The Silver Fox banished the night-dark wings of Crow and called forth flame from the night. Holding aloft the staff one final time, the fire leaped magically to light the banner…
The crowd came closer, seeking the light and warmth of the braziers, called by the music…and strangely garbed… And behind them, the victorious Giant… the Green Man…
As the flames grew, we saw that another of his kind held the banner…and in the shadows the Foxes prowled, waiting their chance to regain their place…
…for here, the snow-faced dogs of winter still held sway. But not for long… the drums and pipes called to the Foxes…
…and the battle was joined, red and white, as the flames leaped and the rain fell… But the Green Man looked on… his was the victory this night.
The drums marked their footsteps and every blow and feint… a deep heartbeat, the cadence…
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It was still full dark when I left…it will be a while before dawn and I coincide again on the drive back from the north. I miss those intimate moments when the first rays of the sun creep over a horizon strewn with ancient stone… and no-one else is in sight. This morning, there was just the blackness and the vague, sulphurous haze on the edge of vision that marks the towns and villages, glimpsed as you pass over the wide, empty moorlands.
On the roads I travel, there is no other light until I pass through the sleeping habitations of man…only that which I bring with me. As I left the hilltops, the trees and hedgerows shelter the road and I was struck by the difference made by the headlights of the car.With the lights on full beam I can see a fair distance ahead, but the blackness beyond…
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River of the Sun, chapter 14 – The Flood
Rameses, second of that name and the one in rising to the throne of Egypt, looked through the widening gap of broken, bronze doorway and fixed his eyes on the woman frozen in shock in the East of the temple.
As the shrieking of torn metal desisted, he held out his warrior’s arms to push the smashed halves of the portal apart. Through the widening gap the regent could see that the eyes of Neferaset had located his face, and was staring in disbelief out of her desecrated world.
He had faced many enemies in close combat, and knew how to read the faces of those who were opposite his blade. The same look of despair greeted him now.
There was shock in the dark eyes on the other side of the wrecked temple space, but there was no terror. Well then, he thought, here’s one who can think in the space between the heartbeats…
He stepped into the temple, flanked behind by Menascare, his former mentor, and Obion, the commander of the Talatat guard. As their leaders entered, those Talatat warriors already secreted in the temple full of priests stepped forward and drew their swords, pointing them at the respective Vessels in the inner ring of figures.
“Who would dare enter a temple of the mysteries when the lights of initiation blaze across the great river?”
It was the voice of Anzety, the foolish brother of the high priestess. Slower than his sister, he had reacted before examining what was already in his eyes, but still unravelled to thought. Rameses drew his sword and was about to step forward to kill the high priest, when Menascare, in a most unexpected action, ran from behind Rameses’ right shoulder to bring the flat of his own sword down on the back of the neck of the offending man.
The high priest slumped to the floor, unconscious. Rameses looked to the East, expecting womanly outrage. Instead, the high priestess had come forward and was kneeling to the East of the altar, her hands pressed flat to the floor, as was her bowed head.
“King of the Coming Sun,” she entreated the regal invader, in a voice more steady than it should have been. “may he live, prosper and be healthy; Rameses, Justice of Ra, Chosen of Ra, this temple begs your forgiveness that we did not know of your arrival!”
Rameses looked at the prostrate figure and laughed.
“Well done, High Priestess! Our actions would have thrown many a warrior from his chariot, let alone a mere priestess.” He smiled, cruelly before adding, “But it is we who disturb your temple…” He watched and admired as she composed herself to reply, desolate amidst the ruins of her dreams.
When it came, her voice was small but steady. Her head still faced the floor, not daring to look up at her royal oppressor, “The elect of the Gods could not disturb, Chosen One! How may we serve you?”
What an astonishing woman, he thought! I must make this last…
Rameses walked around the outer wheel of the temple in the path of Ra. He was no stranger to the design of such spaces, but preferred the halls of justice or the battlefield. Religion held little attraction for him. Yet even he was struck by the beauty of this temple. As he walked, hand on his sword, he looked around at the figures–vessels and visitors alike, who lined his path, each one frozen in the calm and deadly sweep of his vision, all kneeling, heads bowed, before him. Only his Talatat remained standing, conditioned to his rules of engagement. Tired of examining the ruins of ritual, he came to stand before the high priestess. “Rise to your knees,” he commanded.
She did so, pristine and mute, silently waiting his wish…. but strangely unafraid, he thought, smiling. What a prize!
“News travels as quickly as the Great Boat of Ra, High Priestess. I hear, daily, of the wonderful sense of life here; of its insight and things seen, ‘as new as the dawn of Ra in the East’, from those who visit this place. Should I not, then, care to visit it myself?”
He knelt to face her, in a display of savage possession, bringing his face to within inches of hers.
“Is the King-in-Rising to be denied the last moments of his years of wandering freedom, before the golden chains of kingship weigh him down, forever?” He wasn’t expecting an answer…
The man’s voice came from behind him. He turned, angered that his toying with the high priestess had been interrupted, to see a dazed high priest rising to his knees, struggling to speak, “Chosen of Ra,” he coughed. “You find us unprepared for the glory of your visit, though not your divine presence. Give us a little time to arrange this sacred space, that it may be fitting for your arrival among us!”
“You will know when I want to speak with you, priest!” cursed Rameses. “Keep your precious silence or I will have Menascare wield the blade as it was meant to be used…”
Before him, a more attractive voice pulled him away from the directed anger. Neferaset had closed her eyes but was still speaking. He recognised how well brother and sister were defending each other – despite the force lined against them.
“Chosen one, that is my–”
“–Your brother, yes, I know…”
He watched as she straightened her spine and adjusted her breathing, opening her eyes after the third in-breath.
“You come with a challenge then, Chosen of Ra…” Neferaset said. “…or we would already be dripping red beneath the blades of those who broke down our temple doors?”
Rameses smiled at her guile and twisted his head like a snake – something Menascare had taught him as a boy, a clever action that seemed to break the flow of events – introducing a form of chaos into an exchange…”They said I would not be disappointed with you, priestess,” he said. “When those of my Kingdom simper and slide on the ground like meek serpents, how refreshing it is to find someone – and a woman, too – who knows how to stand and look into the eyes of Pharaoh!”
In reply Neferaset looked deep into those royal eyes, and inclined her upper body towards him, mirroring his snake motion. “Like this, Chosen of Ra?”
Rameses laughed with admiration, “Exactly so, Priestess,” smiled the Pharoah-in-Rising. “My spies tell me that you run a wondrous and sacred island here, in the middle of the Great River.” he raised a hand to trace his forefinger across her brow, stopping in the middle of her forehead. “Although your temple is small in years, its fame has spread far.”
The finger began its motion, again, and completed its track across the space over her eyes. “My special guard–the Talatat around you here…” he waved his arm to indicate the warriors who had moved one step nearer the temple’s centre. “…are specially trained, though we can come to the details of that in the morning. I think you will enjoy the nature of their specialities – I’m told you have a fondness for the old ways, like my beloved but often misguided father?”
