A Dark Star Falling - Chapter One

 

Something was terribly wrong. TP Dunlap peered down into the beaker of roiling, hissing liquid on his lab table. His vision was blurry from the rising steam and nothing would come into focus. He blinked hard several times, shaking his head, then watched in horror as octopus-like tentacles bubbled up out of the beaker, reaching for him. Frozen in place, he felt their cold, slimy touch sliding around his neck, tightening, tightening—

With a strangled cry TP awoke in his bed, clawing at the sheet that was hampering his breathing. Gasping, he lay back on his pillow, awash with relief, waiting for his heart to calm down and the dream to dissipate. Good grief, what a nightmare!

The clock on his nightstand read 2:46 a.m. He’d set the alarm for 3:00, but decided he may as well get up now. He had a special preparation underway in the lab, and 3:24 a.m. was the most auspicious time to perform the final step of the procedure. According to the horoscope he’d cast earlier, Mercury would be in an exact trine with Uranus, the moon would be well aspected and several other planets were favorably positioned as well.

Taking a deep breath to blow away the remnants of the dream, TP arose, splashed cold water on his face, dressed and donned his white lab coat.

 A flickering flame in the small glass pane of his furnace lent a cheerful glow to the lab, keeping at bay the dark and chill November night. He’d stoked the fire before going to bed so the room would be warm for his nocturnal work. He could easily heat this smallish space with electricity, like the rest of the house, but the furnace was necessary for certain preparations, and wood fires gave off more than heat. The flicker, the crackle, the dancing fire spirits added life and energy not to be found in electricity. And the alchemists of old had used wood or coal, after all.

 Now he stoked the furnace once more and turned on the recessed ceiling lights, dimming them down to a soft, diffused beam in keeping with the hushed and holy atmosphere. A few stars shone through the shadowed windows, their panes spangled with hoarfrost from an unseasonable cold snap.

Standing still a moment, he soaked in the familiar smells of old books, smoke and ash, resin and wax and herbs. Alchemy, the ancient art of blending science and philosophy had always called to him, and after taking an early retirement from his job as a biology professor at John Hopkins, it had become something of an obsession. He was supposed to be writing a book, but he kept being drawn deeper and deeper into the occult sciences, and topics for the book kept changing from day to day as he made more discoveries. All he’d written so far were some boring articles for science journals.

He lit the Bunsen burner to sterilize his equipment and provide the gentle heat needed for combining his purified solid and liquid materials. Spagyric preparations like the one he was attempting differed from the usual herbal tinctures in that the whole plant was used, including the solids, which were dried after the water and alcohol-soluble substances had been extracted, then burned to a white ash, purified by repeated distillations and filterings, and added back into the tincture. The salts contained valuable minerals which otherwise would be wasted. This particular preparation was based on a formula he’d found in an old alchemical book, but he’d added something new to it, always hoping, of course, for spectacular results and deeper wisdom. It was intended to enhance brain function by stimulating communication between the nerve cells. As one grew older, one became more concerned with cognitive issues. TP, at 62, hadn’t yet noticed any mental decline, but it didn’t hurt to try and improve what one had.

In this experiment, he’d used gingko biloba, gotu kola, rosemary and lavender, all plants falling under the dominion of Mercury, which ruled communication and the nervous system, including the nerves of the brain. Additionally, he’d used blue chamomile, Matricaria recutita, which was associated with Uranus. Uranus was the higher octave of Mercury, meaning it vibrated at twice the speed, and its influence enhanced intuition – those lightning-quick flashes of insight that bypass the slower thought processes.

But besides the plants, TP had soaked a piece of amber in the tincture from a special tree species, letting the rays of the sun hit it for two weeks. He couldn’t wait to sample the results. At the appointed hour, TP set the beaker containing his preparation on a tripod over a gentle yellow flame and uncapped the vial holding the purified mineral salts. As he tipped it over the beaker, he had a sudden flash of tentacles and a twinge of uneasiness rippled through him. But it had only been a dream, nothing to worry about. He pictured fields of rosemary and lavender in high summer, releasing their volatile oils into the sun-drenched air. Slowly he let the salts trickle into the amber-colored tincture, stirring all the while with a glass rod. The first thing he noticed was a change in color. The liquid turned a lovely shade of green. Surprise, surprise. When the salts were completely dissolved, he turned off the flame, removed the beaker to a wooden rack, and, unable to resist, stuck his nose over the warm, misty-green liquid, inhaling deeply. Ahhhh. Closing his eyes, he let the scent carry him off through a maze of long-forgotten memories and feelings.

When he finally opened his eyes, he stood in a green tunnel that stretched away before him. The walls of the lab had disappeared. What on earth was this? His heart thrummed rhythmically in his chest and he fancied he could hear the blood moving through his veins. But wait – the rhythmical thrumming grew louder and merged into another sound: a horse’s hooves! A rider appeared on a silver-grey steed, galloping away from him, down the long, green tunnel. The figure – man or woman, he couldn’t tell which – glanced back over a shoulder and beckoned to him, then disappeared into the distance.

Slowly the tunnel faded and TP’s world righted itself. The furnace ticked, the bottled tinctures on a shelf above his table gleamed faintly, his tools, his books, his posters and charts rematerialized, and outside the walls of his house the city of Baltimore slumbered through the wee hours of the morning.

Mercury. It had been Mercury, the winged messenger, the mediator between heaven and earth. How he knew this he couldn’t say, but every bone in his body felt the truth of it. Intuition, he supposed, the gift of Uranus. His brow furrowed. There was a message somewhere that needed delivering. But to whom? And what was the message? And how was he to find it?

Be careful what you wish for, he thought as he capped off the tincture and turned out the lights. He wanted higher knowledge, increased brain function, but was he ready for it?

