,” said the Captain, anxiously looking toward the
priest.
“Bring them with us,” said St. Joe, turning toward the
hikers. “I’m afraid there is no time for
debate. We will explain, later.”
Two of the soldiers dismounted, and with strength greater
than they could believe, Alicia and Roger were lifted onto the backs of two
horses.
“Hang on tight,” said St. Joe, “and keep your heads down.”
As Alicia and Roger held on to the soldiers in front of them,
the men spurred their horses, and sped down the trail. The ride was terrifying; they had never seen,
let alone ridden upon, horses that moved so fast. It was all either Alicia or Roger could do to
hang on, as their mounts sped around curves, jumped over logs, and galloped at
speeds greater than either had ever moved in their lifetime. Finally, a clearing appeared in the trees
ahead, and in the rapidly dwindling evening light, they could see massive stone
walls rising in the distance above a water-filled moat. Behind the walls rose the towers and spires
of a huge castle, and the tops of the stone walls were dotted with soldiers,
some bearing torches and others carrying large crossbows.
“Ho the drawbridge!” shouted the Captain. “We are back!”
The party crossed the wooden drawbridge, sped through a stone
archway, and came to a stop in a small courtyard surrounded by stone
buildings. Attendants rushed out to the
horses as the soldiers dismounted.
“Please, come with me,” said St. Joe, leading Roger and
Alicia down a walkway leading into a small garden, through a heavy wooden door,
down a short hallway and into a large room with long tables and benches. Inside the room, the women from the park were
seated at one of the tables. A man,
apparently a doctor, was examining bruises on the face of one of them, dabbing
a cloth soaked in some kind of liquid onto her face.
“Weren’t you the ones arrested in the park this morning?”
asked Alicia, approaching the group.
One of the women spoke.
“They took us to some kind of camp, not to jail. They threw us out of the van and started
beating us; they never said a word. Then
I heard angry shouting, and noises like metal banging. Next thing I knew, I saw a sword cut through
the air in front of me, and this soldier’s head was on the ground. The men on the horses came out of nowhere. They cut the soldiers to pieces, tore the
camp to shreds, and set it on fire. Then
they grabbed us, and we rode like the devil was after us. The only thing I remember after that was a
roadblock, with more dead soldiers and trucks burning. We rode into the fog, then through these
woods. Now we’re here, wherever here
might be.”
Before Alicia could say anything, the door opened, and
through it stepped a tall man, who had to bend over to clear the door. He wore magnificent clothes that glistened as
if made from silk, and on his chest was a crest with a red bird clutching a
flaming five-pointed star in its claws.
He walked toward the injured woman, and taking her chin, turned her head
so he could see the bruise.
“They do this?” he said, in a hushed voice.
“These are the ones we have been able to rescue,” said St.
Joe. “There are others, in worse
condition. I will need more soldiers.”
“Tomorrow morning, take whatever you need,” said the tall
man, releasing the woman’s chin, “only get it done before more of this occurs.”
“My pleasure,” replied St. Joe.
“I’m sure you must be wondering,” said the tall man, raising
his voice, “just where you are and what is happening. I am Sir Robin Starfire, protector of the
“Excuse me, but I have no idea where we are,” said Roger. “I really don’t understand . . . ”
“The situation is somewhat complicated,” said St. Joe. “For now, you need to understand that the
world you come from is in a state of, well, rapid decay. The end is not far away; we are getting as
many off as we can before that happens.
Others are already here, and more will be arriving, here and at other
places as well. Once the rescue is
complete, then you will be free to travel as you wish.”
“Why are you doing this?” asked one of the women.
Sir Robin placed his hand near her throat, and pulled forward
the pentagram she wore on a chain. At
the same time, she noticed that he had a similar pentagram on a chain around
his neck.
“Because we watch over our own,” said Sir Robin, with a
smile.
*
* *
NEWS ITEM:
*
* *
On the fourth day, the green candle was lit, and bonfires
were seen on the hilltops.