At the mention of Seti, the priestess pulled herself straighter, in what he took to be a gesture of respect. Very revealing, he thought…
She chose her words, carefully, “Your father, Great Seti, He of the God Set, Beloved of Ptah, always approved of our ways, Majesty!” she straightened out her arms to indicate the sweep of the temple. “He granted us the charter to found the temple of the Divine Feminine on this place when it was just a rock..”
Rameses nodded. His eyes hid a rage inside. When he spoke it was in a low voice. “My father is dying, Priestess – you know that. That is why this will be my last such journey for some time. I mean to take advantage of it!”
Still in her kneeling position, the priestess bowed, saying nothing. Again, she surprises me, thought Rameses. Then he yawned, deliberately, indicating that he was becoming bored with his welcome.
“I am tired, High Priestess. And these,” his hands mirrored Neferaset’s sweeping movements. “the elite of my guard, must be exhausted. You will find us food, drink and your best rooms, I hope?”
Neferaset didn’t even blink. “You will have our own dwellings, Majesty. We will sleep in the company of the Vessels.”
Rameses nodded, glad that his violence had achieved its first goal. “Good. So, let us abandon our games and retire.” He rose to his feet and only then noticed that a boy priest was kneeling, oddly, to one side of the central part of the temple. He drew the priestess’ eyes over to the figure. “Why is that boy kneeling that way and not facing me?”
Not waiting his approval, Neferaset rose and went to stand, protectively, by Amkhren.
“Majesty, your arrival interrupted his initiation as a new priest of this temple.”
“And why does he not face me, now?” asked the regent, in flat tones.
“He is under my command, Majesty – as part of his initiation. He will fail if he answers to anyone’s voice but mine.”
Rameses smiled and walked the short distance to study the apprentice priest.
“I like that – and I cannot fault his courage! I have seen such rituals before…” With that, he picked up the flail and brought it down, harshly, on Amkhren’s back. The young man remained still and endured in silence.
Rameses barked a command, “Obion – to me!” The head of the Talatat elite guard marched from where he had been standing to join Rameses.
“Majesty?”
Rameses addressed Obion, but continued to look down at the priest. “Pick up that sword. Hold it over his neck, ready to strike.”
Obion took up an executioner’s stance and brought the heavy Khopesh down to touch the skin of Amkhren’s neck. The boy remained silent, despite his obvious terror.
Rameses spoke, softly, as though sharing a jug of beer with his military chief, “Obion, what is the penalty for one who puts high priestess above the King-in-Rising?”
Obion’s response was immediate, “Death by the sword, Majesty!”
“Then do it!” said Rameses.
This time, it was the voice of Menascare which cut through the temple’s hushed silence. “Chosen of Ra–” the older man was walking anticlockwise around the outer circle to come and stand near to them. “–if we are to examine this temple and the minds of its priests, then we could find no better means of so doing than to watch how it conducts this initiation… to which they will be committed and not able to make changes.”
Rameses spun and snarled at his old mentor, speaking for the benefit of Obion, “He’s right of course. Though only he could engineer a situation where his own life would not be made shorter by saying it…”
Rameses turned to look around his beloved Talatat guards, all watching in silence. “Very well, Menascare! But let us introduce you…” Rameses swept his gold-laden arm around the full temple, taking in priests and soldiers, alike. “Brothers and Sisters of the Black Land, meet Lord Menascare, friend of King Seti and my former mentor….Oh and did I say? No? – Also creator of the Talatat, my very talented guardians…whom he now detests…”
Leaving this revelation to settle, Rameses put his hand on Amkhren’s head in a mock-fatherly way.
“Your neck is spared, young Priest… for now,” Rameses’ smile was sadistic. “though, since your obedience to the High Priestess has wedded you to this position, you can stay here, for the rest of the night… Lord Menascare can guard you, personally…”
Menascare bowed to Rameses, taking the sword from Obion, who returned to the West of the temple.
Neferaset’s voice finally faltered, “Must we torture him in this way? He is young and has done only that which was commanded – do you not endorse such behaviour to those above him?”
Rameses enjoyed the moment. Savouring the breach in her perfection. So she cared about the boy!
“Torture!” he said, darkly. “You know nothing of torture… come, high priestess, escort us to your rooms and I will take wine with you and tell you how I intend to torture the Hittite spies who were foolish enough to venture into our borders at the last full moon!”
Rameses took Neferaset’s arm. He noticed that the touch made her shudder. That will do for the beginning, he thought.
“I promise you, priestess,” said the King-in-Rising; loud enough for all to hear. “that we will not sleep until the sun rises, again…”
Ignoring what he knew was temple protocol, he propelled the high priestess down the centre line of the broken temple space. Through the hushed and shocked silence, he could hear someone sobbing. He turned to see an old woman trying to suppress her sorrow.
“Why is that woman crying?” he asked.
“She is the boy’s grandmother, Chosen of Ra,” said Neferaset.
“Grandmother! By the Gods, you have assembled quite a circus, here, Priestess! Your wine better be good!
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Index to previous chapters:
Chapter One – Gifts From the River
Chapter Two – An Agony of Sunset
Chapter Three – The Dark Waters
Chapter Four – Touching the Sky
Chapter Five – The Fire Within
Chapter Seven – The Crystal Air
Chapter Eight – The Unchosen Darkness
Chapter Nine – The Priestess Calls
Chapter Ten – Darkness at the Door
Chapter Twelve – Above and Below
Chapter Thirteen – The Binding Voices
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Introduction to River of the Sun
In April 2015 a group of people gathered in the Derbyshire hills to enact the Silent Eye’s annual Mystery Play, entitled, The River of the Sun. The five-act mystical drama formed the backbone of that Spring weekend, and told the fictional story of a clash of ego and divinity set in an Isis-worshipping temple located on an island in the Nile, during the the fascinating period of the 19th dynasty, the time of Rameses the Great.
The 18th and 19th dynasties were a time of upheaval for ancient Egypt on many levels. The reign of the ‘Heretic King’ Akhenaten saw Egypt’s religious structure torn apart, as the revolutionary Pharaoh became what Wallis Budge called the ‘world’s first monotheist’; re-fashioning the power of the many Gods with one supreme entity – the visible sun disc, the Aten, for which Akhenaten, alone, was the high priest. Many have pointed to the failure of the ‘herectic’ Pharaoh’s politics, but few have doubted the sincerity of his religious vision. He will, forever, remain an enigma.
Whatever the nobility of his goal, the actions he took were ruthless, and included the shutting down of the annual deity festivals which were the sole point of ritualistic contact between the ordinary people of Egypt and their locally-worshipped gods. In addition, Akhenaten paid little attention to the domestic and military affairs of Egypt, allowing the country’s enemies to encroach on its borders, greatly weakening Egypt’s power at that critical time for the region.
After Akhenaten’s brief reign, culminating in the Pharaoh’s mysterious death, shadowy military forces took control of Egypt, instigating the 19th dynasty in the persons of Rameses I and, soon thereafter, Seti I, whose throne name derives from the god Set – often considered the ‘evil one’ because of his slaying of his brother, Osiris.