“What have I gotten myself into now,” he murmured. Whatever it was would have to wait. He crept down the hallway and went back to bed, falling into a restless sleep and dreaming not of tentacles but of winged sandals and quicksilver steeds.

***

“So a higher octave planet is like the eighth note in a musical scale compared to the first.”

It was Saturday and Claire had come for breakfast. Saturday breakfast had become a ritual for them. A very pleasant one. They’d been spending time together since last June, when TP had asked her to go canoeing. Then there’d been several dinners, more canoeing, some walks and hikes, and two concerts. And now? Now they spent nearly every weekend together, and TP, a 62-year-old socially awkward, introverted bachelor with big ears and a hawkish nose thought maybe he’d found the love of his life. Why now? Why not 30 years ago? But she’d been married then, though the marriage hadn’t lasted.

He’d met Claire O’Day at the university. She was a cellist and gave classes there besides playing professionally with a small group of musicians.TP had admired her from afar a long time before mustering up the courage to ask her out. Six years younger than him, 5’4” tall, she was slender and almond-eyed with lovely cheekbones and raven-black hair save for a few threads of silver. She’d inherited her love of music from her father, an Irish fiddler, and her beauty and elegance from her Japanese mother. TP thought she was like a night-blooming flower, shy and delicate until you got to know her and discovered her wit and hidden strength. TP loved making her laugh.

“You could say that,” he told her, taking a huge bite of omelet.

"Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do.” She sang it in a clear contralto voice. “ Mercury being the first Do and Uranus the second, starting over again on a higher level."

“Mmhmm,” he replied, mouth full of egg, kale and onions.

He’d told her about his new tincture and the vision he’d had last night in the lab.

Now he said, “I just don’t know what to make of it all. I hope it wasn’t a transient ischaemic attack.”

“Hah,” said Claire. “You know better than that. You’ve opened another pathway from here to there, something you seem to have a knack for.”

He sighed, knowing she was right. “But where is there,” he asked to no one in particular.

Claire considered as she took a dainty bite of toast. “Have you tried swallowing some of the tincture? Maybe it would clarify things."

“No.” Frankly he was afraid to. Yes, he yearned for higher knowledge, but quiet, peaceful, Zen-like knowledge, not fireworks and volcanoes. He was at a stable place in his life after an extremely turbulent summer, and all he wanted was to bask in the glow of life with Claire. But no, he’d had to ruin things by stirring the pot again in his lab. His cursed curiosity. Mercury had beckoned and now he must follow.

 “You said you added a special piece of amber to the formula. Do you think that’s what caused the vision?”

TP’s lips twisted wryly. “Quite possibly. Most likely. In fact, undoubtedly.”

“Tell me more about it.” Claire pushed her plate away and gave him her full attention.

“Strap in,” he said. “You’re in for a wild ride.”

She smiled. “It’s always a wild ride with you, TP. I’d expect no less.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Dark Star Falling - Chapter Two

 

He’d told Claire about Minglemist. How could he not if they were to have an open and honest relationship? He’d put it off as long as possible, trying to work up the courage, agonizing over how to bring it up, certain she’d think him nuts like the others he’d told. Finally one evening last August after dinner he’d fixed her a relaxing tisane liberally laced with cinnamon and mint to counteract the bitterness of valerian which he hoped would blur the edges of what he was about to say.

With gentle strains of Brahms turned low on the stereo, windows open to catch the evening breeze and Claire ensconced on his old red sofa surrounded by pillows, he said, “I have something to tell you.”

 “Oh? What sort of something?”

 He paced the floor in front of her, hands tightly clasped. “Ah, it’s complicated, and difficult and strange.”

Claire leaned forward and frowned. “Now you’re scaring me.”

“No, No! It’s nothing to do with you, with us, well, it is, but it isn’t.” He was making a hash of this. Taking a breath, he blurted out, “Claire, I’ve discovered a different world called Minglemist. The doorway to it is in my wax myrtle hedge. I know it sounds crazy, and you may think I’m certifiable, especially because no one else can see Minglemist. Except Madeline, that is.” His unofficially adopted daughter. She was his ace in the hole. Because if she could see it too, didn’t that prove he wasn’t insane?

“We spent most of the summer before last there, studying the flora and fauna. There are such amazing creatures, Claire! Flying reptiles of all kinds and colors, fantastic insects, swamp birds and animals and hundreds of unique plants.”

He stopped talking and cast a tremulous look at her face. No confusion, no disgust or horror or grimacing. In fact her eyes were wide open, her lips parted in – dared he hope, excitement?

“TP,” she breathed, “this is the most delicious, delightful thing I’ve ever heard! Tell me more!”

He collapsed on the sofa beside her, weak with relief.

“You were afraid to tell me, weren’t you?”

“Terrified,” he admitted. “My former colleagues think I’m bats.”

She waved a hand. “Bunch of fuddy-duddies. Don’t forget, TP, I spent the first eight years of my life in Ireland. My sister and I were raised on fairy tales. I used to pray every night that I’d find the door to fairyland. Please, continue this fascinating story.”

So he told her about the Boggy Meadow Swamp and all its strange inhabitants, the Wiggle Hop Roadhouse, the village of Barleytown with its cobbled streets and stone cottages and moss-covered roofs, the twisted old trees and riotous bramble roses lining the lanes, the arched bridge over the Felkie River that ran along the north side of town, the meadows and fields and pastures with leaning gates begging to be opened.

He spoke of the dark parts too, of the dangerous mistangle on Widow’s Moan Island in the swamp where time sped up and sucked the life out of any living thing that entered it and stayed too long. He described in chilling detail the deadly parasitic chimera dragons, black and mist-like that wandered through Minglemist at night, preying on unfortunate human beings by taking up residence in their nervous systems and driving them mad. He explained how the chimeras had been created by an evil brotherhood who’d ruled in Minglemist long ago, using sophisticated instruments and black magic. The Brotherhood had eventually been driven out, their devices destroyed, but the chimeras remained. He told of his own long and ferocious battle with a chimera dragon and the terrifying hours he’d spent in the mistangle, nearly perishing but emerging victorious over the beast.