*
* *
NEWS ITEM:
NEWS ITEM: Great Falls, Montana -- Moments after emerging
from its silo in the fields north of Great Falls, a Minuteman missile exploded
in the air. It is not known whether the
missile was intentionally destroyed or malfunctioned and self-destructed. Local authorities expressed concern that
radioactive material from the missile’s multiple warheads could fall over the
town. Shortly after the missile exploded, however, the Great Falls Health
Department received a telephone call claiming to be from Malmstrom Air Force
Base Operations. The caller stated that
winds in the upper atmosphere would keep any radioactive material airborne, and
if it fell at all, it would be hundreds of miles northeast of the city. When the health official asked the reason for
the missile launch, the caller hung up.
Sources in
*
* *
With her long, flowing purple gown trailing behind her, Erika
left the dirt path and the safety of the trees.
Approaching the mouth of the cave, she noticed that the trees near its
entrance were burned; not by any ordinary flame, more as if struck by
lightening. Stepping inside the darkness
of the cave, the ozone smell of electrical discharge filled her lungs, and her
skin began to tingle with its energy.
From deep within the cave came sounds of hard, chitinous scales brushing
against hard stone. Suddenly, two
glowing orange orbs appeared in the darkness before her; blinking slowly, staring,
penetrating. A meeting of minds
followed, then a terrible decision, and a firm resolve. Erika held her hands out in front of her,
forming a cup, as the cave around her filled with swirling, glowing yellow
mist. The mist formed itself into a funnel,
emptying itself into Erika’s hands in a sudden burst, leaving in her hands a
translucent yellow sphere.
Erika closed her eyes, and felt cool air blow through her
hair. Opening her eyes, she could see
brown fields beneath her, dotted with gray concrete plates and small
buildings. She released the yellow orb
from her hands, speaking softly to herself: “So ye have sown, now comes the
reaper!”
*
* *
NEWS ITEM:
The only effect noticed from the blast has been a massive
electrical power surge, followed by the failure of nearly every electronic
device in the town. This effect, called
EMP, for Electro-Magnetic Pulse, is consistent with a massive nuclear
detonation, and destroys every micro-circuit based device it encounters. Automobiles with electronic ignitions stopped
in their tracks, and communications circuits, radio and television transmitters
and receivers went dead instantly.
This report is being submitted by a reporter who traveled
through the mountains to the city of
NEWS ITEM:
*
* *
An early winter frost gripped the San Jacinto mountains east
of
“Well, you wanted to get out,” said the boy driving the car,
“OK, here we are. We’re out.”
“Out in the middle of nowhere,” said the girl in the front
seat. “And it’s cold. What’s that up ahead? Looks like a light.”
The road narrowed to the point that the car would not
pass. They stopped, got out of the car,
and walked toward the light. The road
widened into a small clearing, and there they saw a small bonfire, tended by a
woman with long, golden hair wearing a black robe. The woman was marking some kind of circle
around the fire with a wooden staff, and as they approached, they saw that on
her shoulder were pinned three golden acorns.
“Hello,” said the driver, “we were just looking for . . . ”
“You found what you came for,” said Roweena, finishing her
circle in the dirt. “Come stand by the
fire and get warm.”
The five gathered around the fire, and as one of the girls
started to speak, they heard a movement in the trees.
“And what do you think you’re doing here?” said a voice, as
soldiers in green camouflage emerged from the trees. “Trespassing on government property, that’s
what you’re doing. You’re under arrest.”
“Why don’t you just go away and leave them alone?” asked
Roweena.
“I have my orders,” said the soldier, advancing toward the
fire.
“So do I,” said Roweena, adding in a whisper to the five
terrified teenagers gathered around the fire. “Stay inside the circle. Whatever happens, don’t step outside of it.”
Roweena raised her left hand toward the sky, and as she did
so, the auroral discharge in the air above the mountains slowly descended
toward the group. The soldiers stopped
in their tracks, looking upward at the descending arc of green light.