Seti I is judged by modern historians as having been one of the greatest-ever pharaohs, yet his importance in the 19th dynasty was eclipsed by the actions of his second son, the brilliant Rameses II, whose long reign of over sixty years included much self-promotion and the alteration of Egypt’s recent history. Both Seti and Rameses II (Rameses the Great) were passionate about the evisceration of the last traces of Akhenaten’s ‘chaos’, as they saw it.
But, although, by the 19th dynasty, the the ‘Son of the Sun’ was long dead and the buildings of his embryonic and doomed city of Tel-al-Armana were reduced to rubble, something of that time remained in the Egyptian consciousness. A new kind of connection between Pharaoh and God had been established, one which elevated mankind, if only in the being of the Pharaoh, to be someone who ‘talked with God’. It was, at the very least, a bold experiment and, though the world would have to wait until the 19th century to re-discover the ‘erased’ pharaoh, the philosophical waves of that period rippled out and dramatically affected the way the incoming 19th dynasty had to repair the worship of the Gods, uniting the people of Egypt under a trinity of Amun-Ra, Khonsu and Mut.
Our fictional story is a tale of politics, friendships, mind and faith. It is set against an historically accurate background, and at a time when Rameses was due to take the throne from the dying Seti .
Returning to Thebes in his swift warship, crewed by his fearsome Talatat mind-warriors, Rameses decides to mount a surprise night-time raid on the island-based Isis temple which has prospered under the sponsoring reign of his father. Rameses suspects that the inner teachings conducted by the revered High Priestess and Priest conceal views that relate to the thoughts of the heretic Pharaoh, Akhenaten. He plans to insert himself and his warriors of the mind into the islands’s Spring rites as the high priest and priestess begin a cycle of initiation for a chosen apprentice priest who has proved himself worthy of special advancement.
The resulting clash draws everyone, including the young Pharaoh-in-Rising, into a spiralling situation where each is forced to confront their own fears as well as living out the roles which life has allocated them. River of the Sun is the story of a spiritual and political encounter from which none emerge unchanged, including the man who will shortly be Pharaoh, the mighty Rameses II, whose secret name for himself is ‘the unchosen’.
Through the eyes and minds of those surrounding the chosen priest and the ‘unchosen’ Pharaoh, the River of the Sun takes us on a tense and compelling journey to the heart of power and its eternal struggle with truth.
The chapters of the book will be serialised in this blog. The finished work is planned to be available in paperback and Kindle in the Spring of 2016.
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River of the Sun, serialised here, and its associated images, is the intellectual property of Stephen Tanham and is ©Copyright material.
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+ Ancient Landscapes, Bakewell Jail, Ben's Bit, Doomsday series of books, esoteric psychology, Silent Eye School
Ben’s Bit, part eleven – Aspects of Power
by Steve Tanham
Ben’s Bit, part eleven – Aspects of Power
“Ben, I’ve got some good news and some bad news…” The Governor of Bakewell Gaol is enjoying himself, but there’s a deadly edge to the calm exterior manner.
We are sitting in the ‘interview room’. We being the redoubtable Dr Grey, looking smug; his sexy assistant, Miss Goodnight of the Heels – nee Golding, who is not looking at all happy; a man in his forties with prematurely white hair whose name I’ve yet to discover… and the boss of the meeting, the hitherto absent Governor, whom I’ve just met.
But there’s something wrong with the Governor… He’s very tall, at least as big as Yellow Eyes, who often misses these ‘operational’ meetings. He’s built like a soldier… or possibly a mercenary, were I to refine my description. He has massive shoulders, and eyes that look like they’ve been plucked from a golden eagle… and he wears one of the most expensive pinstripe suits I’ve ever seen. He is, as Wen would have said, terribly corporate… and I find that strange for the Governor of a small gaol in the depths of darkest Derbyshire.
As though urging my mental appraisal to get a move on, the Governor continues, “Did you get that, Ben?” he smiles to clear the air. “Good news and bad news?” Then he makes a small barking noise, which I take to be a triumphant laugh…
“I’m all yours,” I say pleasantly, trying a new tack of playing the obvious idiot. I try to copy his smile exactly, but I don’t have enough teeth, and make a lopsided mess of it.
He studies my action, minutely… and files it away for future reference. “Good!” he brings his hands together and rubs the palms as though we’re going to make a fire. “So, in the interests of levity – which I don’t suppose you’ve had much of in here,” his wide grin is almost infectious… almost. “which…” he stretches the word till it’s as ridiculous as the kind of limo I can see him riding in. “… would you like first?”
I can’t believe it’s a question. “I can’t believe that’s a question,” I say neutrally, as though we were discussing Derby County’s football results. Dr Grey looks delighted that I am trying my old tricks on someone he clearly expects to squash me. Miss Goodnight, however, pitches slightly forward in mirth and pretends to cough. Dr Grey misses it, but the Governor doesn’t–and the look he gives her has a long steel blade in it. For a second she holds his glare – and goes right into my mile-high bucket list. Then she drops her gaze, but not before running it over my left thigh in a gesture that no-one but me clocks. Oh my, I think, Oh my….
One thing that twenty-odd years of running a company taught me was that you’ve got to keep them guessing, never play the same persona too much, switch it around, mess it up… a lot.
“But enough sparring,” I say, looking back into the eyes atop the pinstripe from the sombre power base of my grey prison overall. “Let’s have the good news, ” I say, cheerfully. “Then we can close off with the bad, and a commiserating latté… what do you think?”
I lean forward – something that nearly got me killed with Yellow Eyes – and gaze at him, as though I want to have dinner with him and his gorgeous suit.
His gaze never falters… he looks back at me as though he wishes we were alone together… and not in a good way… and the tiny tick I’ve just noticed on the right side of his tight lips tells me that he will make every effort to ensure that happens, one day soon…
The left thumb traces the perfect crease of the collar line on the mohair-rich suit. “Okay, Ben,” he says, in a voice suddenly turned very soft – it’s obvious he can do it, too – “Let’s do the good news…” the teeth have fixed themselves into a snarl. “We’ve caught up with your accomplices!”
It’s a shock.
For several seconds I picture poor Don and Wen, hunted and cornered by the dark forces at the command of the pinstriped army of the Knights of Severity, of which the Governor is just an adjunct… but then I focus on what he has just said: We’ve caught up with your accomplices! There’s something wrong with that sentence; in fact there are two things wrong with it. I hold up the first two fingers of my right hand and present the palm as though making a secret sign to him – he seems temporarily shocked at the gesture, and I file it away, pulling back the hand and peering at it to make a visual joke of its apparent potency.
“Two things…” I say, pleasantly. “Who’s ‘we’? And secondly,” I let my aggressive and secretive fingers march forward again. Opposite me the snarl returns. “‘caught up with’ is different to ‘caught’…” I continue. “and, anyway, how can you catch what doesn’t exist?” I realise how close I’ve been to the edge, and how cleverly he built the tension so that I would miss it…
But he wasn’t expecting the rebuff of logic, and seems happy to pass over my preposterous posturing of being alone at the scene of the crime and moving an ancient stone in an action impossible for a single person, even with tools.