Claire was entranced. Even the scariest stories didn’t stop her from wanting to see it all for herself, and now TP was faced with a different dilemma than the one he’d imagined; the one where Claire gave him pitying looks and suggested he see a psychiatrist, and then quietly walked out the door.

Should he take her through the hedge? While he’d love to show her Minglemist, he couldn’t quite picture this refined, cultured woman seated in a farm cart amidst turnips and cabbages, or dining at the Wiggle Hop Roadhouse being ogled by the rough and crude fishermen, or, heaven forbid, being accosted by a chimera dragon. If anything should happen to her, he’d never forgive himself.

“It’s a wild place, Claire,” he said. “Minglemist is cut off from the rest of the world and hasn’t progressed in the same ways. Whatever technologies the Brotherhood developed there were lost or forgotten or suppressed by unknown factors. So it’s like stepping back into the 1800’s. The electricity is off more than it’s on, the phones usually don’t work, there are no cars or computers or electronic devices. Life is very primitive.”

“That makes me want to see it all the more,” she said with a glint in her eye, “and one day I will.”

TP was learning to have great respect for that glint. It was a subtle hint of the will forces hidden beneath Claire’s gentle demeanor. She could conquer armies, TP thought, with sweetness and charm; have soldiers fall at her feet without realizing they’d been out-smarted, out-maneuvered and flattened by a force far greater than the sword. Death by graciousness.

Now, as she sat across from him at the breakfast table in a cherry-red, cowl-necked angora sweater, black corduroys and fuzzy black socks with white snowflakes on them, her hair twisted up into its usual knot, TP marveled that she found him worthy of her attention. He often felt like a big oaf around her. He was all knobby bones and bristles: his 6’2” gangly frame, his beak of a nose, the lock of salt-and-pepper hair springing up from his forehead and falling to the left like a clump of marsh grass blown over by the wind. But Claire liked him! She laughed at his jokes. And better still, she believed in him and his wild stories. It was a miracle.

“So the piece of amber I used in the brain formula is ancient, petrified resin from lollywon trees in Minglemist. Possibly millions of years old. It’s the only thing I’ve ever managed to bring back through the hedge.”

He pulled it out of his pocket and placed it in her cupped hand, a smooth, green stone with a golden glow in the center.

“Madeline wears one of these around her neck, doesn’t she?”

“Yes. Yes, she does. It was a gift from the young man she fell in love with while we were in Minglemist.”

“Sephyr Whitemoon, the prince of Boggy Meadow.”

“The very one.”

“Who disappeared. Did she ever find him?”

“She went back to Minglemist this past summer, but she never would talk to me about it. Now she’s back at school, living in the dorm, so I haven’t seen much of her. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.”

“Hmmm. The amber has a nice feel, doesn’t it? I hardly want to put it down.”

“All sorts of claims are made about lollywon amber. It heals wounds, it brings wealth, it protects against all evil, it illumines the mind and warms the heart. Supposedly if one person gives a piece to another, it binds them together for life. And they say it brings visions.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “We know that claim is true, don’t we?”

“My friend in Minglemist, Doc Stubblefield, says the amber absorbs and stores light

from the celestial bodies and it holds cosmic memories. That got me to wondering if it might possibly amplify the effects of the Mercury and Uranus-ruled herbs in the tincture.”

“I believe you’ve captured the stars, TP.”

The thought made him breathless. “Time will tell,” he said. “The swamp people make their own kind of magic from lollywon amber by crushing it and mixing it with other things – roots, resins, herbs, I’m not sure what, and forming it into beads. I’ve seen the beads used like money, for bartering, and city folks pay high prices for them. They’re something of a status symbol. The more beads you own, the more prestigious you are.”

“The lore and lure of the lollywon,” said Claire, gazing deep into the translucent depths. “What stories it could tell.”

***

What stories indeed, thought TP later that evening as he laid a fire in the fireplace and set a match to the kindling. He kept picturing the golden glow in the amber. Was it really starlight? Had he actually bumbled his foolish way into something far beyond his comprehension? Was Mercury actually calling to him?

Today had been dark and blustery, not good for hiking, so he and Claire had stayed in except for a brief foray to the market. Claire had made cream of potato soup and a crisp salad with greens, apples and pecans which they ate by candlelight in the kitchen. The cheerful yellow walls, the shelves holding cookbooks, blue crockery and a copper kettle, the framed monoprints of herbs, even the glass birds on the windowsill were muted and transformed into a flickering shadowland befitting the November evening. Now, after tidying the kitchen to the strains of Pachelbel Vespers, they settled in the living room in front of the fire. Claire had discovered The Count of Saint-Germain by Isabel Cooper-Oakley on TP’s bookshelf and they began reading it aloud. The intrigue, the drama, the mysteries swirling around the romantic count drew them in, and at last TP felt the remnants of his experience in the lab recede.

But as they got ready for bed, Claire urged him to try taking some of the tincture."

You might as well do it now, TP, while I’m here. That way if you suddenly gallop off on a silver steed I’ll know what happened.”

“Would you try to follow?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “Wild horses couldn’t hold me back.”

“Supposing I turn into a lollywon tree?”

“Then I’ll plant you in the garden and sit on your branches every day.”

“Deal,” he said. He went to his lab and uncapped the new brain tincture. Using a pipette, he transferred a small amount to a tiny spoon and lifted it to his mouth. The taste was sharp and green on his tongue and left a tingle after he’d swallowed. But other than a warm sensation as the alcohol went down, nothing happened. Okay, then, he thought and turned around to see Claire peering at him from the doorway. He gave her a thumb’s up and she smiled. “Can I try some too?”