“What the . . . ” said the soldier.
“Go away, go away NOW!” said Roweena.
“You can go to hell,” said the soldier, reaching for his
rifle.
“OK,” replied Roweena with a chuckle. “So mote it be!” She made a fist with her left hand, and forcibly
pulled it down from the sky. As she did
so, the green light from the sky descended around the circle. Screams, followed by the bodies of soldiers
bursting into flames, exploded into the forest night.
As Roweena raised her left hand again and spread her fingers,
the mist vanished, leaving only the dark woods lit by the flickering fire. The soldiers were gone, and bitter cold air
descended upon the group. From an
opening in the trees emerged men on horseback, some carrying torches and all
armed with long swords. The men and
horses were covered with shining armor that glistened in the light of the fire.
“Take them to the castle,” said Roweena, “and get back as
quickly as you can. There are more, and
we are running out of time.”
“What about, you know, in the woods?” asked the leader
nervously, as Roweena helped the teenagers, one by one, onto the backs of the
horses behind the men.
“Hang on, hang on very tight,” said Roweena, turning to the
leader. “We have a deal with them, so
don’t worry about it. Just get back here
as fast as you can ride.”
The soldiers disappeared into the woods, and Roweena returned
to the fire. Would there be enough time,
she wondered, enough time to get them all?
*
* *
NEWS ITEM:
*
* *
On the fifth day, the blue candle was lit, and strong winds
were heard, howling through the trees like souls in torment.
*
* *
NEWS ITEM:
NEWS ITEM:
NEWS ITEM:
NEWS ITEM:
NEWS ITEM:
NEWS ITEM:
NEWS ITEM:
NEWS ITEM:
*
* *
On the sixth day, the purple candle was lit, and forks of
lightning streaked through the sky.
*
* *
In the herb garden outside the Great Hall, Angela knelt over
a dark pool of water. Passing her hand
over its surface, the black water became cloudy, and then lit up as streaks of
lightning darted through it. She waved
her hand over its surface again, and the clouds cleared. Images formed in the water, and Angela
studied them carefully.
She saw that in the early morning hours, the world’s
electrical power grids had failed.
Along with them, thought Angela, failed technological humanity’s last
hope of survival. The prayer of the
technological elite was that humanity could be saved on a computer chip: that
the structure of the brain, and its rational contents, could be backed up and
restored later. The electromagnetic
pulse resulting from the destruction of the world’s power grids by energy
fluctuations from the matrix destroyed every computer circuit and microchip in
the blink of an eye. There were no
machines left, no memories, no processors, no backups. A smile of satisfaction came over Angela’s
face. It had been that easy.
*
* *
Excerpt from Meta-Consciousness:
The Not Philosophy of Phineas the !Pirate:
That is the danger of
technology: that one will fall so in love with one’s creation, that one will
try to become one’s creation. If God
could become his only Son, why cannot Man become his own microprocessor? Because Man is not God; that is the lesson
technophiles cannot comprehend. In
seeking to become one’s own technology, one inherits all the flaws of that
technology, and one also gives up the powers of survival inherited from one’s
own history, whether from God, from evolution, or from some intertwining of the
two. Like Icarus flying toward the sun,
believing that his technology makes him greater than he is, when human
technology falters, humanity will plunge downward.
*
* *
The images forming in the pool before Angela’s eyes told the
story of the collapse of human culture.
The images of burning cities, rioting crowds and wholesale destruction
were alarming, but inevitable -- culture was in the process of going insane. With all electronics and communications gone,
the mind of urbanized humanity likewise failed.
Communications failed, the social forces of orientation and control
vanished, the voices in the head fell silent, and the computer-like bicameral
mind came to a halt like a hung computer processor, with no one left to push
the reset button. Without the control of
consciousness, behavior became impulsive, and crowds carried out violent and
destructive acts without reflection or direction. In opting for urbanized life, humanity had
opted out of evolution, and opted out of its chances for survival.
