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Theosophical Fiction

Volume 4
[Previously "Theosophical Fables," vol. 1-3]
Contents
- The Lord of the Planet - Morris
- Good-bye - Lanesdale
- The Visitant - L.L. Wright
- A Life's Triumph - Renshaw
- The Victory - Morris
- Mirror and Moonlight - Dilya
- Apples of Knowledge - Morris
- Bluen Blossom - Cooper
- A Mad World - Leonard
- The Treasure - Lanesdale
- The Turn of the Wheel - Judge
- 1926 - 1927 - Small
- True Gold - Plummer
- Flying Arrows - Leonard
- Philosophy of Work - Barborka
- My Kingdom - Machell
- Bach's Fugue - Morris
- Cave of the Echoes - Blavatsky
- A Dream - Kramers
- Marya the Sinner - Kursky
- Hell, Heaven and Beethoven - Molyneux
- The Bewitched Mirror - Tzeretelef
- Sword of Light - O'Murnaghan
- The Upas-Tree - Landor
- The Saphire Necklace - Morris
- The Twentieth - Hahn
- The Temple - Kramer
- Hill of the Thrushes - Alehouse
- Pathway to the Name of Names - Pederson
- The Blue Rose - Pederson
- The Toy-Maker - Pederson
- A Guatamalan Legend - Jones
- The Jewel of Atlantis - Lando
- Fairest of the Fair - Aldhouse
- Per-ao Lives Forever - Brunke
-----------------

The Lord of the Planet


- Kenneth Morris
I: The God
This, then was the Earth - that Death Planet whereof so many tales were told. He
must arrive at some clear view of it, if he was to do his duty in that state to which, for his sins,
he had been condemned. - So he put it to himself; but his sins were not as ours; it was a
matter of over-impetuosity that entailed his fall or banishment; it was his grand sweeping,
warwardness against Chaos; and because he, the dawn-chapleted Khoronvahn,
Whose throne was in the Isles of Capricorn,
Whose dragon navies cruised the Milky Way,
was the most ardent of the Stars of Morning that sang. He must certainly think; he must
understand this new scene of his labors, and (impossible task!), somehow bridge the gulf
between his own consciousness and the consciousness (as he supposed he must call it) of
his new subjects, Men. For the sentence pronounced against him was, to reign God of this
planet for some few million years; and it would take hard thinking indeed to find out what any
deity might make of the job.
It was beautiful, this Death Planet, to a degree that surprised him; but the beauty
soaked through, piquant, treacherous with.... an adverse inexplicable something (he knew no
such word or concept as sorrow, or might have defined what he felt). And withal, it was
somehow august. Rumor had been right in speaking of it with a certain strangeness and awe;
he had sensed that from the first. At the moment of crossing the boundaries of its
atmosphere, he had felt himself, troubledly, in the presence of the unknown. - A tiny little
God-forgotten nonentity of a globe, beneath contempt in a way, and yet infecting one with a
sense that one might be out of one's depth....
At his feet the river emerged from its mountain gorges; and lay, a streak of flame and
silver, along the dusky plain. Out in front the sea gleamed to the horizon, a bow now all
crimson and orange and flickering sapphire and green. On either side and behind him rose
the mountains, sunset-flushed to richest purple; a lark trilled in the mid-air far below; but for
that and the call and hoarseness of the river in its gorges, there was silence: men came not
here, nor had ever come. He was a little weary after the day he had spent (a thousand years
as we count time) going up and down the world and trying to make men aware of his
presence. Here, on this hill between the precipices, he would rest, and brood for a while, and
find a way.
He had heard of old of these Men; and perforce taken all he had heard well salted,
because there are limits to the possible, - or he had thought so. But seeing was believing. Or
some way towards believing; for here was a vast deal indeed for a god to believe.
Consciousness, he had supposed, meant delight; no other conception seemed possible. But
here - Well, he had hardly arrived, you may say: only a thousand times had the little globe
with its shining seas and its mists and mournful beauty swung round the sun since it saw the
falling star of his arrival: and already the task of finding out what consciousness could be
what it was, here, - had wearied him in some measure. His mind was not clear, as it used to
be; puzzlement was on him, in a way; uncertainty as to the labor that lay before him;
wonder as to how he should begin. For of course the first thing was to establish connection
between his mind and some mind - one at least - among the earth people; and there was the

difficulty. He had not been idle since his coming: there was no community of men that he had
not visited; no individual, even, that he had not in his own way striven to approach. You
might say: why not sink a populous island here and there; heave a mountain or two on to
some few cities; rend the earth a little, and bury recalcitrant millions? But we do not
understand the gentility of godhead, to which such ideas seem vulgar. What on earth should
he do?
It was to be supposed that they had a sort of intelligence: one could see that they had
built up an order of living, - possessed what might be called civilization. But it was an
intelligence to him disparate and alien; an order of living and a civilization that no mere god
could understand. In his circles, to be was to be delighted to be, and to take delight in all
being; - what we should call love; only he, having no conception of hatred, had none of love
either, as a thing in itself: existence, consciousness, love, delight, were to him one idea, and
one only. But here, these fierce, cunning, crawling, fighting creatures, - well, it was an
amazing revelation, undreamed hitherto in his philosophies, - they could move about, build
their civilizations, - they could be and live, in short, - and yet their being seemed to be based
on, motived by, another name for, non-being; their life was the negation of life. Ah, that
accounted for the name, the Death Planet; he began to understand the meaning of that
extraordinary term. Sentient existence, as he had understood it, was one, and knew itself
one, in all its embodiments; but here it was at war with itself, paradoxical, inspired by selfantipathies. And it was his business to make this new kind of consciousness aware of and at
one with his own kind; to bridge the gulf between himself and Man. Good Lord, what a
problem for a God to solve!
No wonder that in such an atmosphere, do what one would, one could not keep one's
mind clear. There was a drowsiness, a heavy something - the infection of this strange
negation of life....
Well; he would rest here, and think the thing over; he would watch the sea, and rest,
and find a means ....
The mountains faced the sunset, - the plain, about nine leagues wide, between them
and the sea. From two chasms, with a hill high enough to be a chair for him between, the
river poured out into the plain, to unite or re-unite its waters a little below, and thence flow on
seaward slowly and deep. Here he sat, and leaned forward; his chin on the palm of his hand,
his elbow on his knee. Sheer precipices on either side of him, beyond the river, the
mountains rose to the level of his head; so narrow was the gorge on his left, that one
standing among the pines at the crag-top there would have been within a stone's throw of his
face. Behind him, range on range rose white-peaked to the sky.
He sat there, brooding; and the glow of the sunset died away, and the stars shone out,
the grand procession of them passing over him to sink in the sea. Yes; the air of this planet
was soaked in heaviness, in sleep. How was he to make that passage between his mind and
the minds of men? The stars passed, and the sun rose and sank, and the stars followed; the
sea shone and darkened, shone and darkened. How . . . was . . . he . . . to . . . ?
The sun drifting through the heavens to set in the sea; the traveling moon with her
phases; the multitudinous procession of the stars; the gleaming and darkening bow of the
sea, - how should one think, watching them? They became a wonder and a vague delight to
him; they filled the fields of his consciousness . . . in this oblivion-laden atmosphere of the
earth. True, there was something else to be considered . . . sometime . . . but consideration
was difficult . . . in this oblivion-laden atmosphere of the earth.... The sun and the stars went
dropping into the sea; he watched them, and did not know what they were. A million years
passed. Time long since had turned his bodily presence into stone, as the rhythm of the
drifting lights had lulled his mind into quiescence.

.......
But all things grow weariness at last; and an age came when he had no more peace in
watching. He could not be happy because of something he could not remember: the memory
of his purpose, his identity, his ancient glory, ebbed long since beyond the reach of his
cognitions, haunted him, - an irksome bewilderment lurking in the vast inanity of things.
There was something, formidably important, - not the sea nor the lights of heaven, which he
ought to know. He could not tell what troubled him; could formulate no questions, yet was
conscious of questions enambushed beyond his vistas, and had no delight because of them.
Well; he would reach out and grasp them someday: in effortless quiescence, or in the throes
and agony of thought. He was drawing nearer to that success with every dropping of the
stars now; he was drawing nearer to it....
Then all drifted away again. There came a humming and a drowse of sound
perpetually from below; it caught his ear, and was a refuge from the unknown questions and
from the sea-bow and the sun and the stars. He gave himself up to the comfort of listening,
and desired only to hear. The voices of millions of men, rattle of wheels incessantly, hoofs
pounding and clattering: it was full of mystery, infinitely complex, unfathomable. Day and
night it rose to him, intriguing as poppy fumes that minister to dream....
(At the feet of God they had built Khoronvehm, the City of God; and because God was
there, visibly present above the city, Khoronvehm became the mistress of the world. They
carved his temple in the hill, and built it out to be his footstool; his tall temple that was the
wonder of the world. All of polished porphyry and onyx and alabaster, they flanked it with
columns on this side and that: a half-moon of beautiful columns about the temple-courts.
Tribute-bearing ships came up the river, and unloaded at the temple-court steps the treasures
of the world. Very mighty were the Khoronvehmians; very mighty and religious; they
oppressed the world, and the world obeyed them; for did not God sit visibly in their midst?)
All things become weariness at last. Time came when the noise of the great city held
him no longer; then beyond the horizons of his mind the questions rose again; and century
by century he strove towards them more eagerly ever. And now, now, now, he was on the
point of grasping them; he battled against the strange and heightened turmoil from below; he
sunk his mind inward, furiously striving after the things that concerned him; until at last, yes,
there was another light before him than the sunset; yes, he was that dawn-chapleted
Khoronvahn from the Isles of Capricorn; he had been sent hither to be Like a heavy wave, sleep struck him.
............
That, to be exact, was on the day of the full moon in the month Argad, in the Year of
the City, 10,581. Everyone knows what happened then. There had been civil war, between
the factions of the kings and the priests; and God at last had made his power known. His
priests had been victorious; and on that day their and God's enemies, the king with his family
and adherents to the number of a thousand, had expiated their sins on the altar. Then the
great yearly Feast of the Sacrifices had been inaugurated; and everyone knew that upon the
rigid observance of that festival depended the favor of the "Almighty and Most Merciful Father,
Our Lord God, Dawn-chapletted Khoronvahn, Maker of the Stars Made Visible"; (I quote from
the Book of Liturgies of the priesthood at Khoronvehm). Since then, God (through his High
Priest) had ruled the city and the world.