“Ah, Ben,” he smiles. “What’s the point playing games, anymore.” I can tell he’s sliding the ace down the inside sleeve of his pale, blue shirt. “Surely Don and Wen would understand that you’ve been through enough?”
It’s a hammer blow–that their names are known, but I cling to my remaining handhold – that ‘we’ was a strange construct under these circumstances. Its demolition doesn’t take long.
“And as to your first point,” he says, looking very smug. The Chief Constable is a close friend,” he leans back in a chair, a chair I’ve suddenly noticed is both leather and new. “In fact, we play golf together…. so there’s your ‘we’.”
“And the bad news?” I manage, weakly.
“Ah the bad news,” he says, looking like he’s about to light a cigar. “Poor Graham Rumins–your former guard, here, I believe you called him Yellow Eyes–most amusing… has suffered a seizure and we’ve had to retire him.” He looked at me as though I have achieved a minor victory, but one which can easily be sacrificed in the greater game. “He won’t be back. I’m afraid; instead–”
The quiet man with the premature grey hair interrupts, “–Roger Sylvester,” he actually gets up to come over and shake my hand. “I don’t know the full facts of how you got here, Ben, but I’ll do my best to ensure your inappropriate stay is as comfortable as I can make it…”
The pale blue eyes that have lived through much are steady. They are full of integrity. I was not expecting this intrusion of reality into this madhouse of elsewhere power-politics, apparently centred on me. “Thank you,” I say sincerely to the new face. In reply, he simply nods, and looks across at the Governor in a very strange way…
“That will be all, Ben… for now,” says the Governor. “Don’t leave the country, will you…” he chortles, then barks, again, at his own joke. “We still have the firearms charge to pursue, not to mention the detailed analysis Dr Grey and his assistant want to carry out on your state of mental health… apparently, there are rumours that your ‘unconventional’ actions contributed to the collapse of your former guard?”
Roger Sylvester, my new gaoler, takes me back to Cell One. He opens the old door and ushers me in. He’s about to close it behind me but stops, leaving it half open. “Don’t suppose you fancy a cup of tea?” he asks. Mute with shock, I nod and he walks off down the corridor to get it himself, leaving the door still open.
When he returns, a few minutes later, he has two mugs of steaming tea and an old fashioned game of solitaire, wrapped in a clear plastic bag, which he lays on the bed. “Marco left this for you,” he says. “So don’t invent a way of breaking out centred on an ingenious use of white marbles…please…” Then, noting my smile, he looks at the wooden board and its old muslin bag of pieces.
“Used to be in the navy,” his face creases with what looks like an ironic smile. “Good game for passing the time – can teach you all sorts of things…”
With that he leaves with his tea. But I don’t hear the door lock.
<See index below for other parts of this story>
———————————————————–< to be continued-
Ben’s Bit is a continuing first-person narrative of the character created by Stuart France and Sue Vincent, which may bear some relation to the author of this story, Steve Tanham, their fellow director of the Silent Eye School of Consciousness. In their book, Scions of Albion, Ben is arrested for his overly enthusiastic part in a mad escapade, and the other two are nowhere to be seen . . . For more, enjoy their Doomsday series of books, and the new series (Lands of Exile) whose first volume, But ‘n’ Ben is now available in Kindle and Paperback. Click here for details.
Index to Ben’s Bits:
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten,
Sue Vincent describes her and Stuart’s perspective on Ben’s imprisonment: Part One, Part Two
The Doomsday Series of books by Stuart France and Sue Vincent
The Silent Eye School of Consciousness – a modern mystery school.
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Nine Deadly Sins with Coffee, part 47 – Mother and Child
by Steve Tanham
Image source see below
Nine Deadly Sins with Coffee, part 47 – Mother and Child
.Alexandra.
“I’m not sure, but I think it centres around the child,” I said, as Rose brought our coffees.
John looked thoughtful–so thoughtful he sipped his coffee prematurely and burned his top lip.
“Ouch!” he grumbled, obviously hurt. “Sod it…” He bent to put the overly-full coffee cup down, but it slipped in his fingers at the last minute and some spilled onto the table. He looked, speechless, at the result. “Made a hash of that, then,” he muttered, mopping up the spillage with his napkin.
I stared at him and laughed. He was normally so controlled. “Unlike you, that!” I said.
“Go on,” he said, ignoring me, He licked his burnt lip and frowned. “I agree; the child is very significant… and Heracles, is he significant?”
I considered the question; how could the central character not be significant? “Well, he just makes a mess of the whole encounter with Hippolyta, doesn’t he?”
“Yes he does,” said John. “But, technically, he achieves his goal?”
“He does, but…” I responded, leaning forwards. “…and this seems to be at the heart of it–he treats it like a military mission and completely misses the most subtle parts of it, even though the Queen of the Amazons had already decided to help him, and all he had to do was accept the gift that was waiting–a gift he really needed!”
John nodded and blew on the top of his diminished coffee, taking no chances this time. “And he realises that he’s done it all wrong and that the doing of it was just as important as achieving the goal; he knows that he shut out so many benign possibilities in the way he acted…”
“But he redeems himself by saving Hesione and, eventually passes on to the next labour?” I asked.
“He does,” said John. “but with a heavy heart, as he had once before, remember?”
The image of the wild mares came back to me – the sad death of Abderis through Heracles’ neglect of his younger friend’s plight. “Are they connected?”
John looked at me over the surface of his, now shallower, steaming drink. “Very much so, I would say…”
“As though he is beginning a new stage of his spiritual training!” The image had flashed into my mind, un-thought, from somewhere deeper. The feeling startled me… and then I chuckled, with what felt like a tiny stream of joy. I blurted out, “Mission! It’s all wrong era-wise, but the word I used is the key–he’s completed his basic training as a disciple and now has to move on to something more fundamental, something deeper, something that really changes lives.”
“Like a fresh cup of coffee?” said John, his eyes twinkling with delight at my breakthrough and smiling at Rose when she offered. In times gone by I would have found the trivialising gesture irritating, but now I could see that it contained a lot of love, that he was using it to carry me to the next waypoint in my revelations.
“So, where does Heracles ‘go’ next?” he asked, then added, conspiratorially, “You’ve already said it…” He rolled his hands, urging me to keep up the momentum.
“The Child…” I whispered it, not sure of its full implications, but knowing it was right.
“The Child, yes,” repeated John. “And how do you make a child?”
“Well, apart from the first bit,” I smiled at my absurd reduction. “you have to be a woman!” The words were out before I realised their significance. “The Amazons–” I said. “They were all women, of course, specifically emphasised in the story; and their Queen could make the Child because she had the girdle; which bestowed love and triumph through adversity.”
John was grinning at me with something like glee in his eyes. Rose had placed the tin tray with our fresh coffees on the small table and was also smiling.
“Weren’t they warriors, too?” John asked. “Hence Ares – Mars?”
I was getting excited with the chase. “So, these warrior women are special in that they can undertake, through their Queen with her girdle of Venus, the generation of a special Child?”