The images in the pool fluttered, then steadied themselves
once again. Soon after the power grids
failed, the rioting and looting stopped.
There was no longer any point: the mental forces pushing the masses of
urbanized humanity to destruction had run their course. The failure of communications ended cultural
synchronization -- there was nothing left for the bicameral mind to lock onto,
nothing for it to copy, nothing for it to do but sit and wait. That is what the people did. Angela saw them, at first wandering aimlessly
through streets lined with burning buildings and littered with corpses, and
finally just sitting down wherever they were, waiting, anticipating, as though something must be about to happen . .
.
The spell had worked.
Angela waved her hand over the pool, and the images of humanity
disappeared, replaced by the Sparkler comet.
From inside her robe, Angela removed a small vial of green liquid, and
poured it into the pool. The image of
the comet flickered and undulated, and finally disappeared. Among humanity, there was no consciousness
left to realize that the Sparkler comet had vanished into thin air. The illusion dispersed as quickly as it came,
its work having been completed.
On the seventh day, the black candle was lit, and silence
fell upon the world.
*
* *
Excerpt from Meta-Consciousness:
The Not Philosophy of Phineas the !Pirate:
When the end of the
world arrives, it will be ushered in with neither a bang nor a whimper. It will be a condition of human mindlessness:
a complete lack of conscious awareness that there is any world at all, much
less that it has ended. There will be no
plagues unleashed, and no locusts will descend upon the lands. The only plague is humanity itself,
plundering and sterilizing the land as it grows without bounds: humanity
weighing itself down with its own biomass.
Like ravenous locusts, humanity devours the earth, and in the process
devours its ability to survive upon the earth.
In the end, there will be nothing left that anyone can do, but
wait. Sitting in the streets, a look of
emptiness in their eyes, minds gone blank when the mind of society collapses in
technological blackout. When the end of
civilization arrives, it will also be the end of those through whose
mindlessness and unconsciousness it has lived
-- when the parasite dies, the hosts will die with it.
*
* *
In a clearing on one of the hills to the north of
Looking at the burning city below, Robinia wanted close her
eyes and make it go away. It reminded
her of an amusement park ride she had taken as a young girl. The Flying
Dutchman it was called, a trip, ironically, through a pirate ship, with all
the lights and special effects the pre-computer era could muster. For Robinia it had not been amusing. Something about it had terrified her; she
just closed her eyes, and waited for it to end.
It never ended, or so it seemed: every time she opened her eyes in the
hopes that the ride was over, something would jump out of the wall hissing or
screaming, and she would close her eyes and retreat back into catatonic
fear. The sight of the city was like
that -- utter terror, mixed with anger and sadness, a bad ride that would not
come to an end.
They had done it,
damn them, thought Robinia -- damn Angela and the rest. Behind their glowing auras of mystical
superiority, they had vented their hatred on the world that had sought to
destroy them. Were they not just as
bad? The teeming mass of humanity in
the city below, lined up like lambs at the slaughter house. Were these great wizards not as bad as the
petty Hitlers and witch hunters -- and even the not so petty ones -- that had
populated human history? What had they
done, but turn human civilization into its own Flying Dutchman, and left humanity to rot in the never-ending
horror.
“You’re making yourself feel bad needlessly,” said a deep,
resonant voice behind her, as the smell of electrical discharge drifted into
her nose. Out of disrespect and anger,
Robinia didn’t bother to stand, not even to turn around, as Morien, the great
Archdruid Thunder Strike, stood behind her.
Architect of the extinction of a species, mastermind of the greatest
killing spree . . .
“It’s time for you to stop this,” he said, interrupting her
thoughts, “and try to understand what has happened. This is not what the world, and its long
history, have come to at our hands. It
is what having made certain choices has come to, of its own accord. You persist in thinking of the world of the
philosophic cave, the world of objects and illusions. It isn’t that way; the world is made up of
energy and consciousness, of fractals and of wills.”