II: The Priest-Prince


Rumor was, in Khoronvehm, that the High Priests' Path was so perilous, that, a
hundred to one, unless you had learned the clues beforehand, you should take some wrong
turning and drop soon and suddenly into dark waters and caverns quite fathomless, - that the
whole mountain was honeycombed with devilments, a place for nightmare to batten on. Yet
here is one, certainly taking that path with no clue or guide in the world but trust: he is to
have speech at the summit with God; and God, he knows, will bring him past every peril. It is
Vahnu-ainion the Priest-Prince, today to succeed to High Priestly sovereignty; he goes
unshod, white-robed; he is wasted by long anxieties to frailty and the semblance of age, but
now the vastness of his hope half makes him young again: he goes up to his God.
As to the path he travels: his forefathers the High Priests have trodden it before him:
each once and once only, - at his accession, when he went up to receive from Deity that last
sanctification which should fit him to be Deity's Vicegerent; - and no man else has trodden it
at all since slaves of old tunneled it out under the northern gorge and the river, and up through
the mountain, or sometimes giddily along the face of the precipice; and built that little shrine
of alabaster, the Holy of holies of religion, right on the brink of the chasm at the top. There,
hidden from the world by clouds, communing with God, each Priest-Prince in his turn had
attained infallibility and High Priestly status; for from that point the Divine Countenance was
well within range of a voice not unduly uplifted: if God spoke, though it were hardly more than
in a whisper, who stood at the altar should hear.
Vahnu-ainion was wasted with anxieties, as well he might be. After all these millennia
of triumphant domination, disaster latterly had fallen on Khoronvehm. Continents had risen
rebellious; navies had been sunk and armies slaughtered; until now the mistress of the world
cowered within her walls hungry and despairing. The plain below was white with the tents,
and the sea with the sails of her besiegers; and unless God should arise and his enemies be
scattered, help or hope there was none. And today must be the end of it; there could be no
holding out after today.
For that matter, so far as he was concerned, Vahnu-ainion knew, and had never
doubted, that God would arise, and his enemies be turned into friends; that was not where
the steel had pricked him. Though Priest-Prince, he believed utterly in the goodness of God.
But he had been living through all these months of gathering national gloom, knowing that the
priests (in their minds) and the people (often openly) attributed the whole evil to him. He
doubted that, save God, he had any one friend as an offset against so many foes; and
guessed that only God and his own hereditary sanctity - the habit of mind of some ten
thousand years - had kept the knife or poison-cup from doing its work on him. The
Khoronvehmians were above all things religious: God dwelt visibly among them, and they
owed their pre-eminence to that. The High Priests - their absolute monarchs - had always
been of the Vahnu family, whose name hinted at divine descent; and Vahnu-ainion was its
only living scion. In all history, no High Priest had been deposed, nor any Vahnu done away
with; and for lack of a precedent, deeds whose doing all desire and would approve are often
left undone. So he was still alive....
He was hated both as an innovator and as an innovation. All his predecessors had
been great statesmen, princes of the church militant, urbane and masterful men, and
exceedingly clever. He, - well, you shall judge. The Feast of Sacrifices at the full moon of the
month Argad - that rite of atonement which ensured the favor of God for his city - was
abhorrent to him; he loathed policy, and took no pleasure in universal sway; he had an idea
that the High Priest of Khoronvahn should be the chief servant, not the master, of mankind.

This is what I mean by saying he was an innovation, or part of it; had he left things there, so
much might have been excused. But no, he must be innovator too, active, pressing his views.
He had set his face against the sacrifices, hinted at a desirable new dispensation; had even
achieved saving one intended victim. And he meant openly to do much more: meant to
petition God, today, and learn His will; was certain that God's will coincided with his own, and
that the divine command would be given: Abolish them: bring flowers, not men, to my altars.
How could he square all this with history? Every High Priest before him had gone up
whither he now was going, and received God's mandate for the ordering of the world; and yet
the sacrifices and pomp and domination had persisted - it could not be supposed but by
God's will. I do not know how he managed it; but the truth is that he believed in God and
loved and pitied man with equal fervor; believed in his religion, and wished to change it;
considered that an Inscrutable Wisdom might have allowed much of old that It desired altered
now; was not too logical to follow the urgings of his heart, - nor perhaps so illogical that you
could be sure the ground would never tremble under him.
He was an innovation in another way too; by ill fate this time, and not wilfully. Time out
of mind the High Priesthood had passed from father to son, each trained for the office by his
predecessor; and none of them all had made this journey without instruction. They knew
what should be done in the white temple: what invocations chanted (he supposed), what
ritual used; but he knew nothing. For his father, the God-aureoled Vahnu-gonai, - imagine
three epic pages filled with his titles, - had been during the last ten years a senile and most
monkey-like babbler, so stricken before a thought of death had visited him or old age warned
him to prepare; all the wisdom he had had to utter had been scraps of old street songs,
nursery rhymes, - even flat blasphemies that would have brought another to the stake; and at
the last, before he passed to his apotheosis yesterday, when some flaming up of mind and
oracular dictum might have been looked for, the best he had given was a sneering stare at his
son, an ugly chuckle unexplained, and some mutterings in which the word fool, often
repeated, was to be caught. So now Vahnuainion went ignorant to this his greatest occasion.
- Further, he had been, as regent, ruling the world, playing High Priest, for ten years, though
uninitiated. He had stood to mankind as God's deputy, who had never spoken with God. His
office had called for the constant over-shadowment of Deity, and he had had nothing to bring
to it but the shallow wisdom of men. No wonder disaster had befallen!
All this he felt; and yet did not know wherein he had failed. The rest of the world might
be certain; he was still more certain that the rest of the world was wrong. He went without
fear to meet his God, and had no thought colored by apology. That which had brought most
rancor on him, he most gloried in: there he had acted for God with an intuition he felt to be
infallible. - It was saving Artalach, that captive savage king, from the altar. He remembered
how, when he saw the tall, chained, proud man landed from the tribute-ship at the templecourt steps, and marched with the others to the prison of the victims, the conviction had struck
him: This man is to do some grand service for Our Lord! It was as if Khoronvahn himself had
cried it from amidst the mountaintops and clouds over the city; he had never doubted Whose
will he was doing, then or since. Later he had come to know that poor Artalach's history; - but
he was going up to speak with Godhead now, and such tragic dark dealings should never be
again. Aye, and he would make amends to the tall savage: would teach him the truths of
religion, and for temporal sway and perishable honor, give him treasure where moth nor rust
corrupts, nor thieves break in and steal. He had taken Artalach into his own service, I must
tell you; and was having him taught the Khoronvehmian and what else a gentleman should
know. The time might come when he should find in that quarter what all his life he had
lacked,
friendship. The man would serve God, and signally: that he knew. A proud seared spirit, so