“Yes,” said John. “But only the Queen comes out to meet him, by the side of that Great Sea. Not understanding, he kills her in the struggle for the magical girdle which was to be bestowed on him, anyway…”
“So what does he do now?” I asked, quietly, breathing over the new, hot coffee.
“Ah,” said John, doing the same. “It depends on who’s got the girdle doesn’t it?”
(Image – Joan of Arc Triptych, Nicholas Roerich, click here for origin)
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Nine Deadly Sins with Coffee is usually published on Thursdays.
©Copyright, The Silent Eye School of Consciousness, 2016.
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A great blog for Imbolc from Ali Isaac, storyteller
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‘Standing Stone of the Druids’
‘STANding sTONe of the DRUids’
STAN-TON-DREW
Stanton Drew
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River of the Sun, chapter 13 – The Binding Voices
“Kneel before the sacred third point!”
Amkhren fell to his knees and, once again, faced the clear lake of tranquillity at the temple’s centre. But this time, the sense of potency within his young soul threatened to overwhelm him…
The Vessel of Sekhmet was speaking again, “Behold Shemu, season of Harvest, the home of the Goddess Mut, wife of Amun-Ra, and the patron of our High Priestess, when she travels from the East and into her world. It was the time of Shemu when the High Priestess came across you on the bank of the Nile, seven years ago. Now you have returned, on the cyclic wheel of Neheh, to that same place, but wiser. The river beside which you now stand is full of meaning and potential, but it is also the place where great fear can be generated within the soul – your Ba. Are you a man of courage, Amkhren?
Amkhren swallowed before speaking, “I will try to be so…”
The young priest-to-be felt the body of Sekhmet kneel beside him, pressing close to his flesh, her warmth penetrating his thin robe. “That will be tested before you pass through the portal of Priesthood!” Then her deadly closeness was gone, and soft hands pulled him to his feet, guiding him along the line of the inner temple’s bounding triangle and back to the East. His feet were suddenly leaden, his body weary, as though a heaviness had dropped on him, replacing the sense of vibrant potency he had felt when standing before the Vessel of Khonsu.
He half-shuffled the distance to the Eastern point, then looked up. The impassive eyes of Neferaset looked back into his.
“Amkhren, there must be a weight… for there must be struggle. There will be many trials; but, within these seasons, there will also be gifts.” Neferaset looked over Amkhren’s shoulder. “Vessel of Sekhmet, take our priest-to-be, whose body is made made heavy by what lies ahead, on a further journey; this time around the inner Wheel of Djet, the path of eternity.” Amkhren blinked in astonishment as the high priestess’ fingers stroked polar lines from the middle of his forehead to the temples, banishing the heavy clouds from his face. He became like a person emerging from darkness, glimpsing the first rays of the dawning sun. “Let him receive the blessings of those who mark his future path…”
Sekhmet turned and looked at the high priestess. Their eyes exchanged a look of such depth that Amkhren could only wonder at the intensity of his passiveness, that he could become the target of such deliverance…
Trust, Amkhren, said the voice of Anzety in his head. Even when the darkness seems to take you… Trust in the far shore of the inner river…
As Sekhmet’s strong fingers spun him around again to face the gentle figure of Hathor for the second time, the heaviness in his body faded, to be replaced by a feeling that the still waters of the central altar were reaching for him, flooding up his spine and changing weariness into acceptance and healing. His vision became unfocussed–not blurred, but as though he were only one of many now seeing through eyes that had been his, alone. Looking up at the beautiful and kindly figure of Hathor, the sense of himself sank beneath the clear waters that were claiming him.
“Amkhren, ” whispered Hathor. “Mine is a place of healing. When your way is harsh and your wounds seem to overwhelm your will, turn to me and I will reach into your body and heart, and fill you with the milky balm that flows from the sky, a shining flow that can never end, no matter how dark or long your days.”
Amkhren bowed to Hathor in thanks, his body bending like a reed in the great river. Then the claws were urging him around the inner circle, past the watchful eyes of Khonsu, to stand before the Vessel of Tefnut, the goddess of moisture.
“There are no waves on the water that is claiming you, as its own,” said the gentle voice of the Lion-headed woman. She held the was staff, its strange shape anchored to the floor with twin feet, while the simple stylised head watched him.
“Honour to you, priest to be. “The honeyed voice echoed the power of water – gentle and restoring, yet containing the hidden power of the great inundation within it. “Let the deeper mysteries of the world of moisture be as a breath of life to you in your trials. Never forget that the water came before the land that rose from its depths; nor that the power of moisture is only the other part of that which contains dryness.”
The reed in the river that was Amkhren bowed, unable to find the right words before this flowing presence. He looked again at the was sceptre as the claws turned him away, one more time, but he took the fleeting image with him; it seemed to be a flowing thing–not solid at all– reflecting the inner fountain that had claimed the seat of his spine, now rising up its length and flowing around his heart…
A few more steps, during which his weighty limbs regained a little more of their power, and he stood before the Vessel of Ptah.
The green skin of the God curved from a calm face, disappearing into the tight folds of a white robe, to emerge at the wrists and hands that clutched a more ornate form of the was staff – the sceptre. The presence of this god-form was overwhelming. Amkhren could feel the power of thought behind eyes that were split by the form of the ankh which crested the top of the coloured layers of the sceptre’s length. Here is creation, Amkhren, said Anzety’s voice in his head, you do not speak to creation… it speaks through you, when you are ready…your voice is its presence in the land of Egypt…
When they came, the words uttered through the Vessel of Ptah were like the water in the silver bowl at the temple’s centre, as though they were dancing patterns of light that gave life to the ghostly flow which moved, now, up the top of his spine and into his head.
Lips verdant with the power of making spoke, “Honour to you, priest to be. Look deeply into my eyes and see the power of creation! As shaper of all around you, I have the primeval beat of the heart that wishes, and the tongue that frames. Used rightly, this force can set everything in its proper place, as my consort Sekhmet will show you.”
Sekhmet moved behind Amkhren, who found himself caught in the current of love that flowed between the green god and the fierce lady lioness. His body tried to twist away from its power but the claws held him fast and his head exploded with the golden child of liquid love that overwhelmed what was left of his senses. Through the haze he heard her words, “We share with those who are ready, Amkhren–” A gentler set of claws stroked the sides of his head. “–when those whose ears have reached maturity learn to listen…”
Once more, the reed bowed, and then his feet were moving through a dead and empty space where there was, for a moment, intense sadness. Within this, Amkhren could feel the strength and resolve of Sekhmet as it guided him through the inner black. We do not know why, Amkhren, whispered Anzety’s voice in his head, equally sad, we do not know how… But, though the hand of the Lioness carried him through the void, he could feel a much more deathly grip closing on them all from the outside circle. But his young mind could not separate intuition from experience and he said nothing as Sekhmet led him, safe for now, to stand before the Vessel of Thoth.