“I can see what has happened, with my own eyes, thank you,”
said Robinia. “I suppose your plan has
succeeded; you have a great deal, I imagine, of which you can be proud. You have succeeded in killing off . . . ”
“Proud?” said Morien, “I suppose so, given that our plan went
exactly as expected. That’s unusual;
nothing is fool proof, for fools are infinitely ingenious, or so they say. I guess we proved ourselves better wizards
than these people are fools. As far as
killing is concerned, has it not occurred to you that perhaps in all of this,
no one has died? That maybe that was our
purpose, all along?”
“What do you mean?” asked Robinia, standing and turning to
face the Archdruid at last. “I thought
you didn’t know how . . . ”
“We knew exactly, every step of the way,” said the
Archdruid. “It was necessary to keep
you, your friends, and everyone else in the dark. Otherwise, you would have thought about the
outcome, and how to influence it. That
would have ruined it, and there would indeed have been a massacre in that
instance. We had to keep your
consciousness focused upon the present and not the future, so you would not
attempt to orchestrate the future and thereby embed your own consciousness
within it.”
“Are you telling me this isn’t reality? This isn’t really happening?” asked Robinia
in an agitated tone.
“Reality,” said the Archdruid. “What is it you think reality
is?”
“A nightmare of our own making. At least the one I’m in now,” replied
Robinia.
“Ahh, yes, that’s very poetic, but not, I am afraid very
specific or useful,” said the Archdruid.
“Put aside your anger for a moment.
Let us consider this: reality is nothing but quantum fluctuations,
variations in the energy matrix, organized into stable patterns by fractal
consciousness.”
“And that is supposed to make sense?”
“It has taken us a very long time to understand why that makes
sense, and what messages are hidden within it,” said Morien, “but I believe we
have grasped its basics. Yes, it does
make sense -- it is a fundamental explaining principle.” The Archdruid waved his hand through the air,
and for a moment, Robinia saw waves of bluish-purple light traveling through
the night sky. “All around you is the
energy matrix -- patterns of waves, disturbances and interferences that make up
the basic nature of existence. Those
patterns combine themselves in various ways, some capable of absorbing and
holding energy, others not. Certain
patterns are observed by consciousness, and when this occurs, their energy is
increased, thereby stabilizing them against collapse by fluctuations in the
energy matrix.”
“Consciousness increases their luminosity. I’ve already heard that,” said Robinia,
impatiently.
“Luminosity is what we call the energy that consciousness
infuses into patterns that are ‘possible’, which simply means ones that are
capable of holding energy,” said Morien.
He waved his hand through the air again, and several stars appeared in
the sky. Instead of white starlight,
they were pulsating in rainbow colors, and the bluish-purple waves poured out
of them. Some of the waves connected up
with one another, and where they did so, points of light began to glow
brilliant white.
“Consciousness is unique in its ability to do this because it
is fractal, just like the stars whose power it shares,” continued Morien. “It has one foot in the spiritual -- which is
to say the energy world -- and one in the physical world, and can channel
energy between the two. Certain other
things in the universe can do this, too: black holes, white holes, some stable
space-time disturbances, and the like.
That’s why the universe doesn’t collapse when we go to sleep, though it
has a nasty habit of changing its configuration in strange ways,
sometimes. You don’t always wake up to
exactly the same world you went to sleep in.”
“So consciousness infuses possibilities with energy,” said
Robinia, adding under her breath that she wasn’t much in the mood for a physics
lesson. “In other words, you created
your own world out of energy and pure thought.
I get that part, though I won’t pretend to understand how you did
it. But what does this have to do with .
. . ”
“This will take some time, I’m afraid,” said Morien, waving
his hand once again through the air.
This time, where the waves connected, some points grew brighter, while
others faded away into the darkness. “A
given object or world requires a certain amount of energy to stabilize it
against collapse into energy fluctuations.