far; but the Priest-Prince believed his own pity stronger in the long run than any pride.
And he believed in God, and went on and up with joy overcoming his weariness, and
hope banishing the memory of his anxieties. God would save the world, changing the order
of things. God would appease and convert, not smite, the rebel princes in their tents beyond
the walls. God would speak the word to him, that would be the solvent for the bitterness in
men's hearts. God would teach him to redeem even the priesthood.
So by the tunneled steep passages and unrailed stairways cut in the cliff-face he went
up, busy with his thoughts, and unaware of the one with the spear that followed him. There
were many places on those cliff-cut stairs where Artalach might have leaped forward, picked
him up, and hurled him down through the clouds; but the savage meant that God should see
his revenge. It was God he hated, the God of Khoronvehm; not this frail woman-hearted
priest. The thing should be done on the altar in the temple above, under the eyes of
awakening Deity. (Vahnuainion seeking to sow hope in him, had made him understand the
occasion). So, when it was done, God would act; the last thing he desired was to escape.
God, by whose will his wife, his children, and all his braves had perished, would vent
omnipotent anger on him; would devise ghastly deaths no doubt; - and should learn what
strength to endure was in the spirit of Man. He would die deriding the impotent omnipotence
that could win no groan from him. As for the PriestPrince: death, that would take him swift
and suddenly, was no misfortune; and Artalach would make amends, protecting and
befriending him in the beyond.
A long steep passage up through total darkness; then a stairway beginning, and
winding spirally up, up and up; and at last the black air thinning gray; and then, almost
suddenly, light, and no trace of fog in it: one was above the clouds certainly; ay me, one was
in the Holy Place! There were no walls; it was a round roof, peaked, resting on pillars; now
the westering sunlight slanted in, mellow golden and dappled with pine-tree shadows, on the
floor inlaid with mosaics of many-colored marbles and on the altar of onyx stone between the
delicate columns in front; beyond which, and across the gulf, very near, it shone full and
gloriously on the Face of Very God. Ah the calmness and vast majesty of that countenance,
lighting the soul of Vahnu-ainion to intensest worship and joy! Advancing, rapt in the marvel
of the vision, he stands at the altar, that only between him and the abyss; wonderful it is to
look down upon the clouds, now flushed to richest cream, suffused with softest amber; and to
see, out of that shining moveless ocean of opacity, the divine breast rising, a formidable
precipice, and the deific beauty of the neck and head above! Ah, Most Beautiful, Most
Beautiful! what need for ritual here? In silence shall the uplifted heart invoke thee; with
adoration call thee forth! Vahnu-ainion kneels at the altar, resting his arms on it; and with
clearest light in his mind, firmest will and most glowing compassion in his heart, pours his
thought out towards Khoronvahn above the clouds.
- "Khoronvahn! Khoronvahn! hear, O Most Merciful! It is mankind that cries to thee
through me!"
As if a stone had been thrown into a mountainlake, where was only placidity and utter
dreamlessness before: in some far vagueness ripples of thought are rising and widening;
there is a cry Khoronuahn! Khoronvahn! and there is that, unaware of itself until now, that
hears.
- "Now wilt thou declare thy heart, O Compassionate! Now wilt thou save the people of
thy world!"
- " Who calleth Khoronvahn?" - so the thought-ripples ran; "it was a name that.... "
Artalach, watching at the back of the temple, heard nothing. There was no voice,
either of priest or God, that any ear could hear.
- "Behold, O God, how my spirit yearns to thee! Thou hast enlightened my

understanding and shone into my heart; give thou now the sign and token, that I may go forth
and thy will be done!"
"Ah, fumes arose from below and put sleep on me. I was.... "
- "That there may be no more cruelty on earth; that thy priesthood may go forth
healing and serving; that the nations may be at peace, and the fire of thy being kindled in
men's hearts!"
- "There was a humming and a drowse of sound from below, that came between my
thought and.... "
- "That sorrow may depart from the world; that order and love may reign here, as they
reign among thy stars in heaven!"
- "There was a gleaming bow out before me afar, and lights streaming above and
sinking; and because of these I could not.... "
- "Khoronvahn! Khoronvahn Omnipotent, hear!"
- "Khoronvahn? Khoronvahn? It was the name of one that . . . came down out of . . .
that came hither to be.... "
The Priest-Prince's fingertips, resting on the altar, became aware of inscribed letters
there; and memory came floating into his mind.... of lessons he had learned long ago: an
ancient script and language, the sole subject his father personally had taught him when he
was a boy; and he remembered the solemn pledge he had been made to take then, never to
reveal, except to his own eldest son, that which he should learn; "for the writing on the white
altar is in this tongue," said his father: words unexplained then, and forgotten these thirty
years; but now returning, and heard distinctly in memory as if they had been just spoken.
Here, then, was the secret: here written the words he should speak that God should hear and
answer. He rose, and bending over the altar, deciphered it slowly.
"Son, now knowest thou all. Thou hast come into the secret place: art hidden by the
cloud from the eyes of men.
"What camest thou up to see? What findest thou? That stone idol yonder? Look well
and listen: hath he spoken to thee at all? Hath he moved a lip or an eyelid? They say that
he was God once; time long since hath turned him into stone. The High Priests know:
senseless as thou seest him he hath been these million years.
"Therefore rejoice thou; for were he God indeed, thou shouldst be destroyed, thou and
thy power and thy glory and dominion. If he could be Lord of the Planet, would he leave that
lordship with thee?
"But since he is stone he upholdeth thee; uphold thou then his worship, as thy fathers
have upheld it before thee. Let blood flow continually on his altars, that the world may
remember he is God. Chastise mankind in his name, that it may fear him; fearing him, it
shall obey thee. Men say, 'God's will is inexorable'; be thou inexorable, that men may know
thee the Vicegerent of God. This is the wisdom of thy fathers, whereby they have ruled the
world.
"For men are fools; but be thou wise. Walk in the way of thy fathers; on the day thou
departest from it thou shalt die. Art thou wise now, believing nothing? Go then! there is
nothing more to know."
As if a great wind had risen suddenly, and the lake, where the ripples were flowing and
broadening, were lashed suddenly into tempest: there was that which cried through the place
of awakening consciousness: "Sorrow! ah, the sorrow of men! It is my heart that
understands! It was I that came down out of the star-worlds to heal the sorrow of men. I will
arise, and go to my people.... "

III: The Avenger


Artalach, waiting his moment, has seen Vahnu-ainion discover the inscription, and read
it; he, too, guessed that it held the secret that should awaken God. Standing behind, he has
seen nothing of the Priest-Prince's face as he read. What follows confirms his surmise. He
sees Vahnu-ainion sink down on the altar, then rise and throw up his arms as in invocation;
but he has already seen, beyond the chasm, the eyelids flicker, the lips quiver, motion taking
the head, a straining; and now, when he is sure that God is watching, alert, and will see now,
as the Priest-Prince's arms go up, he knows that the time is come. He knows nothing of the
sudden shock to the man long wasted with trouble and fasting, of the rush of blood to his
brain; he sees but the invocation effective, God aroused, and in act to answer; and his spear
flies; and Vahnu-ainion (I doubt, dead before the weapon touched him) fallen, on to the altar,
on to the floor, over the precipice. So: he has insulted God, slaying God's Priest; and with
satisfaction and calmness now strides forward to the brink, that God may see him and realize
well what has happened, and take what steps he will.
But heavens, what has he done? of what mightiest magic is he, all unknowing, the
master? Vengeance? As if it had been God, not the Priest-Prince, his spear transfixed! Up
out of the clouds the colossal breast rises, swaying, cracking, rending, groaning; the arms
shoot up above the head; the whole vast mass totters, staggers; there is stumbling as the
feet break through the temple-roof beneath; rending of stone, cracking, breakage; noise as
of thunder and earthquake; - and a fragmentation and a crashing down of all, forward, on to
the city: to crush to ruin palaces and temples and famished panic-stricken populace - they,
and the hosts that have been pouring in through breaches in the walls an hour old. Priest,
God, and city; he has destroyed them all; grandly indeed he is avenged. The cloud is
dispersed by the fall of God; he can see something of the ruin he has wrought. His work is
finished: and he turns, and is going....
But where? What next? His plan has miscarried, in a way, and left him with nothing
decided; there is nothing further for him to do.... better follow the Priest-Prince, over the brink,
and into that beyond where....
A hand is laid on his shoulder, and a voice speaks: "Brother?" He turns, amazed, to
face the speaker, a shining figure in the dusk, shedding light on the white pillars; and - he had
been watching that colossal face beyond the chasm, and, despite the change, the human
stature, could not be mistaken; ....and, somehow, hatred, bitterness, all the searedness and
constriction of these last years melt away from his heart. For moments he is silent, and then:
- "God!" said he. "God ! take . . . thy . . . revenge! I am the man.... "
- "Thou art man, and I am God, my brother. Come with me; they need us, below
there. We are man and God, and we must help them."
- "I go with thee, my brother," said Artalach.
..........
That evening the Golden Age began.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 23, no. 5, Nov., 1922)
-----------------

Good-Bye
- Ralph Lanesdale
The night was still, and all the house was quiet: the room was hardly lighted by the
reading-lamp on the table; but the fire still glowed, and there were pictures in its magic
caverns for those who could see them. But the old man in the big armchair was seeing
pictures of a different kind in the mysterious region we call memory. He had been occupied
with those other pictures in the fire - pictures of a bright future, in which he was not alone, when the letter came that now lay on the table beside him with the news that the boy, who
was to share that glowing future, was lying dead somewhere in France.
He had read the letter calmly, as if it were merely an official confirmation of what he
knew must happen. It seemed to carry with it a deadly chill and an evil odor, with a sense of
horror and utter misery, a fleeting picture of a man lying in the filth of that unknown field; and
then a blank....
With curious indifference he had taken from his pocket another letter in a boyish hand
beginning "Dear old Dad," and suddenly he was back again in the days when the dead soldier
was a poor little rickety child, who had loved him so unreasonably. His father never could
understand why the child should love him. When he thought of the miserable little body, and
the sinister heredity with which he had endowed a beautiful soul that had come to him with
love and utter trust, he was ashamed. And then the apology for a home.... poor little lad!
What chance had he in life? And yet he had never cursed his father for bringing him into the
world. Instead, the child had loved him, wonderfully.
Where had he learned such generosity? More, the little fellow had always thanked his
father for doctoring him in his constant sicknesses; and, when he could not speak and could
hardly breathe in an attack of croup and his father was applying hot water bandages to his
throat, he had put up his hand and stroked his father's cheek by way of thanks. Always
patient, he had never complained; but his face came to wear a constant look of wonder as to
why things should be so.
And then came a memory of summer days in an old garden, and the little boy tottering
along on his shaky little legs, dragging behind him proudly a little cart that his Dad had made
for him, and that squeaked and rattled gloriously. The joy of the child was as pathetic as his
suffering; he seemed so unnaturally contented with such trifles. And he was so intuitively
tactful and polite that everyone loved him; but they seemed to divine that his life was an
unconscious tragedy. No one had ever taught him to be polite; it was not necessary.
One day his father told him to go to the kitchen and ask the cook for something, a
message invented to please the cook, who thought all the world of the child then on his first
and only visit to his grandfather's house, an old manor-house in the country, with a wonderful
garden and rambling stables and hot-houses and other mysteries. The servants all loved
him, and he liked to go on errands. His father remembering that there was a heavy swingdoor between the hall and the back passages, had followed to see if the little boy could open
it alone, when he overheard his messenger rehearsing his message and putting it into proper
form thus, "Please Mrs. Robson, Dada says will you be so kind as to.... " A lump came into
his throat, and he looked up to see the old squire, his father, who had been writing unseen at
a half concealed desk nearby, watching the child with an expression so gentle that it was a
revelation to his son who had generally encountered only the harsher side of an autocratic
temperament.
And then one day the child came in with a wonderful tale that had been told him by a
farm-laborer, with whom he had made friends, and whom he described as "the gentleman
what belongs to the pigs," because the man had been feeding pigs at the farm nearby. His

courtesy was spontaneous.