“Ah, I don’t know if that would be a good idea, until we know more about it.”

“Oh nonsense,” she said, coming into the lab. “Give me that spoon.” She expertly filled it with the pipette, took a swallow, then crossed her eyes and gasped.

“I’m seeing stars,” she whispered hoarsely, “and wait! Is that a winged chariot approaching? Help me, TP, I’m being pulled awayyyyyy.”

TP shook his head. “Idiot,” he said, and kissed her. “Let’s go to bed and build some brain neurotrophic growth factor.”

 

           

           

           

           

 

A Dark Star Falling - Chapter Three

 

The morning dawned cold but clear and the wind had died away. TP arose early as was his habit, feeling refreshed after a sound night’s sleep.

In the kitchen he made coffee, heated a pot of water for hot cereal and got out the tea canister. Claire liked green tea, Sencha loose leaf, 4 grams for two cups, brewed exactly three minutes. He hummed as he weighed and measured and stirred, adding a blend of grains to the now bubbling water, sprinkling in a bit of cinnamon, stirring some more.

“What’s that you’re humming?”

 Claire appeared, looking like she’d just popped out of an Easter basket, soft and rosy in a plush pink robe. Her hair was down around her shoulders, though not mussed from sleep, of course, but lying smooth and glossy against her neck. Claire was never mussed. Dirt never clung to her, she repelled it. She could emerge from the marshes they liked to explore after wading through muck and weeds for hours looking as pristine as when she’d gone in, while TP would have several holes in his shirt, muddy knees, burrs in his hair and at least one boot squishing wetly as he walked. Another of life’s great mysteries.

 TP stopped stirring and cocked his head. What had he been humming? “I haven’t a clue,” he said, looking puzzled.

 “It sounded like an old Romani tune my dad used to play on the fiddle.”

 “Romani? As in gypsy?”

 “The Roma people don’t like to be called gypsies, but yes, like gypsies. Dad used to sneak away sometimes to the Romani camp near our village in Ireland on summer evenings to play music with them. Mom hated him going – she thought Romas were rough and low class, and of course my sister and I were forbidden to go, but we loved the colorful stories Dad told about them and the music they taught him. Hum that tune again, TP.”

 As he did so, a tiny snippet of dream from the night before filtered into his mind. He remembered seeing bits of wispy white filaments, some woven together, some broken or torn, all floating in space, and music notes sounding with them. And a feeling of melancholy. He stopped humming and frowned.

 “What is it, TP?” asked Claire.

 “I don’t know,” he said, “I think that tune was in a dream I had.”

 “Hmmm,” said Claire, “interesting.” She looked at him thoughtfully but said no more, and he went back to stirring the porridge.

 By the time they ate, sunlight was streaming in the windows, promising a pleasant day after three days of inclement weather.

 TP noticed a black Lexus parked across the street, opposite his neighbor Gladys’ house. He’d seen the car there several times recently.

 “Gladys must have house guests,” he said to Claire.

 “I believe she’s seeing a French chef.”

 “What? Gladys? How do you know?”

 “I went by the deli where she works on Friday. There’s a new manager, Antoine something. Gladys seemed pretty chummy with him, but I could be wrong. There was just this vibe between them, you know?”

 “Well,” said TP.

 Gladys Quizzenberry’s back yard bordered his on the other side of his wax myrtle hedge. A widow in her mid-fifties, she’d had a huge crush on TP for a long time and showered him with gourmet treats, though recently the casseroles, breads, stews, salads and desserts were not appearing as often. Possibly due to the new French chef. How did he feel about Gladys having a beau? She was a nosy busybody and often a pain in the neck with her shrill voice, blunt comments, innuendos and tired clichés. So he should be happy to have her attention focused elsewhere. But somehow he felt miffed. Good grief, was he so shallow that he wanted to continue basking in her adoration without giving anything in return? Or was it that he didn’t want the delicious food to stop being delivered? He did pay her from time to time for the treats, and gave her produce from his garden, but… a French chef! Who drove a black Lexus. It was a good thing, he decided. He just needed time to adjust.

 Claire grinned at him. “I believe you’re jealous, TP.” She knew very well how Gladys felt about TP. The woman was as subtle as a blowtorch, and had made it clear she thought Claire was not worthy of him.

“I’ll try to bear it manfully,” he said, “and maybe you can offer some comfort.”

 After breakfast they drove to Claire’s house to feed her cat. Claire lived in a small two-story house in Mount Washington, a suburb of north Baltimore only minutes away from TP’s ranch-style home in Cheswolde.

 TP never felt quite comfortable at Claire’s. It was too clean and white. White walls, white sofa, white curtains. Turquoise arm chairs and colorful pillows relieved the whiteness, but he was always afraid of spilling something or tracking in mud. The kitchen chairs were pale pink plush. Who would have plush kitchen chairs? Only Claire. When he ate there, TP hunched over the small table like a vulture, hoping not to drop food. Claire’s bedroom and bath were behind the kitchen, and upstairs was a small music room and two more rooms with dormered windows and a bathroom between them, one a guest bedroom and the other used as an office/den/exercise room where Claire did her tai chi routine every morning.

 Luther, the cat, was lying on top of Claire’s piano in the living room. He glared at TP and twitched his tail. Solid grey with pale yellow eyes and a permanent scowl, Luther had been a stray and was not exactly the cuddly type, though he would occasionally sit in Claire’s lap and allow her to stroke him. He and TP were not on good terms.

 “Hello, Luther,” said TP, and received a hiss in return.

 Luther jumped down from the piano and sauntered into the kitchen where Claire was filling his food dish. He deigned to let her scratch his ears, then settled over his dish after glancing around to make sure TP was not sneaking up on him.