It follows from this that unless it’s a black hole or something like
that, consciousness is required for existence to continue over time. More specifically, a certain amount of energy
derived from consciousness is necessary to maintain existence.” The images in the air faded into darkness.
“As your friend
Phineas discovered,” said Morien,
“consciousness has indeed dwindled in this world. Overpopulation, urbanization, and oversocialization
destroyed consciousness in favor of brain-controlled social behavior. That is the choice that was made here, and
its consequences are what you see in the city below. If consciousness goes away, the energy
levels fall, existence becomes unstable, and it is only a matter of time before
collapse and disintegration occur.”
“By random fluctuations?
A matter of chance how long something lasts when it’s not being
observed?” asked Robinia.
“There is no such thing as randomness; everything is probabilistic,”
said the Archdruid. “That’s a very
important point. Probability is derived
from luminosity -- amplitude if you prefer.
Without probability there is no luminosity, and vice versa. If the universe were random, there would be
no energy function, no probability distribution, no luminosity. One would be unable to distinguish reality
from non-reality, existence from non-existence.
There would be no way to stabilize worlds against collapse. That’s what we have been trying to do,
here. Stabilize the world against
collapse, until it was ready.”
“And it's ready now?” asked Robinia, glancing toward the
burning city. “Your lambs are ready for
the slaughter?”
Morien sighed. “Very
nearly. You see, once the level of
consciousness declines, and the energy infused into the world declines along
with it, a certain point is reached when the world could collapse -- it becomes
unstable against fluctuations in the energy matrix. Now, if there are conscious observers around
when that happens, the world is indeed destroyed. The destruction of an object the size of a
planet can have severe consequences throughout the energy matrix, and
particularly to other worlds closely
linked with it, such as ours. No,
we had to prevent the collapse of this world until we could get all the
conscious observers off of it. Not only
for our own good, I should point out.”
“What about death?” asked Robinia. “If a person loses consciousness before they
die, they can’t observe their own death.
Does that mean they never really die?”
“That’s an interesting topic in itself,” said the Archdruid,
“and not entirely irrelevant. Can one
ever really observe one’s own death? Can
the unconscious -- the ‘social animals’ -- know they are dead and therefore
die? I said that our purpose was to prevent
a massacre, and by removing consciousness from the world we have done
that. Once consciousness is gone from
this world, there is nothing left to observe what happens afterwards. That means, for all practical purposes, that nothing happens after that, at least as
far as the world itself is concerned. It
is like coming to the end of time; there is no world-after-consciousness. The massacre never happens.”
Robinia stared in silence at the black-robed monster before
her. Maybe he wasn’t a monster, after
all? It sounded incredible, but she was
too dumbfounded by it to interrupt.
“You see, the ‘end-of-the-world’ never really comes,”
continued the Archdruid. “In the ancient
cabalistic texts, there is mention of something called the ‘end of day’. It is a scenario in which the world does not
end, but is instantaneously re-born into a new existence. What really happens is that the world becomes
unstable and vanishes in quantum fluctuations, reappearing in different
configurations, until one of those configurations makes contact with a
conscious observer. That can happen by
connecting directly with the entelechy -- the universal consciousness -- and we
know of worlds in which that has happened.
To see such a world is to see directly into the universal consciousness
itself: it is an ecstasy beyond any possibility of description. It can also happen by contact with other
conscious beings. Those beings can come
from other worlds, or they can be a part of the evolution process set in motion
by a particular pattern of existence. Do
you see where we have been going, now?”
“By removing consciousness from the world, you’re going to
restart it, like re-booting a computer?” asked Robinia. “You’re not destroying it after all, you’re
giving it another chance?”
“Sorry if that shatters the evil image I so carefully
cultivate,” replied the Archdruid, “but
you’ve found us out. This world has run
its cycle, and that cycle is nearly completed.
It is like Schrödinger’s cat,
lying in its box, anxiously awaiting its death.