“Honour to you, priest to be,” said the tall, Ibis-headed figure, whose curving beak nearly touched Amkhren’s forehead. “Listen deeply to my words, for they are power clothed in the substance of air. Invoke my name to strip away the false – turning language into meaning. If meaning is known it may be written – but only by they who live in understanding. Think carefully on these things as your trials progress. The word is far more than it seems; therefore speak only when you understand. Otherwise, let silence be your guide.”
The words were simple, yet so very powerful in their clarity. Amkhren felt their meaning burn itself into his mind, as though the beak of the Thoth Vessel had pecked them onto his flesh.
The claws of Sekhmet did not allow him further time to consider. Her movements seemed designed to tear him, always, from the edge of full comprehension – as though another journey, or even many journeys, around the great circles would be necessary for his passing through the portal of priesthood.
“Honour to you, priest to be,” said the graceful figure in the simple robe, distinguished only by a single, ostrich feather standing proud from a narrow, red headband. “Let Thoth’s words fill you with intent. But, behind the word must lie the real; behind understanding must lie the flame of that which is true in the Eyes of Amun-Ra, not simply what is true in the minds of women and men. Therefore let your life’s search be for what is true, for that, in the final judgement before Osiris, will be the worth of your time on the great river of life.”
Beyond words, now, Amkhren could only bow to the simple figure of beauty. The claws returned for him, but, this time, with a gentler touch…And then he was standing, again, before she who personified both Mut and Isis.
The high priestess softened her eyes, seeing in his the devotion and intoxication she needed.
The Vessel of Sekhmet spoke from behind his left shoulder, “High Priestess, spiritual guide for all those who seek deeper understanding of the life and the power of She who goes beyond; your chosen apprentice has been shown the path ahead of him. I return him to your care.”
Amkhren felt his legs begin to shake. Ashamed of his weakness in the face of the woman who had plucked him from the banks of the great river, he stiffened his young body, raised his head and drew in a deep breath, banishing fear in the way he had been taught.
Neferaset studied his resolve, nodding her head, imperceptibly, in a gesture invisible to anyone but him. “Amkhren,” she began. “before you are the vessels of the Gods and Goddesses of Egypt. Not all are represented here, because one sacred place can only be host to one view; one perspective on the beyond. But those who are with us – in spirit as well as in flesh -represent a way, a path to the inner strength, knowledge and vision that awaits you – should we have chosen well… For seven years you have been worked and tested, while we searched to see if such dedication was rooted in the blown sand or had the true seed of will and endeavour that marks out those who would be great in service to the Gods…”
Gentle fingers touched the skin of his tense neck. They dropped to his shoulders and pulled him forward until he could feel the warmth of Neferaset’s skin, as he had that of Sekhmet’s. Mere inches away from his face, she looked deeply into his tearful eyes and spoke, “Before we open the portal to your future life, I must ask one final time–with your heart and mind; with your body and hungers; with your senses and that which moves joyously through them all – do you submit yourself to the continuation of this rite, from which, after this moment, there will be no turning back until death or dismal failure takes you or casts you away from us?”
With the waters flowing down his cheeks, the young man replied, “With all my being, High Priestess, you who has guarded and nurtured me… yes…”
The gentle hands on his shoulders became firm and spun him round to look out from the East, across the temple and its candle encircled watery altar, to the great bronze doors of the sacred chamber.
In startling counterpoint to Neferaset’s newfound gentleness, Anzety took one step nearer to the temple’s centre, where he struck the Moon-sceptre into the stone of the floor; the thumping sound splitting the air. “Then the real process of your training as a Priest of this temple will begin.”
The Vessel of Tefnut stepped forwards, “And it begins in the Waters…”
The Vessel of Ptah joined the new ring of command, “And it begins in the miracle of that which was never spoken yet is rendered as signs.”
The Vessel of Thoth moved silently to join his companions, “And it begins with knowledge, which must be grown and harvested, as those by the great river plough, sow and harvest the fruit of the flood when Akhet comes.”
Joining her consort, Thoth, the feathered figure of Ma’at moved inwards to enrich the new circle, “And it begins and grows in the living sea of Truth, which ever flows around those with ears to hear and eyes to see.”
Amkhren’s eyes flickered left as the Vessel of Hathor moved inwards, to speak gently, “And it begins with a great trial of healing, in which the self of a person is laid bare, and that which is poisonous is burned away, so that he may rise, again, in newness.”
In the blurred wind of the silent temple Amkhren heard Anzety’s voice, again.
“Is this the way you will begin, Amkhren?”
“Yes, High Priest.” He had spoken the reply before he could stop to consider the trap in the question.
Anzety’s voice was harsh, “That is the wrong answer!”
Losing his calmness in agitation, he pulled away from Neferaset’s gentle grasp and leaned forward to appeal to the man he considered friend. “Then I will enter this path in the way that I am shown . . .Vessel of Khonsu, God of the Moon.” The word, friend, died on his lips, correctly unspoken.
With a softer voice, the Vessel of Khonsu replied with knowing tones, “You will obey in all things?”
This time, Amkhren, sensing that the intellect had to be regained to pass this test, replied, “I will obey my teachers in all things.” Were they doing this deliberately? To return him from the heights of the emotional contact with the Neters? He could see how a man–especially a priest, needed to inhabit both worlds.
Anzety walked to a position in the West, directly opposite his sister in the East, before speaking.
“Good . . . Before you, in the centre of the temple, is an executioner’s bench, and upon it you will see a flail and a sword. You will kneel before it and offer your life to the Gods…”
With a gentle and curving push, the High Priestess sent her apprentice into the space of the temple. Amkhren followed her parting gesture and navigated the half-circle to the West before following a direct line back towards the East, daring to cross the very centre of the altar space, his simple robe almost touching the silver crescent upon which glistened the pool of the water of life. Unseen, as he passed, a signature of tiny waves was written across its surface…
Amkhren knelt before the wooden bench, placing his hands between the sword and the flail, and lowering himself to kneel so that his forehead touched the wood.
The soft sound of a woman’s feet, gliding in leather slippers, approached him. So focussed was she on the wellbeing of the boy before her, that she did not see that many of the hooded visitors in the outer shadows had turned away to face the darkness… But, pressed against the wood, Amkhren was conscious that the clutching hand of that feeling of ill intent he had felt in crossing from the place of Ptah to that of Thoth had now returned, stronger than ever.
He was about to raise his head, determined to trust his instincts and warn his beloved Neferaset, but she began to speak in her harsh tones of command before he could give voice to the urgency of his fears, “And there you will stay, though your limbs endure agony, and your mind lives at the edge of darkness. You will endure in complete silence, released only by my command – is that understood, Priest-to-be?”
It must be a test, thought Amkhren, his mind wracked by doubts. The dark forces must be part of the rite, too?
“Yes, High Priestess..” he said, his obedient voice muffled against the wood.
He heard the soft leather of her temple slippers retreat to the East; then the clear tones of command as she raised her voice, triumphantly, “High Priest of Isis, Vessel of Khonsu. Ring the Western Bell to tell the world that the ordeal of Amkhren has begun and that the Gods count his hours . . .”