 “So, do you want to take a walk and go to a matinee? Or we could look at slides of transitional forms of gymnosperms during the Carboniferous period under the microscope. Or you could play cello for me naked.”

 “Oh, ick,” said Claire. “Walk first, then maybe matinee.”

 “No cello?”

 “We’ll see,” she said.

They took a brisk two mile walk at the arboretum, then a leisurely stroll through the gardens, enjoying the November sunshine, then ended up back at Claire’s, as there were no matinees they wanted to see.

 “I brought our book along if you want to read,” Claire said.

 “The Count of Saint-Germain? Certainly. The fellow is one of the most mysterious and controversial characters in all of history and possibly one of the most influential. I learn something new every time I read the book. I wish I could get my hands on some of his alchemical formulas.”

 “I love his music,” said Claire. “I read once that he hid secrets in his musical compositions about who he really was and all his magical accomplishments. How did he slip through the cracks of history, do you suppose?”

 TP shrugged. “He obviously wasn’t after fame. Some thought he was a charlatan. Many officials in high places tried to destroy him. People fear what they don’t understand and believe what they want to believe even if the facts say otherwise. What would you think if someone disappeared and then reappeared right before your eyes?”

 Claire arched an eyebrow. “You’re asking the wrong person. If you recall, that happened to me when you tried to take me into Minglemist.”

 Three times they’d tried, TP holding tightly to Claire’s hand as he pulled her through the hedge, but much to Clare’s disappointment, it hadn’t worked. She’d found herself in Gladys’ back yard, while TP had completely disappeared.

 “Oh, well, but you’re different. Thank goodness.”

 “Most people would assume it was a trick.”

 “Of course. Trickery is the most likely explanation and far safer than believing someone had so mastered the elements he or she could disappear into the ethers and appear elsewhere. People are uncomfortable with the unknown. It’s messy, it’s untidy, it’s disturbing and possibly evil. So we all formulate explanations for mysteries that suit our beliefs.”

 They let that thought linger while Claire heated water for tea. “I guess it would be intimidating to be around a man who never aged, who played every instrument imaginable, composed music, painted beautifully, spoke French, German, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian and English and had traveled all over the world.”

 “His name’s also been linked with the Order of the Rose Cross.”

 “Ah, Rosicrucianism. The Secret Stream, isn’t it called? I don’t know much about it.”

 “Hah,” said TP. “You and most everyone else. That’s why it’s called the Secret Stream.” His blue eyes glinted as he addressed one of his favorite topics. “Rosicrucianism is the union of the Cross and the Rose, or science and love. The resurrection of matter. The ultimate goal being to transform the substance of the earth into love. Evil into good, lead into gold, matter into light. They were alchemists, of course.”

 “And apparently healers, musicians, artists and much, much more. Seekers of higher knowledge, like you are, TP.”

 His chest swelled at her compliment.

 “I think you are too, Claire. That’s why you’re sitting here right now.”

 "Oh, that, and many other reasons.”

 “Such as?”

 She smiled. “When I first saw you loping across campus with your suit coat flapping in the breeze I wanted to run after you.”

 “Really? Why?”

 “You had a brief case in one hand and a jar of water filled with wiggling things in the other, trying not to jostle it as you hurried along. I knew wherever you’d come from and wherever you were going was very vital and exciting.”

 “So why didn’t you? Run after me?”

 “I thought I’d better let you make the first move. I didn’t want to scare you back into the marsh.”

 “Hah! As if. It took me months to get up the nerve to speak to you.”

 “After a concert, it was, at the refreshment table. You came up and asked if I liked lilies.”

 “How absurd. What was I thinking?”

 “There was a bouquet of them on the table.”

 “Ah, yes. I was thinking you put them to shame. I’m surprised you didn’t run the other way from a great awkward oaf like myself.”

 “Oh, I couldn’t run.”

 “Why?”

 “Because I’d looked into your bright blue eyes.”

 “And?”

 “And that was that.”

 Claire served up mugs of clove and cinnamon-smelling tea and they began to read, losing themselves in the drama of the French Revolution and the Count’s dire predictions that all came true.

 Late in the afternoon as the shadows grew long and the day was winding down, Claire played cello for TP, first a new piece she was working on for the Christmas concert, then some French and Moravian folk songs, then, after rummaging through her sheet music, she drew out a paper with a flourish.

 “Voila! Here we have a sonata by Saint-Germain. It would sound better with the violin, but you can get an idea.”

 How strange and wondrous, TP thought as he listened to the music written centuries ago. He was actually sharing an intimate moment with the Count of Saint-Germain! Was his spirit hovering over them this very minute as the notes sounded? Goose bumps rose on TP’s arms as he glanced around the room, now bathed in twilight. His eyes fell on Luther sitting under the piano bench, staring intently at the bottom of the floor-length curtains as they lifted faintly, then settled.

 When the notes died away he said, “Thank you, Claire. It was exquisite.”

 “But I’m not quite finished,” she said, and began to play again

TP recognized the melody at once. It was the tune from his dream. He sat up straight in his chair, hands gripping the doily-covered arms as the notes wove their spell. It all came back to him; the dream, the white filaments, the snippets of melody. But as Claire played, the snippets coalesced into a complete song. He remembered parts of it he’d forgotten, or that were lost in his subconscious before he awoke. Claire kept glancing at his face as she played, stumbling a bit here and there when memory eluded her. When she’d finished they sat silent for a time, letting the notes linger in the dying light, and though the minor key lent an air of melancholy, TP felt a lightness enter the room, as if something long held captive had been released. Maybe it was his imagination, but even Luther seemed less dour and more kindly disposed towards him, batting at his shoelace as he skittered past and disappeared under the curtains, his tail lashing back and forth.