If the cat will only go to sleep, it can awaken into a new world without
poisons and boxes. But before the cat
can awaken, it must first sleep.”
“That’s why you couldn’t tell us,” said Robinia. “We would
have thought about what the new world should be like, and our consciousness
would have kept the old one awake to witness its own destruction. How diabolically clever.”
“Ahh, my reputation lives on, after all,” said Morien.
“This world has been my home for so long, and now I must turn
from it,” said Robinia with a sigh.
“Robinia, this world is not your home,” said the
Archdruid. “For you, and those like you,
it has been your prison. A world of
manufactured illusions and false objects, a world that has done its best to
destroy you. That was to some extent our
fault; we didn’t do it right the first time.
Our knowledge of both science and magick has grown since then, and we
understand what must be done. Think of
it as the grandest of all piracies, if you wish -- stealing the world out from
under civilization. Everyone who can
observe is gone now, everyone except you, that is. The time has come for the cat to sleep.”
Robinia glanced over her shoulder at the burning city below,
and sighed nervously. She saw a thin,
white mist moving over the city, winding its way through the streets, covering
flaming buildings, filling the valley below.
“Nonetheless,” said Robinia, “it is where I have lived, it is
what has formed much of my life, until now.
I feel like I’m turning my back on a part of myself. I guess this is how Gaia must feel -- both
abandoning and abandoned.”
“Gaia,” said the Archdruid, with a deep sigh. “Gaia, yes.
Robinia, there is a side to this whole affair you have not been told,
one that I think you should know. The
earth-goddess. This world, do you think
it just ‘happened’, came out of nowhere?
It is the creation of a consciousness, of someone’s thoughts and
feelings that brought it out of the matrix, and kept it alive while
consciousness grew here on its own. The
forces that made the world work, that
wove its parts together into a system from which life and mind sprang -- that
was the work of someone, a mind. ‘Gaia’ is not some imaginary or theoretical
construct. It is a real person.”
“This world is somebody,
like the vision Angela showed me, about who she really is. The world is a . . .” Robinia cut herself
off, as a feeling of horror swept through her.
“Oh my god, no!”
“Gaia, Kerridwyn, Nuit, Angela, Meadow Mist. Whatever you want to call her,” said
Morien. “In the end, the world stopped
calling her altogether, which is what has led to this. We saw consciousness coming forth, in the
ancient rites, but then something happened.
It’s hard to say where it started, but evolution began moving backwards. Humanity traded its consciousness for the
life of an insect, and everything she had worked so hard for began to vanish.”
“Wasn’t there anything you could do?” asked Robinia.
“She tried everything,” replied Morien. “Drugs, ‘natural’ disasters, alien
contacts. We tried wiping out the
ancient cities; that worked, but only briefly.
She even tried coming here herself.
The first time, they burned her alive at the stake. This time, it was too late. Consciousness was all but gone. There was nothing left to call forth except a
few stragglers, such as yourself. The
best we could do was to rescue them.”
“That coming in person, she’s not the only one to have tried
that?” asked Robinia.
“No, she’s not the only one’” said the Archdruid. “Every possible permutation of conscious
belief, every possible psychopomp, every consciousness that could come forth
from within the universe tried it. When
a world becomes real, it becomes the common property of consciousness, so it
wasn’t only Angela who tried. They all
failed, and failed in the same way. They
got re-written by the social mind; what they brought with them was dissolved in
the mire of social order.”
The Archdruid knelt down, and picked up a clump of earth in
his hand. He crushed it, letting it flow
through his fingers. “Who would have thought,
such a simple thing could lead to so much sorrow?” he said, standing once
again. “The battle with Caesar, that was
the turning point. That was the
confrontation between civilization and Spirit -- when the world turned its back
on Angela. We thought we could avoid it
by splitting the worlds off, and we did for a time. But your philosopher friend Phineas was
right. Consciousness can arise
spontaneously, even under the worst circumstances. So we could never really get rid of
consciousness here, and therefore never complete the break with ourselves, and
especially with Meadow Mist.”