Anzety approached the huge bell in the West of the temple. He raised the wooden striker, whose end was covered in layers of tightly-bound leather. Drawing back his right arm he struck the bell in its midsection. The melodic sound filled the air of the chamber, in wave after wave, ringing loud and true as it swung, like the vibrations of sound thrown up by the wings of a huge bird of prey.
But the sound which followed this dwarfed its harmony, filling the hearts of most of those in the temple with dread and horror, as the great bronze doors of the Temple of Isis shook on their buckling hinges and the screaming of torn metal filled the air…
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Index to previous chapters:
Chapter One – Gifts From the River
Chapter Two – An Agony of Sunset
Chapter Three – The Dark Waters
Chapter Four – Touching the Sky
Chapter Five – The Fire Within
Chapter Seven – The Crystal Air
Chapter Eight – The Unchosen Darkness
Chapter Nine – The Priestess Calls
Chapter Ten – Darkness at the Door
Chapter Twelve – Above and Below
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Introduction to River of the Sun
In April 2015 a group of people gathered in the Derbyshire hills to enact the Silent Eye’s annual Mystery Play, entitled, The River of the Sun. The five-act mystical drama formed the backbone of that Spring weekend, and told the fictional story of a clash of ego and divinity set in an Isis-worshipping temple located on an island in the Nile, during the the fascinating period of the 19th dynasty, the time of Rameses the Great.
The 18th and 19th dynasties were a time of upheaval for ancient Egypt on many levels. The reign of the ‘Heretic King’ Akhenaten saw Egypt’s religious structure torn apart, as the revolutionary Pharaoh became what Wallis Budge called the ‘world’s first monotheist’; re-fashioning the power of the many Gods with one supreme entity – the visible sun disc, the Aten, for which Akhenaten, alone, was the high priest. Many have pointed to the failure of the ‘herectic’ Pharaoh’s politics, but few have doubted the sincerity of his religious vision. He will, forever, remain an enigma.
Whatever the nobility of his goal, the actions he took were ruthless, and included the shutting down of the annual deity festivals which were the sole point of ritualistic contact between the ordinary people of Egypt and their locally-worshipped gods. In addition, Akhenaten paid little attention to the domestic and military affairs of Egypt, allowing the country’s enemies to encroach on its borders, greatly weakening Egypt’s power at that critical time for the region.
After Akhenaten’s brief reign, culminating in the Pharaoh’s mysterious death, shadowy military forces took control of Egypt, instigating the 19th dynasty in the persons of Rameses I and, soon thereafter, Seti I, whose throne name derives from the god Set – often considered the ‘evil one’ because of his slaying of his brother, Osiris.
Seti I is judged by modern historians as having been one of the greatest-ever pharaohs, yet his importance in the 19th dynasty was eclipsed by the actions of his second son, the brilliant Rameses II, whose long reign of over sixty years included much self-promotion and the alteration of Egypt’s recent history. Both Seti and Rameses II (Rameses the Great) were passionate about the evisceration of the last traces of Akhenaten’s ‘chaos’, as they saw it.
But, although, by the 19th dynasty, the the ‘Son of the Sun’ was long dead and the buildings of his embryonic and doomed city of Tel-al-Armana were reduced to rubble, something of that time remained in the Egyptian consciousness. A new kind of connection between Pharaoh and God had been established, one which elevated mankind, if only in the being of the Pharaoh, to be someone who ‘talked with God’. It was, at the very least, a bold experiment and, though the world would have to wait until the 19th century to re-discover the ‘erased’ pharaoh, the philosophical waves of that period rippled out and dramatically affected the way the incoming 19th dynasty had to repair the worship of the Gods, uniting the people of Egypt under a trinity of Amun-Ra, Khonsu and Mut.
Our fictional story is a tale of politics, friendships, mind and faith. It is set against an historically accurate background, and at a time when Rameses was due to take the throne from the dying Seti .
Returning to Thebes in his swift warship, crewed by his fearsome Talatat mind-warriors, Rameses decides to mount a surprise night-time raid on the island-based Isis temple which has prospered under the sponsoring reign of his father. Rameses suspects that the inner teachings conducted by the revered High Priestess and Priest conceal views that relate to the thoughts of the heretic Pharaoh, Akhenaten. He plans to insert himself and his warriors of the mind into the islands’s Spring rites as the high priest and priestess begin a cycle of initiation for a chosen apprentice priest who has proved himself worthy of special advancement.
The resulting clash draws everyone, including the young Pharaoh-in-Rising, into a spiralling situation where each is forced to confront their own fears as well as living out the roles which life has allocated them. River of the Sun is the story of a spiritual and political encounter from which none emerge unchanged, including the man who will shortly be Pharaoh, the mighty Rameses II, whose secret name for himself is ‘the unchosen’.
Through the eyes and minds of those surrounding the chosen priest and the ‘unchosen’ Pharaoh, the River of the Sun takes us on a tense and compelling journey to the heart of power and its eternal struggle with truth.
The chapters of the book will be serialised in this blog. The finished work is planned to be available in paperback and Kindle in the Spring of 2016.
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River of the Sun, serialised here, and its associated images, is the intellectual property of Stephen Tanham and is ©Copyright material.
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Beautifully, searingly honest … a lovely sharing of part of a life’s journey.
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+ Greek Myths, Heracles, Hercules, Higher Mind, Journey of the hero, Labours of Hercules, Mystery Schools, myths and spirituality, Silent Eye School, Uncategorized
Nine Deadly Sins with Coffee, part 46 – A Forgiving Girdle
by Steve Tanham
Nine Deadly Sins with Coffee, part 46 – A Forgiving Girdle
.Alexandra.
I was trying hard to hide my annoyance but I could tell he knew.
“Difficult one?” he asked me, but smiling at Rose as she deposited our coffees, none too gently, on one of the side tables – our usual had been taken by some non-regulars… the nerve!
“More like all the discarded out-takes from the other myths,” I muttered.
“You can learn a lot from out-takes,” he offered, looking reasonable and calm and generally hateful.
“Not from this lot!” I moaned, then was immediately ashamed of myself.
“Why don’t we just play with the out-takes, then?” he asked, watching me sigh and let out the tension whose source was less than obvious. I had come far in the past few weeks; I didn’t want to blow it, now.
I sat back; drank a minute’s worth of coffee and composed myself. “Okay,” I began. “Heracles has to retrieve something called the Girdle of Hippolyte.” More coffee, then, “Hippolyte is an important Queen who rules a land by a great sea, the home of all the women in the known world – no men to be seen, at all!”
“Kind of Amazons, then?” John asked.
I held my hands up and rolled my eyes in gesture of unknowing, then took a breath before continuing, “The women worship around their beloved Queen in a temple of the moon, but, once a year, they go off to have a party with some unnamed men…” It was sounding preposterous, but, as far as I knew, that had been a true account so far…
I gathered together what I had studied about the rest of the myth and finished my coffee.
“The Queen is forewarned of his approach at the same time that Heracles is given his mission–to take the Queen’s Girdle, whatever that was in ancient times…”
“A magical girdle, I should think,” said John. “Probably had special properties…” He looked at me for a reaction, then let it go, continuing, “Parents are usually important, whose daughter was Hippolyte?”