 

Finally Claire said, “I don’t even know the name of that piece. My dad’s the only one I ever heard play it. And I could say something trite here, TP, like it came to you for a reason. Or we can dismiss it as a fluke. Or we can just sort of circle around it slowly and gently, searching for connecting threads.”

 

“I like that,” said TP, an idea coming to him. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”

To read the rest of this story, follow the link below:

https://www.wattpad.com/user/ZanoniRose

 

 

 

Come Again? The Question of Karma and Reincarnation

When I was in my late twenties I moved from Missouri to Idaho for a year and a half. Why I did so is something of a mystery. Idaho was mentioned in a conversation once with a friend, and while he was speaking, a vivid picture sprang up in my mind, accompanied by a sudden longing to go there. I'd recently spent time in Colorado and felt drawn to the mountains again. But why Idaho? All I know is the strange longing stayed with me, and about a year later, I packed up a few possessions in my old white Chevy and drove west to Boise.

I found a room to rent in a cheap apartment near Boise State University with 2 other girls for roommates, and immediately started looking for work, since my meager savings wouldn't last long. Every day I scanned the help wanted ads, made phone calls, drove downtown, then parked and trudged the streets, filling out applications.

One hot afternoon as I was making my rounds, a young man walking his bike along the sidewalk stopped beside me, introduced himself and asked if I was a student at the university. He was a student himself, and had seen me on several occasions.

I said no, I was looking for work.

"What kind of work do you do?" he wanted to know.

"Well," I said, "I've worked at three different newspapers doing ad layout, but I'll take anything I can get to start."

"Ah," he said, "I think I can help you. Come with me."

He took me to an office building (I've forgotten what kind) that had an index of all the newspapers in Idaho belonging to the Associated Press. He suggested I type up my resume at the school library and send it to any of the newspapers that looked promising. After giving me a few more helpful suggestions, he wished me well and went on his way. I never saw him again. 

A short time later, the Wood River Journal in Hailey, Idaho, a small mountain town near Sun Valley, contacted me, requesting an interview. It was the newspaper I most wanted to work for. Later on the same day, I got a call from the Ore-Ida potato company in Boise, where I'd filled out an application. They needed a layout artist, and I was well qualified for the job. If it hadn't been for the mysterious young man I'm sure Ore-Ida would have hired me. But instead I took the job in Hailey, met wonderful people and had many exciting adventures. So because of a small act of kindness, the young man (I've forgotten his name) altered the course of my life. Who knows what would have happened if I'd stayed in Boise? I still get a shiver up my spine when I think of that encounter, because I'm certain it was not a random happening. The whole Idaho experience from start to finish was packed with significance for me. Something deep in my soul pulled me there, then I was guided to Hailey, where I needed to be. Someday I must thank that young man, one way or another.

We all have life-altering experiences, some of them so brief, so subtle that if we're not paying attention they pass us by like a whisper and disappear. We're mostly taught to view them as coincidence and give them no more thought.

Every tiny thing we do affects the world and us. Once we act, consequences are set in motion. Does it make sense that we would have nothing more to do with our actions, right or wrong? Will they not return to us? Will we not return to finish important work that was interrupted, balance relationships that need healing?

Of course we all err, and forgiveness is a big part of Christian faith. But forgiveness doesn't wipe the slate completely clean. We still need to be allowed to correct our mistakes and show gratitude for gifts given. How can we grow as spiritual beings if we don't have the opportunity to do so on the same playing field as where they originated? Losing that chance would mean losing something very precious.

Order and system rules our world. Genetics determine our physical bodies down to the length of our eyelashes. What, then, determines our soul and spiritual qualities? Surely what we bring with us into life in the form of aptitudes, talents, inclinations, likes and dislikes are due to order and system as well. We don't inherit soul qualities from our ancestors; they belong only to us. A child can begin playing piano at three years of age when none of his family members are musical. Identical twins can have completely different personalities.

Karma is not simply about being punished for bad behavior and rewarded for good. It's about learning to take responsibility for the consequences of our actions. It's about balance. Life always seeks balance, and I believe we play an active role in determining what life experiences will give us the greatest opportunities to bring us ever closer to living in harmony with the true and the good. And meeting misfortune doesn't necessarily mean we've done something bad. Sometimes random happenings occur. Sometimes there is group karma that affects a whole nation, or race, or other groups, large and small. And there is the taking on of karma as a sacrificial gift. Think of what Christ endured for all of us.

If we view our sorrows and struggles as a way to help perfect ourselves, that perhaps we chose these very struggles, it changes everything. Instead of feeling like a helpless victim and sinking under sorrow and resentment, we can feel blessed for the opportunity to grow. How many times have we seen people overcome terrible hardships who say they wouldn't change a thing in their lives because the suffering made them a much better person? Often they are inspired to help others in similar situations.

The bible promises us eternal life. One lifetime is only a tiny blip on the radar when compared to eternity. How will we spend the rest of our existence? Eternity is a very long time! Does it make sense that we're only given one shot?

Many people believe the bible is clear that we only live once on earth, but others interpret the words differently, and many devout Christians embrace the teaching of reincarnation. In any case our beliefs shouldn't prevent us from examining our own lives with an unprejudiced eye, pondering the meanings of important events and searching our souls for deeper understanding of life and death . 

If we settle for blind faith without ever questioning, we never evolve. The world was once believed to be flat. Innocent people were burned at the stake by "Christians" because it was thought they were witches. We've come a long way, but still have a long way to go.