Those summer days at the old Hall were marvelously beautiful to the child, and
seemed in some way wonderful to his grandfather, whose rigid orthodoxy was not shocked as
it should have been to find that the boy had never been inside a church nor ever learned to
"say his prayers." His grandmother, indeed, had tried to remedy these sad omissions in his
education. He made no protest, but took it all just as it came: it was all beautiful and strange.
He went for long walks with the old squire, talking nearly all the time in his curiously 'oldfashioned way'; while the old man forgot his own worries and anxieties listening to the child
and finding unexpected happiness in the adoration of the little pagan, who thought his
grandfather the wisest and the noblest being on the earth.
The father of the boy had clashed with his autocratic parent, who despised the artistic
temperament of the son who had disgraced the family by becoming an artist. They had not
quarreled, but the artist was made to feel that he was almost outside the pale of society. But
that was long ago, and now as he sat dreaming of the little boy, the artist could forgive his
father and see him a little with the adoring reverent eyes of the child.
Poor little lad! Dead! No. It was the man of forty who lay dead "somewhere in
France." But his father saw no picture of that scene of horror, only a momentary sense of
misery that faded into unreality as another memory flashed into objectivity. A sickly child
wrapped in a black shawl on an untidy bed in the London lodging that was all the home he
knew, till he had gone to spend a summer at that magical palace in the north, where all was
clean and orderly and wonderful.
Poor boy! He had volunteered reluctantly because he thought it was his duty. The
very idea of war was repulsive to him; it seemed unnatural. He had never dreamed of killing
anything, nor of fighting; that too was unnatural. But if it was his duty he felt that he must go.
His father had told him always to do what he believed to be his duty, and not to worry about
success or failure. So he had gone; and the end was only what was to be expected. But the
certain knowledge of the fact made his father realize that the boy was gone for good.
Hitherto, though he had been away in the colonies for the last twenty years, he was
always likely to come home some day; but now - ! Well, now he seemed to be there in the
room sitting on a little stool by the fire playing listlessly by himself, as he used to do.
Twenty years of colonial life had made a man of him, perhaps, though his letters were
still boyish, almost childish, to the last; and now no picture of the man rose up before his
father's mental vision: it was the child he saw.
There he sat looking into the fire, just as his father had been doing when that letter
came, but he did not turn to look at the old man in the armchair - the child would not have
known him perhaps; twenty years had changed them both. And yet not so; for, as he sat
there, the artist was back in the body that he wore when the dead soldier was a child. Time is
a deluder - or rather he is himself but an illusion, and can be made to adapt himself to man's
imagination. Time, indeed, may be but another name for man's imagination. Clock-time is
artificial: real time is infinitely variable. Truly it was said "a thousand years in Thy sight are
but as yesterday." The true seer is the divine Self, in whose sight eternity may be a
panorama inconceivable to the mind of man. So the years can fall away in a moment, and
pictures of an almost forgotten past may roll by as naturally as they did when they were
presenting themselves for the first time, - if there ever is a first time in that eternal drama we
call life.
To the mind of the artist many pictures came and went, but the little boy did not grow
up into a man. It was as though the dead soldier had been but a make-believe, a fancy
imperfectly realized, that had gone to pieces in the storm over there. But the child sat here by
the fire dreaming unutterable things; memories too, perhaps, and wondering at the misery of

life that had so often shut out all its natural beauty. Once he looked round at his father and
smiled. And the old man remembered that he had not kept his promise - the only one he ever
broke to the boy; and that was to take him for a day out in the woods of Epping Forest, where
there were wild corners and strange glades, in the days before the place was made into a sort
of park, cleaned up, and drained, and thinned out beyond all recognition. Now it was too late.
The boy had never complained; he never did. But his father felt that he had failed on a point
of honor, and he began to wonder if it were indeed too late to make good his promise. He
leant forward to stroke the boy's head, and noticed that the door was open, and the sun
shining outside.
It astonished him for a moment, because he thought it was winter; but now there was
no doubt about it, the sun was shining out there through the trees, and there was no snow on
the ground. The dead leaves were dry and crisp, and the little boy was following a butterfly.
Down there in the glade a deer raised its pretty head and bounded off under the low branches
of the pollarded oaks and hornbeams, that are the peculiar characteristic of Epping Forest trees that for centuries were pollarded at regular intervals, but that now were left to grow
freely. Their gnarled trunks and weird polls seemed to be making fun of him. He smiled at his
own incredulity, and followed the boy out into the forest that he knew so well. The sun-rays
danced among the dry dead leaves that rustled at his feet, and a cuckoo called from a nearby
tree. He tried to reach the boy, but the butterfly went faster and seemed to draw the child
after, though not allowing itself to be caught.
Then there was a whirring overhead, that was not made by any denizen of the forest.
The air grew dark and the noise became a roar. Then came a shock as of an earthquake or
of a volcano in eruption, and the man dashed forward to save the boy. But he could not reach
him; the ground gave way beneath his feet and sucked him down, while the darkness closed
over his head. He struggled to be free, and called, but no sound came. His head was
weighed down and he made frantic efforts to raise it. Suddenly he awoke, alone in the silent
studio.
He tried to remember what had happened. The room was cold, and the fire almost
dead. There was a letter on the table, and the lamp shone on it. He could read it where it lay.
It told him that his son was dead. He knew it told the truth. And yet his son, his little lad, had
just been sitting there, and then had wandered out into the woods just to fulfill that promise,
and to redeem his father's word.
It was just like him to do that. His father's promises were sacred to him, and he
seemed to know his Dad would be feeling badly at having failed to do what he had promised,
so he came back himself to make it possible for them to have their outing in Epping Forest
after all. That picture passed and another took its place. Yet they were not like pictures, but
rather actual experiences relived.
Now he was back in his bedroom at the old home; and on the bed beside his own the
little lad was dying apparently of bronchitis; the cough was never-ceasing; every gasp for
breath became a cough that seemed to strike a blow upon his father's heart, until the pain
became unbearable, and he almost longed to lay his hand upon the little throat and end the
suffering.
It seemed to the watcher that the fragile body must be shaken from its hold on life, and
yet the struggle lasted; and gradually it was borne in upon the father's mind that the
imprisoned soul was longing for release. Then the feeble body seemed to lose interest in the
fight for life, and for a moment the issue of the struggle hung in the balance, and in that
moment he, the father, knew that his will could turn the scale. He longed to end the suffering;
but he could not let the child die. He would not let him go.
Within a little while the breathing grew more natural and sleep came. By morning the

fever disappeared; and the watcher knew that the boy would live.
Again the door of death had opened, and again the soul stood on the threshold. This
time he would not try to gratify his craving for companionship by hindering the process of
release. Rather he tried to follow; but his imagination could not carry him across the barrier
of life. His feet were rooted in the earth, he could not rise; but he looked up and saw the
darkness lighten. Beneath him flowed a river and under the dark water lay a body, such as
his own son might have grown into. But on the surface of the river was a boat and a man, the
double of the dead one, was stepping aboard the boat which headed towards the rising sun;
and one who stood by pointed towards the glory up to which a robed figure soared with
outstretched arms, escaping from the shadow-world of earth.
The man embarking in the boat seemed to be almost within reach, though hastening
towards some distant goal. Perhaps if called he might be hindered from embarking, held for a
while by the strong ties of human love and longing.
But the living man was silent. The pain of parting could not wring from him a thought
that might hold back the traveler to the other shore. No word was uttered even of farewell:
but the heart spoke in the silence, and its message was a valediction.
The pictures passed; and with them went the sense of solitude and dull regret, and all
that yearning for companionship which seems to be the inevitable accessory of death.
The pain of parting lost its poignancy, and gradually was merged in the calm
confidence of unending life. Time seemed to be but the slow dropping of the stream of
individual existences into the lake of Universal Consciousness, in which the rushing river of
life at last found peace in the fulfillment of its destiny and a return to its source.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 23, no. 4)
---------------The Visitant
- L. L. Wright
The young priestess stood solitary in the azure gloom of the temple. Without, night
was falling over the ancient opulent city of pleasure, in the center of which stood this marble
zone with its altar of perpetual fire.
Sounds of awakening revelry throbbed against the cool walls of the temple and stirred
a reluctant pulse in the watcher at the shrine. Pictures of festal processions, of lighted
palaces bursting with music and laughter, invaded the sanctuary of her thoughts. Not desire,
not temptation, but wonder and questioning - curious, uneasy doubts awoke the fever in her
mind. For where, in the face of idol-worship and profligacy and cruelty, lay the meaning of the
august pageantry of her sacrificed womanhood? Twice seven years of devoted service lay
behind her youthful feet as they stood here patiently before the altar. Tradition told the tale of
centuries of such virginal lives, countless as the stars of midnight. Yet tonight the waves of
lawless self-indulgence beat like a measureless ocean against this pearl of purity imbedded in
the city's mud. Wherefore and to whom this age-long sacrifice of youth and womanhood?
Upon the altar a clear flame bloomed and waned in the dim milky luster of engirdling
marbles. Flecks of gold and cerulean blue winked from dome and fretted cornice. Before the
lofty treasure-chest, which inshrined the sacred vessels and the seven holy symbols, hung a
veil of cloudy purple like the very curtain of the night.
The priestess awoke from her reverie. Slowly, with the measured beauty of the temple
ministrations, she set alight, one by one, the candelabra of massive gold.