“Well, there’s another strange thing!” I said, a certain and mysterious enthusiasm for my task germinating. “Despite all the womanly focus, Hippolyte was a daughter of Mars–Ares, I should say…”
John leaned forward to speak, “The most physical of the Gods of War!” he said. “A very strange combination, especially when you think that the other God, or should I say Goddess, of war was Athena – she of the wise owl…”
I looked at John, fixing his eyes. “As though anyone could choose their parents?”
John held my stare. “Oh, but the creators of myth certainly did choose the parents…”
My mind changed gear, seeing the chasm of what I had missed. “Of course… they are not people at all, they’re parts of us, principles…” I sighed.
“And did the Queen of all these men-less women give the magical girdle to Hercules?”
“No!” I blurted. “Well, yes and no… She was ready to give it to him, but, ignorantly, he fought to take it off her and killed her in the process, thereby killing the mother of the sacred child…”
John finished his coffee. “Sounds serious to me, killing the Queen, who is the mother of the sacred child?”
My mood had become sombre. “Does, doesn’t it?” And then I remembered that this story of Heracles had a further ending. But I knew it was getting late. I looked at my watch and stood up to go, giving my closing speech.
“But Heracles was seen to redeem himself, later, by fighting his way into the innards of a sea monster that had eaten the sacrificed Hesione, wife of the Trojan, Priam, rescuing her in her hour of greatest need and balancing the scales of his life.”
John nodded as we both headed for the door. It had been a complex and unsatisfactory half hour. “Yes,” he said. “he was seen to redeem himself, though the mother, the Queen of the sacred child, was dead… and the women of the land by the sea were leaderless.”
He opened the door for me. “And you got the introduction slightly wrong,” He said.
“I did?”
“Yes. Hercules didn’t get his instructions about the girdle from his teachers, those instructions – the surrender of the magical girdle – were sent directly to Hippolyte. All Heracles did was to arrive at the edge of the watery kingdom, where the moon was worshipped, by women, alone; and where the god of war was sacrificed to, by a Queen who wore the girdle of love and was the key to the generation of the sacred child.” he paused for breath, smiling at how much he was trying to put into his closing words. “Was Hercules really active, apart from killing someone who was likely to meet his greatest need?”
I was stunned by this summing up. Just before he crossed the busy road, he laughed and shouted back over his shoulder.
“Oh and don’t forget that all this takes place in the month of Virgo!”
And then he was gone… and I was left with an old file full of very confusing out-takes…and only a week to make sense of them…
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Nine Deadly Sins with Coffee is usually published on Thursdays.
All images and text ©International copyright, The Silent Eye School of Consciousness, 2016.
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I am proposing to add a new word to the English language…
The new word is ‘Tesseracting’; and I want to use it to replace a beautiful word that, in my opinion, has been degraded to a point where its use is compromised – that older word is ‘Ritual’.
My interest in the tesseract began as a result of the work of Stuart France (one of the three directors of the Silent Eye, along with Sue Vincent and myself). Stuart had been working on the spiritual implications of a particular geometric figure, known as the tesseract. The period of his study was one where he had been ill and that had produced a vivid dream in which this geometric figure revealed its relationship to the enneagram – the primary teaching figure we use in the School.
The Silent Eye’s teaching enneagram
Stuart’s insight, some of which was published on his blog, showed that there was a solid relationship between the properties of the tesseract and those of the enneagram.
Part of Stuart France’s work on the enneagram and the tesseract
Working into the wee small hours last night, I was one of the first to read Sue’s blog “Simple Space”, about the different dimensions of creativity required to bring into existence a weekend workshop which has at its heart a five-act series of ritual dramas whose job is to transform the consciousness of everyone taking part. Sue’s blog goes on to describe the ‘divergent’ thinking that you have to do to get the emotional energy of the initial creation and envisioning. She then talks about the realities of narrowing down the engineering so that the same result will be delivered within a ‘simple space’ – as she points out, anything more complex and it just wouldn’t get delivered.
The three of us have learned this – sometimes painfully, as wonderful scenarios have failed to translate into what can be done within a simple room turned temple. Fortunately, such periods of learning usually precede the April Workshops, as Sue’s article shows, giving us a period of grace in which to get things right.
And that’s the essence of good ‘ritual’ – it uses the geometric properties of space, treated with reverence, to produce a shared consciousness that is quite unlike anything else you will experience. Cast off the ‘sensational’ images of Hammer Horror gothic rites… Real ritual owes nothing to the latter, except the degradation of its name.
Good ritual is simply a relationship with that ‘simple space’, embellished only to the degree that it will touch the hearts and minds of the participants, not glorify the guiding officers.
Tess in the brief period when the rain froze, earlier in the month.
This morning, I took Tess (our collie dog) out for a much needed walk in what I can only describe as some of the worst weather I’ve ever experienced. Driven by a ferocious gale, the rain was coming at me horizontally, and even my long boots (an essential feature of dog-walking in Cumbria) were full of water. In the soggy mud of what used to be Sedgwick, we are having a tough winter. This is not because of extreme cold, but, rather, because it seems to have been raining, with very few breaks, since November. I’ll not ramble on, because the destructive effects on our landscape have been well documented by TV news teams over the past two months…
I was thinking about Sue’s piece as I sloshed through the mud, looking, miserably, at Tess and thinking how much washing she would need when I got her home…when suddenly, a gleeful look in her eye reminded me of how much dogs live in the ‘now’, being fed from it without judgement and with total involvement, regardless of the dreadful weather that often surrounds them. It struck me that her eagerness perfectly reflected how we all should be in our temples of whatever size, and how, we who build such workshops, having done our best to engineer that experience for all attending, owe it to our participants to relax into our little cube of space… and trust…
…and that’s when it hit me… how the tesseract, a four-dimensional figure that is to the cube as the cube it to the square, perfectly describes how a temple of the Mysteries feels to be in.
We enter the cube of the temple in reverence, determined to ‘raise its vibrations’; to put it in tune with a much greater dimension of objective reality that is always there, but that we seldom see because of the power of the lenses we create in the constant reaction of personality to experience. The combination of the space made sacred – in perfect geometrical harmony with what we are reaching for – plus an open-hearted appeal for the higher principles to fill our cube with the intelligent energy of the transformational, exactly maps onto the tesseract as a symbol.
So, in some humility, I offer ‘Tesseracting”: to act (as in ‘play a part’), with geometric movements, thoughts and words, within a cube of space made sacred by our actions, and in recognition that our small cube is a tiny but representational microcosm within an undivided, intelligent cosmos – but no less important for that…
There are still a few places left for the Silent Eye’s April 2016 workshop, “Leaf and Flame”, open to all, beginner or those more experienced. Special care will be taken of those who have never encountered Tesseraction before… we’re good at that, you’ve nothing to fear. Why not give it a go?
(Underlying Tesseract image from Wiki used with permission and created by Robert Webb, using his Stella Software, linked to here: http://www.software3d.com/Stella.php )
Sun in Gemini 
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