Faith is a powerful, life-sustaining force, and sometimes it's all we have to cling to, but If we are to foster the growth of spiritual truths amidst the ever-rising tide of materialism, then blind faith is not enough. It must be transformed into solid knowledge. Human beings have dormant organs of perception that, when developed, give us as firm a footing in the invisible spiritual world as we have in the physical. Others have achieved this through dedication and hard work, and eventually these abilities will come to all of us. But meantime, anyone with a well-functioning brain, an open mind and a good moral compass can find his or her way to higher knowledge. Studying anthroposophy, esoteric Christianity, sacred geometry, biodynamic agriculture, (even the elements hold profound secrets of creation!), spiritual science can enrich our understanding and appreciation for the bible and its great mysteries, many of which we haven't even begun to comprehend yet.

And we needn't shun materialism. It has it's purpose. It's given us great leaps of knowledge and power in the world. But it needs to be balanced by spiritual wisdom, so the two can work together for the greater good.

Thank you for reading! 

Won't You Guess My Name

Have you ever wondered if Dr. Doolittle's pushmi pullyu had trouble making decisions? It's hard enough to do with one head, let alone two! Plus four legs. How did it decide which direction to go, which head to follow? Either it was a highly advanced creature or it had magical abilities (apparently there was some unicorn blood in its ancestry), otherwise it would've spent all day struggling to get somewhere.

Too bad we humans don't know the pushmi pullyu's secret, because we're all constantly pushed and pulled between two opposing forces in our lives which often cause much chaos. Like it or not, the world's existence depends on the tension between these poles. Look around and you can see it everywhere: expansion and contraction, destruction and creation, waxing and waning.  

Chinese philosophy names these energies yin and yang, neither being good or evil, always seeking to balance each other out.

In Christianity, the poles are seen as two opposing entities, the good being Christ, the evil His adversary, Satan. 

Spiritual science teaches that there are actually two opposing entities that can draw us toward evil, with Christ as the balancing point between them. The names given to these beings are Lucifer and Ahriman.

The name Lucifer means "bearer of light". It was he who tempted Adam and Eve to eat the fruit of knowledge. But with the light of self knowledge and the freedom of choice comes the potential for evil. Lucifer inspires poets, musicians, artists, visionaries. He brings hope. But in excess, his influence leads to fiery passions, inflated ego, hyperactivity, wars and revolutions, fanaticism, superstition. Luciferic illnesses include fevers and inflammation. This entity seeks to lead us away from earth and from Christ to a realm of his own making. He persuades us that we are better than everyone else, that our point of view is obviously so superior we must do anything to defend it. Just think of all the people slaughtered in the name of religion.

Ahriman, also called the lord of darkness, is a lesser known figure to most, but very active in our times. He is Lucifer's opposite. He works through materialism, science and mathematics, knowledge and data devoid of human feeling (artificial intelligence), division, rigidity. He gives us technological advances and cold, clear, logical thinking, but takes away the poetry and beauty of life. Ahrimanic illnesses include sclerosis and calcifications. Ahriman seeks to bind us to the earth, severing our connection with our spiritual home.

So how do we protect ourselves from these two influences? The pushmi pullyu had a clever way of dealing with danger. One head slept while the other stayed alert, watching for predators. But even if we had two heads it wouldn't help much, because our predators attack from within, deep in our subconscious. So our first line of defense is knowledge. When you know your enemies, how they work and what they're capable of, when you can say their names, it gives you power over them. They can't hide in the darkness anymore.

Secondly, we do have a weapon other lifeforms on earth don't: self knowledge. We can view ourselves dispassionately, as if we were a separate entity. We aren't compelled to act on our thoughts and feelings. Again, this brings great power.

In every swing of a pendulum there is a point of stillness in the middle. It exists between heartbeats, breaths taken in and out, between thought and the emotion it engenders, between feeling and action. This is the place of balance where we meet the Christ. We can practice finding that point until it becomes habit. When we feel self-righteous anger, we can say, "Ah, Lucifer is poking at me!". When we feel fearful or worthless, like life is drudgery and it doesn't really matter what we do because we'll never amount to anything anyway, we can know Ahriman is knocking on our door, hoping to win us over to his side.

The best way to neutralize these two influences is to pour one into the other. Try to cultivate warmth and enthusiasm in all you do, even when emptying the garbage or reading a boring article or listening to a dull conversation. Put a little beauty into the beast! Ahriman hates this. Practice viewing yourself with a bit of cold, clear dispassion so you can see all the ways Lucifer is attempting to lure you into feelings of arrogance and egotism. Beware of the beast that may lurk in beauty! After a time you'll begin to catch yourself before the pendulum swings in the opposite direction, and you can remain in that still, stable place.

This article barely scratches the surface of a vast and complex subject. I hesitated to even write it, but decided the subject is too important to ignore, and blowing it off would please Ahriman. Every voice counts!

The Mysterious Will-o-the-Wisp

You might think the title of this piece refers to an unearthly, slightly scary light dancing across a meadow at night. But actually I'm referring to solid matter! Recent science journals report that scientists have discovered how light can become matter. This is extremely exciting.

Rudolf Steiner, (1861 - 1925), an Austrian scientist, philosopher and seer, stated that "every substance on earth is condensed light. All matter is, in essence, light." (He was highly ridiculed by his peers).

Einstein too was ridiculed, but now science is catching up. Consider this: under a microscope, you see molecules moving around in empty space. If you look into the atoms of the molecules you find even more empty space and less solid material. Go deeper yet into sub-atomic particles - electrons, protons, neutrons, and there is essentially nothing solid remaining. It is 99.999999996% empty space!

Hmmm...why then does my hand stop when it hits the table? Scientists say it's the result of invisible fields and forces. Mysterious indeed. Especially considering that even light is invisible. We only see it reflected off particles of dust or other "solid" objects like planetary bodies in space.

Religion teaches that all things are made by God. The Godhead does not have a physical body. But He has the power to create matter out of His thoughts. Steiner said that rays of sunlight are actually the thoughts of divine beings who pour wisdom and love down upon the earth. Thought to light to solid matter.