Night wore on, and silence, the peace of the gods, flowed at last about the temple
precincts. As she kept sleepless watch and ward before the altar, she was aware - when the
night grew deepest of a growing prescience in the air. What seemed a soundless rhythm
welled up from some near but invisible source and inundated the silence. Fragrance, fresh
and forest-sweet, swept about the place, and in its breath the lights paled and fell. A hushed
and expectant twilight held alert her senses.
Slowly, in the space between the treasure-chest and the altar, there grew the tall and
gracious figure of a woman. Deep-bosomed, wide of brow, flowing with ample draperies that
glimmered like foam within the gloaming, she fixed the mystic quietude of her divine regard
upon the kneeling maiden.
Reverent, yet unafraid, the priestess lifted her eyes. With heart beating deep and full
in sacred awe she gazed with yearning into the wise, sweet, fathomless eyes of the goddess.
The Presence spoke. Her voice, musical as the cadences of falling waters heard afar,
rose and fell in the dimness.
"I am Hestia, the Spirit of Home;
"I am Woman, treasury of the divine fire in the heart of humanity;
"I am Motherhood, the guardian and guide.
"Within me lies the well-spring of eternal being;
"My heart knows the far deep goal of this, my pilgrim people.
"I am Hestia, the permanent, the pure;
"Against my white, ineffable flame the hot vapors of passion and selfishness roll their
vain dissolving mockeries. They change, increase, and vanish. I endure.
"I am Hestia, the stainless, the eternal."
Silence, like a benediction of deeper harmony, followed her words. Night throbbed
around them. The flame on the altar burned like an unwavering prayer.
Then rose once more the largo of her voice.
"Oh daughter of a vanishing race, forget not that the light of your soul is the eternal fire.
The age changes. Yonder steadfast flame shall wizen and be quenched. Slavery of outward
shackles shall give place to the darker slavery of impulse and wandering desire.
"In those future days will the worship of Hestia be forgone. Yea, women shall tread in
the miry paths of forgetfulness. Motherhood shall fall well nigh to the dust. But, O child of my
immortal spirit! despair not at my words. For that dark and distant hour shall pale at last
before a radiant dawn. Then shall the souls of Hestia's votaries descend from the secret
empyrean of immortality to clothe themselves anew in flesh. And with you shall be reborn in
the race the inspiration to spiritual womanhood. Once more shall you set alight the sacred
fire
not alone upon temple altars, but upon the altars of your hearts and homes. And
seeing again the clear sapphire flame of your souls, men will turn once more to the worship of
spiritual truth.
"Then shall a new and wondrous motherhood spread its heavenly radiance over all the
earth. The golden age of childhood shall burgeon everywhere and a godlike destiny beckon
man forward to perfection.
"Be faithful then, O stainless Priestess of Hestia! Guard well the sacred fires.
Preserve a hallowed silence in your soul where I may speak and cherish you.
"I Hestia, Spirit of divine womanhood, bless and dedicate you to the service of the ages
to come."

Like echoes of remembered music the utterance died rhythmically away. The great
candles burned again in undimmed luster. Upon the altar the flame now rose and swelled
and trembled. Only the fragrance lingered, withdrawing gradually into the invisible chambers
of
the
air.
But in the heart of the kneeling maiden there dwelt the light of a new and wondrous
knowledge and the sacred sense of an immortal dedication.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 23, no. 4)
--------------A Life's Triumph
- W. J. Renshaw
The great meeting had been a success, beyond anticipation. The hall itself was
packed to the doors, and a large overflow meeting had been held at which the Great Man
spoke for a few minutes at the close of his main effort.
Momentous issues were at stake. He had surpassed himself, and none knew it better
than he. He had swayed his vast audience this way and that as he had pleased. Now
pleading with silver voice; now denouncing with brass notes; exhorting with a bronze quality
in his tone; now threatening with an iron ring, heightened to the clash of steel and the roar of
guns as he half unsheathed the sword of war; now only half-whispering while his hearers
hung tense and hushed to catch the faintest word - he used the whole scale and quality of
tone, and touched the whole gamut of human feeling. He had risen to the full height of
perhaps the greatest occasion of his career.
As the people crowded round at the end to catch a personal look or maybe a
handshake he smiled a little sadly.
After the meeting, driving home with his host and a few privileged friends, he felt a little
reaction, from which he was aroused by one of the party leaning forward and saying: "If I may
be permitted, Sir, I would like to say what a privilege I felt it to be to listen to you tonight. I
have heard you speak before, but never was I so entranced. I am sure I speak for everyone
in saying - Well, I congratulate you on having surpassed yourself."
He smiled, and commenced: "I thank you, sir. I feel indeed - " and then sank back in
the carriage with closed eyes and set lips. The journey was completed in silence, all feeling
that the Great Man was tired and in need of rest and sympathy.
How he got through the dinner, with its speeches and congratulations, he could not tell.
None of the party suspected the truth, as he was eloquent and witty and charming in his
response to what seemed an endless and unnecessary stream of unmeaning words. A final
congratulation from his host on being shown to his room almost set his teeth on edge, but
with an effort he replied graciously, and was left alone.
What was this stifling, nauseating feeling that threatened to overwhelm him?
He went to the mirror and regarded himself steadily. He knew his own face well. It had
been part of his study to develop and regulate its every expression. But now it returned his
look - with a difference. He knew he had been within an ace of making a fool of himself in the
carriage. How it would have come out he did not know, but what he had been about to say
was - well, some foolish boast or other in the intoxication of the moment.
There was the little demon hiding, ready to raise its head, and for a moment or two he
fancied it was returning his look and grinning at him from the glass.
He did not retire. There first, in front of the glass, and afterwards, with the lights

switched off, sitting on the edge of the bed, or rising to his feet, he strove to pierce to the very
depths, and to rise to the heights of his nature.
"The world's greatest Orator" he had been called; "master of them that speak." And
yet not master of himself! Humiliating? Yes! and No! What was the meaning of it? Was he
really master in his own house? or had he but polished up one little corner of it? And how far
would that carry him?
He thought of his own countrymen, of the teeming populations of the world, striving,
toiling, living for the most part patient, humdrum, humble lives. What did he know of all that,
but to coin a few ringing phrases? And were they not, albeit unconsciously, also treading the
path of mastery - or failure - in more ways than one, maybe? Truly, this myriad-headed dumb
mass were simple-minded, simple-hearted, or how could he and his like, with their partial
mastery of one or other gift, which it was their chief pleasure to exercise - how could they so
easily sway these; and where were they leading them?
This very night he had been leading them to the verge of war! And for a moment he
had yielded to flattery and felt vainglorious about his undoubted ability. 'Undoubted'? Yes!
There the gift was. But how was it being used? Could it not be used in a nobler direction?
Peace? Yes! But Peace was not enough. It was ignoble peace that led many well-meaning
people to believe in war as a tonic. All the great wars had developed in a state of peace. But
had there ever really been a state of peace in the world at large, for long; or indeed in any
single nation? What was peace but another method of unending war? Social competition,
class against class, creed against creed - it seemed as though humanity were blindly
wandering, running amok every now and then, in the darkness of ignorance. And small
wonder when such as he, who could do almost what he pleased with them, had no more real
knowledge than they; only a little more polish, and vastly more assurance. On what was this
assurance founded? Certainly not on knowledge; for had he not just been convicted of the
profoundest ignorance?
But there must be knowledge. Human destinies should not be the sport of 'blind
leaders of the blind'! Blind! That was it then - blind! To have realized that much, might be the
beginning of more; perhaps even some measure of vision.
Hour after hour he strove, putting silent questions to the enigmatic silence and
darkness which enmeshed him; searching with an agony of earnest faith that light there must
be, and for help for a blind world. Warring schools, sects, opinions, speculations, passed in
rapid review before his heightened consciousness, only to be tossed aside as the froth on the
waves of human life. The resources of his brain and memory were taxed to the uttermost.
On, and still on - somewhere beyond or within lay the open door he was searching for.
Now, though he knew it not, his temperate, balanced life, his unfailing tolerance and
brotherliness, the supreme mastery he had made of his one gift, the desire he had always
had to aid his fellows, to lead them in sincerity only where he was driven by his intensest
convictions and loyalties - all these stood him in good stead while he battled onward.
Then came the knowledge that the whole fight was in himself, and he saw clearly that
mastery of one thing was only one step, a small one, on the - on the road. What road? Then
he seemed to remember, or to hear a voice saying: "Thou canst not travel on the Path before
thou hast become that Path itself."
Then the door he had been searching for opened before him, and he passed through.
What went on there is beyond telling. It has been suggested, hinted at, symbolized,
throughout the ages of man's pilgrimage. But the beginning of it was a great Peace, and
Light, and Joy.
What then of his great gift? More need for it than ever now. In the Hall wherein he had
entered he saw written many things, among them:

"The power which the disciple shall covet is that which shall make him appear as
nothing in the eyes of men.... Before the Soul can speak in the presence of the Masters its
feet must be washed in the blood of the heart.... All gifts are won, all conquests are achieved,
but to be laid on the altar.... Except ye become as little children ye shall in no wise enter the
kingdom.... "
When they went to call him in the morning he was lying on the bed, fully dressed, with
a smile on his face that awed all beholders. The afternoon papers came out with big
headlines:
Tragic End of World's Greatest Orator.
Dies Happy on Night of Life's Triumph.
The leading article spoke of the great tragedy, the irreparable loss to the nation and the
world; the pity of it, the waste, the irony of it. The wonderful smile on his face showed that he
had died happy, satisfied with his last and greatest achievement, his life's triumph.
The soul that had passed on had indeed achieved a life's triumph, for more than
mastery as we know it. Henceforth all royal powers were open to it, to be used in the service
of humanity. It had passed through the portals of life into knowledge, and light, and joy, with
the power of reopening those portals and bringing his knowledge and power back with him for
the making of a happier age on earth, for the ending of ignorance, and strife, and war, and the
beginning of truth and brotherhood.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 24, no. 2)
-------------The Victory
- Kenneth Morris
Evening in the Pass of Bnah; sunset, that had been an anthem or an agony of color
over the capital, waning now; though the far snow-peaks eastward still shone roseate and
ambered in the anti-glow, and on the hillside above and to north of the pass, where the king
stood, some mellowness of the dying splendor remained. Below, on the grim battle site, all
was gloom and obscurity. The silver fifes of Arthrobaun - music sad or gay as the ear should
hear it - cried through the dusk; and at their weird shrillness the grave plumed warriors came
up the slope and gathered about their lord. This was to be called the day of all days in
history; what had happened, it was to be supposed, was that the Gods had broken miracu lously through the veil of things and made their might known, and made what we should call
inevitability ridiculous; the empire, art, science, ancient wisdom - all human achievement were saved; though to say that a few hours since they had been despaired of is to say the
very least that can be said. There would be no realization of it yet: the king Pha Hedro and
his warriors were battle-weary, and the marvel of the event too great to understand.
You are to think what narrow straits the world had traversed that day in the Pass of
Bnah. History shows. Here was an empire, Arthrobaun, with quite universal dominion: the
king's writ running from the Sea of Sunrise to the Waste Waters of the Sunset, and from the
Desert of Ghosts northward to the very foothills of those Mountains of Calamity
"where no man came,
Nor had come since the making of the world."

Some part of that great territory Pha Hedro himself had gathered in; none of his
ancestors but had won something. They had been a line of strong conquerors and judicious
rulers since the dawn of time, you may say; since the mythological ages; fifty generations of
kings deriving from that Pha Arthro-with-the-Spear who, emerging from the mountain and
from the God-world, went forth world-shaking and world-redeeming in the beginning. He was
divine, and his forebears not human; and truly his descendants the Phas of Arthrobaun had
had something of divinity in them, and were not to be reckoned with common men. Back to
their immortal place of origin, the prophecy was, that royal line should return at last: their
work and their cycle completed, the gates of the hills would open for them, and they would
ride again in triumph to their shining kin; the last of his race to be a memory and perpetual
inspiration in this world, and an undying sovereign in that.
So religion declared; but in these latter days religion itself had stood confounded
before the terror of events. The White Infliction had come: invaders out of the eastern sea
without ruth, truth, or human nobility; priest-led, and their priests grim sorcerers before whose
cruel magic everything until today had gone down. No valor had availed, nor the strong walls
of cities; it was not known that even a single one of the strangers had fallen in all the many
battles that had been. So that morning, religion or no religion, prophecies or none, the king
had ridden out with his clan, and no least doubt in his own or any other mind that he himself
would be the last of his line and yet would die like a common mortal before evening. Nothing
else was to be imagined, nothing better to be hoped; none that rode out to the Pass of Bnah
were men to be taken captive. And meanwhile, so it was well arranged, the queen and her
ladies in Cararthro would be seeing to it that no prize there should await the invaders. They
were to worship the Gods with all ceremony during the morning, and then apply the torches
and make of the burning capital their own funeral pyre.
But now, in the face of all possibility, the Gods had shown their power, and not one
planned or expected thing had come to pass.
It was a very noble company that gathered now on the slope: the king's cousins, of the
divine race of Arthro; all tall, well-made and blemishless; an ancient firm-chinned aristocracy,
aquiline and clear-cut featured, men accustomed to rule. All, too, splendid with rainbowcolored plumes and jewels, so bravely had they arrayed themselves in the morning for the
sacrifice that, in the event, had not been and was not to be made. And a change and
accession of dignity had come upon all of them that day. Since they had come forth upon a
forlorn hope, to vindicate hereditary glories by dying: as men who had done with fate and the
world, they had come forth singing and not without gaiety; now, as men to whom the might of
the God-world was made known, they had put their gaiety by, and were silent. The doom they
had looked for had given place to a prospect wherein was no shadow of apprehension nor
any imaginable thing to fear; for that day not one but all the armies of the invaders had come
against them, and now there was utter stillness in the gloom of the valley, where the noise of
the invaders had been.
And as for themselves - here was the arch-incomprehensibility - it became clear as
they gathered that they had not even a single loss to mourn. What winged chariots, what
flaming coursers unseen, must have ridden through the gray air on their side with them: what
shafts and spears invincible, from immortal squadrons there drawn up or charging, must have
flown! They formed their ranks now, and there was no gap anywhere; it was only the enemy
had disappeared. As if no battle had been, no wound received; as if the last months had
been a nightmare from which now they were dazedly awaking. And yet heaven knew they
had fought....
They had fought; and, surely, as men never had fought before since the beginning of

time. Not more bravely, they meant; in courage there is doubtless an absolute which men
perhaps in every generation attain. But this fight had been wholly mysterious.... Well; one
had to consider the magic of those sorcerer-priests: a very great deal to consider indeed.
For in no mind or memory of all those warriors would ends meet. They remembered things
that simply had not happened. Obviously not; - were they not all there in the dusk on the
hillside; all there, and all scatheless? But what hideous power had been with those dead
sorcerers (dead of course, the Gods be thanked!) to produce such illusions! For even now
one could not rid one's mind of the impression Of the hopeless beginning of the battle, and the physical nausea produced by the first
sight of the white men - hideous, long-toothed, pig-eyed, little-headed mighty masses of
brawn and disgusting ignobility; - of the five hundred there were of themselves in the midst of
the narrow pass, and in front a great tide of this human (if so to be called) beastliness
swinging up against them, and overflowing and pouring down on them from above on either
side; and shifting and changing deliriously; and withdrawn again and again while the white
storm of their arrows drove in among the proud plumes and jewels; - and of the gay deathhymn the Arthroanion went into battle singing - the haughty war-song of Arthro-with-the-Spear
- growing fainter and fainter with the silencing of voice after voice; - and of seeing the men
one loved (who yet now were standing unharmed on the evening hillside beside one) pierced
and falling; and of a sharp shock and sudden bitter keenness sometime during the furious
day, and a momentary drifting of all things into indistinct confusion, - whereafter straight came
the knowledge that in some miraculous manner the victory was won. And there were a few
great lords who, they thought, would carry with them until death or beyond it memory of the
agony of a certain moment - strange that what was looked for and well foreknown should be,
when it came, an agony! - but they had hoped, and this was all they had hoped, not to survive
their king....
Well, but the victory was won. God! how mighty the Gods were!
Who, too, had caused the torches in Cararthro to be withheld; they knew that. News
of the victory, somehow, had been taken to the city; and news of the city's well-being had
returned. There was no concern about that. But they were spent with battle a good deal, and
would not march the three leagues back that night. Food.... had been brought in somehow;
what they needed of it; - their need was more for rest. But not there in the open, lest there
should be straggling bands or even only single fugitives of the white men prowling, capable of
a murder or two of the sleepers unless many sentinels were set. Above, some hundred yards
up the hillside, was the great Cave of Bnah; where with one at watch in the entry, they might
sleep secure. They had, of course, no plan made in advance; the dead need none. But this
now seemed best to Pha Hedro.
How the white roses on the slope - the wild white roses, - and how the moon-blooms of
the magnolias shone! There was peace.... What perfume was loosed on the sweetness of the
mountain-night air.... there was peace, and there never would be anything but peace! And
now, from beyond the valley, and peopling it with melody, with heart-beats and throbbings,
with trills of harpstrings and gushes of laughter, a bird broke into song. The world was indeed
saved, and the dear beauty of the world perishless. Ah, how mighty were the Gods!
At the mouth of the cave a sudden thought struck Pha Hedro, and he smiled - for the
first time, surely, since the trouble began. - "You see," he said, the prophecy is fulfilled."
"The prophecy, Sire?"
"Here is the last of the House of Arthro returning into the mountain," said he.
The word was passed back, and what with the reaction from all they had been through
and the realization of peace that the bird-song and the bloom-breath brought them, they all
laughed very heartily at the king's joke.