Morien was silent for a moment, staring up at the sky. Then he continued. “Just like a person who loses contact with
Spirit loses the ability to survive, when this world lost its contact with the
creative forces that formed it, it began to run down. It just kept running down, like a wound that
would never heal, a vampire that kept sucking the life out of her, year after
year. There was always enough
consciousness to keep some minimal contact with us, but never enough to bridge
the gap, or to sustain the world on its own.
Finally, it reached the breaking point.
We knew that the world would collapse, and we had to finish what we
started long ago.”
“That’s what she’s been hiding from me,” said Robinia. “The truth about her and the world. It’s horrible, but you’re right. If I’d known, I would have wanted it to come
out differently. And that would have led
to a massacre.”
“Yes, it would,” said the Archdruid. “But now you find yourself in the same
position as hers. The last conscious
being here. Once you are withdrawn, then
this world goes its own way, and she is free of it, once and for all.”
“Abandoned and abandoning,” said Robinia, “that’s how I
feel. It all wound up on my shoulders!”
“There is a certain test in the initiation rites,” said
Morien, sensing her anxiety, “in which the candidate is presented with two
goblets, and told that one of them is poison.
The candidate is required to choose one of the goblets instantly,
without reflection, and swallow its contents.”
“How could one possibly choose?” asked Robinia.
“One can’t,” replied Morien.
“It’s a trick. Neither goblet is
poisoned. It is not a test of making the
right choice, but rather a test of having the strength to choose. The time has come, at long last, that you,
too, must draw upon your strength.”
He held out his hand, and Robinia reached out with hers. At the last moment, she hesitated.
“Is this going to
hurt, like the last time?” she asked.
“No more than waking up from a bad dream,” said Morien, as he
reached forward and took her hand in his.
Robinia watched as his purplish-blue aura engulfed her hand, and felt
its tingle as it enveloped her body. She
felt a cool rushing of energy around her, and closed her eyes as she felt
herself floating through space. As she
drifted among the stars, a cool white mist engulfed her body, and the smell of
aromatic herbs entered her nose.
The ground solidified beneath her feet, and she opened her
eyes. Around her she saw the stone
temple:
She felt hands grasp her shoulders, and turning, looked into
Angela’s eyes. They were red, but not
with anger -- she had been crying. Her
face showed weariness and frustration.
Robinia and Angela embraced, and as they did, Robinia could
see over her shoulder that the other members of her troupe -- or what had been
the pirate band -- were there in the temple.
She gently patted Angela’s back.
“It’s over,” said Robinia.
“It’s finally over. I know you
couldn’t tell me. It doesn’t matter,
it’s too fantastic to believe. I
wouldn’t have believed, if I hadn’t seen it.”
The two women parted their embrace, and Robinia turned,
facing the altar.
“There was a book, once,” said Morien, “a book you saw in a
vision. You understood your part in its
writing, but what you did not understand is that neither future, past nor
present are fixed. The writing in the book
changes, as the writer reads and writes.
Thus . . .”
Thunder Strike turned, facing into the portal, and raised his
hands. As he did so, a faint glow
appeared in the sky. It grew brighter,
changing from purple to red, then to orange and yellow. Over the distant mountains, the sun rose from
the horizon. Robinia saw that it was not
one, but three suns: a triple star system, a triangle of brilliant white
climbing the sky, dragging the dawn with it.
As sunlight streamed into the temple, it passed through Thunder Strike’s
hands, and a priest with a cup caught the beams. Watching the cup, Robinia saw the light
solidify into a deep purplish-red liquid.
The priest brought the cup to her, and she drank. As the cool, fruity tasting liquid made its
way down her throat, it seemed to speak, “It is done.”
No, said Robinia to herself, passing the cup to Angela. It is not done; it is only one of many
possible beginnings.