Whether you believe in God or science or both, the matter beneath our feet holds profound mysteries. Should we, as average citizens, try to penetrate them?  Or should we leave that up to God and the scientists? Maybe looking for the source of solid matter is like chasing after a will-o-the-wisp. Or is it?

We humans were given the gift of reason. We were gifted with imagination, inspiration and intuition. Surely these tools were meant to be used. Surely we're not meant to sail through life enjoying all we've been given without seeking to understand it. 

Christ said "he who believes in me will also do the works I do, and greater works than these will he do". Christ healed the sick, raised people from the dead, walked on water. He understood how the Divine works in matter. If we're ever to even come close to His wisdom and power we have some work to do. I don't believe His abilities will be handed to us on a silver platter. Again, it might seem futile, like trying to capture a will-o-the-wisp, but we have to start somewhere. 

Why is finding the divine in nature so important?

1. It connects us with all the wide world and helps break down barriers.

2. It eases depression, loneliness and fear, bringing joy and a zest for life.

3. It honors and feeds the higher worlds. We aren't the only beings connected to the earth who are evolving. We all feed each other through our thoughts and deeds!

4.It fosters feelings of reverence, devotion and love.

5. It breathes life into otherwise "dead" words or concepts repeated over and over until they lose their meaning.

6. It counters the materialism of our age and our obsession with electronic devices which rob us of living contacts with others.

So where do we start? Here are a few suggestions that I've found helpful over the years.

1. Set aside a small block of time - even five minutes will do, twenty minutes is great.

2. Hold an object from the mineral, plant or animal world, or sit before it. Seeds and crystals are ideal, or use a feather or a blossom, anything as long as it's not manmade.

3. State your intent with a simple sentence, for example, "I intend to learn what secrets this object holds."

4. Have faith and trust in the process, also patience and an attitude of reverence and humility.

5. Observe and contemplate! Ponder the object's physical characteristics and purpose.

6. Meditate. After a time, let all other thoughts dissolve as best you can, close your eyes and concentrate on the feelings that arise as you hold the image of the object in your mind. Keep an open heart and know that you are doing blessed work.

That's it! Meditation actually changes our physical makeup. It calms the nerves, improves circulation and energy, slows heartrate, lowers blood pressure and allows the body to heal. Best of all, it merges the paths of knowledge and devotion, ending the mistrust that science and religion often have for each other. The light of God, working through us, transforms the earth!

 

 

Crystal Palace

Crystals talk. Their language isn't like ours, yet everyone who gazes at one will feel something inside. A little tug, a burst of light in the heart, a pulse of energy, wonderment and appreciation for such perfect beauty.

Clear quartz crystals formed during the early stages of the Earth's crust formation 500 million years ago, and some crystals found in Australia are estimated to be 2 to 3 billion years old. Just think of that! We can hold something in our hands literally older than dirt. What stories they hold! 

Because of quartz's durability and ability to absorb, store, release and regulate energy, it's ideal for making optical fibers used in telecommunications for high speed data transmission. Quartz is also used in microscopes, telescopes and lasers, and makes a strong insulator.

Crystals have long been used for healing, protection and spiritual growth. Do an online search for "healing with crystals" and you'll find reams of material to read. I won't attempt to repeat what others have said, but I'd like to share a little of my own experiences using quartz crystals for health and meditation.

I meditate twice a day for 20 minutes or so. I believe cleansing the mind and emotions is just as important as taking a daily shower. There are many ways to accomplish this; through prayer, reading, yoga, listening to music, walking in nature. Crystals can enhance all of these practices. They bring clarity to thoughts, foster feelings of strength and stability, deepen our connections to the world around us.

My method is simple and effective; in fact I'm often astonished at the results. I start with two of my favorite crystals, making sure they've been recently cleansed by holding them under running water (non-chlorinated), rubbing their surfaces briskly, then putting them outside in the sunlight for a few hours. I do this maybe once a week. There are other ways to cleanse crystals - you can read about those in books or online.

I hold the crystals in my palms, close my eyes and start by touching the smooth surfaces with my fingers, noticing what feelings arise. I think about how the crystals were formed so long ago. Before they hardened, crystals were liquid. I imagine divine forces guiding the liquid into geometric planes, gifting the earth with these exquisite objects for our pleasure, health and well-being.

Next I ponder on how the stones are beautifully formed but are finished evolving. They have no capacity for growth or change like living things do. They are permanent, unchangeable, stable, nearly indestructible. They are an oasis of safety. Now I imagine myself inside a crystal. I feel it holding me in a sacred space, insulating me from all outside influences. I feel calm and protected. I'm in my own crystal palace, safe and secure. I let go of all stress, all confusion, doubts, emotions and thoughts that aren't harmonious, and relax as they dissolve into the pure form of the crystal. After a time I take a few deep breaths, imagining light radiating down through my head and grounding me to the earth.

I'm constantly surprised by the thoughts that arise as I hang out in my crystal palace. They're very different than my usual thoughts. They come at lightning speed, without words, conveying their meaning in a sort of living picture that resides partly in my heart, partly in my head. How does this happen? I haven't a clue. The human brain doesn't yet have the capacity to understand how invisible energies work, making it hard to explain with words. It has to be felt. Different senses are needed for this, and practice is the only way to develop them.

When we use and appreciate crystals and start to unlock their ancient secrets, we benefit not only ourselves. Though crystals are lifeless, we can breathe life back into them by using them. We can carry their mission forward, and by so doing we grace the divine beings who created them with our gratitude. This forms a full circle of giving and receiving that elevates the entire world.

Winter is a perfect time to explore the world of crystals. Outside, nature is at rest beneath her  mantle of snow and ice. Birds and insects are silent, the air is crisp and thin, making thoughts clearer and sharper without the distractions that spring and summer bring. Find a crystal and explore.

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