II.
Now I am to tell you of the end of Pha Hedro's reign, and of the coming of a new king.
The Hall of Council in Cararthro shone like some very stately crown high over the city.
A great rock, quite precipitous, rose some four hundred feet above the level of the streets and
squares; on the summit was this hall, four-square, with its lofty delicate pillars, its opal dome,
its four gigantic carved lions at the corners: a sacred place for the Arthroanion, and as it were
the inmost high altar of the empire. One broad flight of steps carved and built out on the
northern side of the hill, and flanked with great marble gryphons and wyverns and sphinxes,
was the one means of approach. It was a place only entered by the king and his council. No
guard kept the stairway; and for that matter the rock itself was not beyond the power of man
to climb: an athlete, for a wager, might have done it at more places than one. None did, nor
ever had done. Of old, fear of the law and its efficient ministrants no doubt had been the
deterrent; but now, in this golden age that dawned on the Day of the Great Victory - the Battle
of the Pass of Bnah - no law was needed beyond men's natural good will to keep them
joyously to their own duties and business. In the Hall of Council only the king and his Five
Hundred had business; so none else came there, nor desired to come.
That guardless inviolability was characteristic of the age. Compulsion and all its
symbols had vanished. Since the Great Day they had grown into desuetude; for many
centuries now they had been unknown altogether. The impulses towards disordered doing
had gone; men were quite unlike what they had been. Philosophers thought those White
Invaders that had so nearly wrecked the world had been but the manifestation and
phenomenal embodiment of the evil in man; and one was forced to think there was much in
the idea. They had not seemed human; had inspired unnatural terror and disgust; then the
magic interwoven with every circumstance connected with them - their own unclean sorceries,
and the white miracle of their destruction - was well known. Beyond all, there was the change
that had come on human nature since. Passion had died extinct; peace had come in; now
disease and fear were forgotten; death itself Well; this is not to say that men were immortal, exactly. But one wondered how it was
that of old one had counted seventy years a longish lifetime, and feared the end of it, and
mourned the dead. Death now was so rare; few accepted it before ten or fifteen centuries of
bliss had been their portion. And then always after becoming possessed by a strange
restlessness and impatience of serene things: a kind of new boyhood, in which the spirit
heard a far call and incitements to stirring action. To die was called, to take the Gallant Road,
or the Path of Splendid Adventure. Men went forth and were no more seen; they left no
ruined casket behind to be given to the earth or fire. There was little speculation as to afterdeath states, but the whole matter was understood to be something brave and gay; the dead
to be held in honor, and death to be taken joyously when the call came.
For example, when Pha Ferbaun, the king's son, died, Pha Hedro wore it as a new
dignity, and glowed thenceforth with an increment of spiritual uplift akin to pride. It was
characteristic of the age. Men felt like that about their dead. None knew why; it was simply
the natural reaction.
Pha Hedro by the grace of the Gods still reigned in Arthrobaun; and since Pha
Ferbaun was gone, and there was none else of the royal line to succeed him, it was to be
hoped, and indeed thought, that he would ever continue to reign. For he was a man - you
could not think or speak of him unmoved. Life, a grand poetry, chimed from golden season to
season; and he, for all mankind, stood at the center and heart of life, the whole graciousness
of existence seeming to flow from him. Pha Arthro-with-the-Spear, Pha Hedro-with-the-Wand-

of-Peace - Pha Hedro of Bnah, the God-loved, the Victor: these two, the Beginning and the
End, were the heroes the Arthroanion loved: the Opener of the Age of Iron, and the Opener
of the Age of Gold....
By whose virtue, men said, the purple anemone bloomed on the hillside; the daffodil's
grace in the dale; the tulip and the narcissus under the olive-trees. And in the pine-woods on
the mountain, by the sun-steeped crags up-jutting, wandered often visible, night-dark tressed
and gold-fire bodied, the Princes of Ether, the Gods of the Sun. The shepherds of the
uplands saw them in the cool dew-glistening mornings; the huntsman held converse with
them in the dreaming noon; the plowman in the fields sang for a worshipful Companionship
that went with him the length of his furrows. Presences strange and beautiful glimmered at
any time through the veil of things. In the city Cararthro - that white rose of alabaster petals,
that pillared crystal and wonder of time - there was none so ungifted with vision but often,
looking afar, on the blue horizons of afternoon, or trailing among the intense stars at midnight,
might see the marvel of marvels, the vision the wise desire: might see the glint and silvern
fire of the Dragon's wings. It was wonderful to think of the days of old, before Bnah and the
Golden Victory, when we only believed in the Gods.
And all this beatitude, men knew, was in some sort dependent on what went forward in
the Hall of Council, - twice daily, at sunrise and at sunset, when the king and the Five
Hundred met there; these last being of course his fellow-heroes of Bnah.
What did go forward was, quite simply, the chanting of poems; nothing more
mysterious than that. The hall, within, was a vast place open to the winds; a floor of manycolored polished porphyry; a roof of jade and onyx quaintly carved and chased resting on
slender pillars, upwards of a thousand of them, that radiated out from the central space
beneath the dome. In that circular central space they used to gather; the king's throne was
on the north - so he sat with his back to the great stairway and the entrance; five hundred low
seats of ivory, like broad benches, arranged in a single circle, were for his companions. Thus
every approach was well in view whilst they were there, and none could have entered the hall
at any point and come within hearing unnoticed.
It was there that affairs of state had been discussed in the old times; but since the Day
of Bnah all that was done with. There were no affairs of state now; and this of poemchanting, it was known, was a better method of government than any discussion could be.
There was no secret about it; but all the Arthroanion were concerned to keep it aloof and
private, knowing that that harmony, in that unbroken atmosphere, was the real maintenance
of the harmony of all their lives. They too, as far as was possible, kept an attitude of alert
silence, as listening, during those daily hours; which indeed many throughout the empire
would themselves give to poetry, and purge their own being and unite themselves with the
Council by chanting the poems that were being chanted in the hall. Especially on the
anniversaries of the Great Day; then, the custom was almost universal.
So on golden wings the untroubled cycles flew and fled: there never would be change
in this golden beautiful world.... Dropping from the sunbright wings of Time, down-soft, radiant
centuries fell. And then an anniversary came when the momentous happened, and change
came....
It was evening, and the council was in session; the richness of the setting sun mellow
on the white pillars and glorious on the opulent tints of the floor. The poem they were
chanting was, of course, the Song of the Battle of Bnah. I shall not attempt to transcribe it:
the grand vowels of the Arthroaeg and its rolling gutturals and liquids are not to be reproduced
in English, and without them the magic is gone. All the battle is there told: the minor key and
despair at the opening; the solemnity of the dedication of heroic lives changing through
moments of keen pain, acute tragedy, into the grandeur of the sound of invisible chariots, into

the sweep of dragon wings, the onslaught of august victorious God-squadrons; - into the
serenity of an evening beyond all evenings, the outpouring of a bird's song prophetic of peace
that might only slowly grow to be understood.
They had come to the acme of the tragic part, where the poem tells how the last-left
elders saw the arrow strike and cried The King is down! - when, quite suddenly, they saw that
on Pha Hedro's face which arrested them. It was a light of wonderment, a glow of strange
pride, a fixed gaze upon a point just beyond the circle, and immediately opposite to himself.
Thither all eyes followed his; to see standing there a stranger. Tall, noble-seeming, haggard,
well on in years; the garb scanty and tattered, and of a fashion quite unknown; the face
drawn as in pain; the eyes glazed somewhat, and without speculation. The very ghost of a
man; and yet obviously real, of flesh and blood like themselves - though at first they were not
sure of that. And, obviously, familiar; and yet, not to be recognised.... at once; - though one
could be positive that the king recognised him.
He was speaking, and in the Arthroaeg - but with a difference; as of some dialect from
the far provinces hard to catch at first - but from what province? But there was something in
the whole apparition that compelled silence, even mental: a surprise and apprehension not to
be explained by the mere presence of a stranger. They began to make out what he was
saying in that somniloquistic voice of his:
"It was the Song of Bnah; my poem, that I made for my broken people. I heard it in
the midst of.... that" - this word long delayed, and spoken curiously, with horror, with pitying
contempt - "and came.... And came. For I know that that poem cannot be killed. They have it
by heart; they sing it in secret, in the mountains. Their rising may be crushed this time; but
the song will keep the people from sleep. White men, you may kill me; ah, what if I am
already...."
Pha Hedro's tears were falling, though a glow of immense joy was on his face. It
chanced that some two or three saw it, and looked from the king to the stranger, and back....
and then they saw through the puzzling familiar unfamiliarity of those haggard features, and a
whisper went round, "Pha Ferbaun, the king's son!"
As if it had reached him, the stranger lifted his head, advanced a little, into the circle,
some faintest quickening perhaps fleeting over his eyes. "Ferbaun," said he; and then,
doubtfully, "Frebahn.... Phaw Frebahn...." He seemed to meditate over the name, uttering it
many times with that strange dialectic pronunciation, or sometimes, brightening, in the right
Arthroaeg of the court and capital. Then, shuddering, and lapsing into the glazed look: "Yes,
I am Frebahn the slave, the son of Hadro the slave; Frebahn the Arthro, whose forebears
were kings! Three thousand years since; but the spirit of the kings is alive again and my
people are awaking. They have heard the Song of Bnah that I made for them, and the years
of your tyranny are numbered!"
The ripples from that moving a certain confusion in the minds of the Five Hundred. "Hush!" whispered the king; "let my son awake slowly...."
He moved forward sleep-walking and stood with bowed head as if listening intently,
under the center of the dome; they, standing all around, but leaving some little space clear
about him, silent, and their thought poised in suspense, and not yet falling to a conclusion.
Then he slowly raised his head, and his eyes were caught by the king's, and all the glazing
and the far look and shadow went from them, and light of recognition came; and he lifted his
arms in invocation, and with face beatified cried
"Thou appearest to me in dying! Thou Slain in the Pass of Bnah, and reigning now
among the Immortals; Father of the fathers of my fathers, grant the slave who sang that he
may die and make no sign, that my death may seal the redemption of my people!"
The king had his arms about his son's neck. "Ferbaun," said he; "Ferbaun, my dear

son!" Then he turned to his companions the Men of Bnah. - "Yes," said he; "that is what it
means!" The laughter in his eyes communicated itself to them; and while Pha Ferbaun was
waking from his 'terrible dream' they were fain to laugh a little to themselves; it was so
strange to think that they were . . . what once they would have called the Dead; that they had
been - as the saying was - slain.... that Great Day.... in the Pass of Bnah.... The whole
meaning of it was not yet to be recognised, even by the king. But something glowed in his
and their consciousness that had not been there before: a strange restlessness and
impatience of serene things: as it were a new boyhood, and a far call audible in the spirit,
with incitement to stirring action....
(Theosophical Path, vol. 25, no. 2)
-------------Mirror and Moonlight
- Sors Dilya
High up in the midnight sky, the big feathery cloud that hid the Moon suddenly sailed
away, and the full, round lamp shone out among the stars. The flood of moonlight swept over
houses and fields and highways and byways, and fell in little soft splashes through the
swaying tree-tops on to the shadowy ground beneath. It poured out over everything in city
and country, on the rippling lakes and flowing rivers and far, far out to sea.
Now it happened that on the corner of Observatory Street, in Homeopolis, the
moonlight poured through a high window and came up against a fine, tall Mirror.
"What is this I see?" it cried out, startled.
"Keep calm, my friend," said the Mirror. "I am only showing you yourself. I am the
Mirror, you know, a distant relative of yours in the Reflector-Family."
"Yes, yes," said the Moonlight, brightly. "How fortunate to find you. Don't mind my
paleness it's not fright, - only my complexion. I never thought of seeing myself, always being
so busy helping people to see."
"Glad to have your company anyway," murmured the Mirror. "I'm a bit lonesome this
evening. It is rather jolly of you to drop in, so that I can reflect the Reflector."
"The jolly joy is all mine," returned the Moonlight politely.
"I see you make light of more things than the night-hours, Madame Luna. Let me
congratulate you on the good use you make of the Sunlight. Some globes would wear dark
frowns if they had no personal bank-account of brilliancy, and had to do business on a capital
of borrowed gleams. It is a pity that the Shiners' Union limits your working hours. It is
awkward on earth when you are off duty. And the way the Almanac blacks your eye then
must be bad for you too. I wonder someone does not get out a patent for canning moonlight.
It is about the only thing down here that has not been put up. But tinned stuff is never as
satisfactory; so if you could keep going right through the month, it would be such a
convenience, and still give you lots of time for rest and day-dreams."
"Excuse me, Miss Mirror, but that shows your one-sided view of things. You ought to
go up in a balloon or an airship, and then look around and up and down and over and across,
to develop your perspective muscles. I supposed you had learned in the Moonology Primer,
when you were a mere midget of a Hand-glass, how I stay on duty every minute. It is the
stupid Earth that gets in its own light - though I hate to admit it.
It is so dense that even the Sun cannot shine through it, and it is not happy enough to
give any light of its own. It is no petty Union but Universal Law that regulates the industries in

Skyland. As to Time - well, now, you Earthlings make me smile. Why, bless your bright face,
the Moon is the old Earth's Primitive Progenitor in the cosmic genealogy. The Earth was my
baby, some few aeons ago. It wasn't a tar-baby, either, as you might think from the black
shadow it casts on me; it was a soft, floating, fuzzy-wuzzy mass of beginning stuff, at first,
with no solid bone or firm skin to it, at all. But for all that, it had to live its own life and learn
how to grow up, just like any baby must do. But being my only child, I have always followed it
up, and do now, though I am so old and used up. Little by little, all my live interest was
centered in my child; and though it has rocky ribs of mountain-chains and a thick skin now,
yet its responsive emotional ocean-nature still thrills twice daily to the tie of kinship."
"Dear me!" said the Mirror, "I had no idea you were so old. You are not credited with all
your years in any heavenly 'Who's Who' in the scientific library."
"That's the trouble. Now in the very beginning - the time that Earthlings vaguely refer
to as the Ancient Days, - they knew about the baby and its mother. But the child seems to
have inherited periods of darkness, when it forgets and blunders along through dark ages,
before it moves on out of its own light and begins again to see more of the forgotten light of
Truth. It is hard to see your own child so afflicted. Why, the dark of the Moon is not even a
sample of the periods the Earthlings spend standing in their own light, where they can't see
where they are, or where they came from, or where they are going. Then they make up all
kinds of stories about themselves, and invent all sorts of ideas and isms and dogmas and
delusions, to peddle around and pretend to believe. None of these really satisfies anyone,
because there is a live spark of heavenly light hid in each heart that only feels satisfied and at
home when blended with the great Sunlight of Truth, which always shines and always will."
"Ah, now I begin to understand from these reflections you cast on mere brainbrightness, how learned ignorance comes from knowing too many things that are not so.
That's a new idea for me to reflect on. You know, it seems to me as if the more people talk,
the more mixed they grow, and they act as if they could settle things by proving them to
someone else. Personally, I am helpless to change all this, or to start any new way of finding
out things. I have to stay where I am put, and can only show what is brought before me."
"You are right about the Brain and the Tongue; and when the World was young, infant
Humanity knew that even the "Mind is like a Mirror; it gathers dust while it reflects. It needs
the gentle breezes of Soul-wisdom to brush away the dust of our illusions," they learned. You
see the Mind can only reflect what knowledge comes before it, just as you report the
appearance of things, whether they are right or wrong, and as I only reflect the light that falls
on me. But that spark of Wisdom hid in the human Heart is Knowledge itself. Heart-Light
actually is the Sunlight of Truth, being a child-ray from the universal parent that knows
everything intuitively, without having to reason things out. All of my Life and Light have been
put into my one offspring to help it find its way; but I must admit the Earth-child is backward,
and is not aware of all that is within its nature. Still, sometime, I hope - "
"Please do not go yet."
"I must go, much as I would like to stay. My time here is up. If all goes well, though,
and it is clear tomorrow night, I'll see you just an hour later," and Madame Luna slowly
withdrew, softly trailing "the garments of the night" across the room and over the windowledge.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 25, no. 3)
-------------The Apples of Knowledge

- Kenneth Morris
This is the story of the rise of Gonmar, - imperial Gonmar, mistress of the world at one
time, though no broken fragment lies in any desert now to record the eternal fame of her great
Ozymandiases, kings of kings. But there were many of them; and they were longer lived of
renown than Sesostris or Semiramis or Nimrod. - Nineveh and Babylon and Thebes; the
Medes and Persians, and Macedon; Rome, and then Spain, and England: we think we have
heard of some great things in empires. Tush! in these last five thousand years it is but the
pale ghost and echo of the olden thing that time has known. Tramped their phalanxes never
so far; thundered their legions never so loudly; broke the loneness of whatsoever seas their
haughty innumerable galleons: - there were those that went before them that were mightier
than they, and dominated vaster regions with a more emblazoned pomp. Of which lost
splendors among the mightiest was this Gonmar; that lay midmost of the world, and swayed
in its heyday - some twenty thousand years - all earth's continents and promontories and
islands: no king reigned anywhere, but had his crown, and leave to live from the King of kings
in Gomnar. But of all that I shall say nothing: here is but a tale to tell from days earlier yet.
From days before Gonmar had risen to those heights of power; and long before the world
was circumscribed as it is now, and with boundaries set to everything.
Enough to say, then, that at one time there were those two kingdoms, Targath and
Gonmar; each so powerful that there was no room in the world for both. And we may
surmise (man being man) that each was the 'champion of human liberty,' and the 'protagonist'
or 'guardian' 'of civilization'; and that each had long cultivated a 'manifest destiny' and a some kind of colored - 'man's burden'; that each loved peace profoundly, and was
determined to end war forever; that each was extremely conscious of its own inherent (and
intense) righteousness, and regarded with horror the abysmal wickedness - the ambitions,
cruelty, perfidy, and designs - of the other; with whom, indeed, - no doubt, in order that
freedom, culture, and generally the human soul, might be preserved, - it had been at war,
more or less all down the centuries, and very much so during the last ten years. The date of
all this? I will be accurate: B.C. to the power of n. In that precise year the Druids decided
that, coute que coute, the war must end; and took their steps accordingly.
So much for introduction; now you are to think a year and a day passed since they
took their steps; and to look out upon the sea beyond the rim of the world, and to behold, in
the midst of that sea, the island-mountain Tormathrannion, the Mountain of Wonder, lapped
round with foamless turquoise waters. The sun is westering; the lazy wavelets flicker and
sparkle, and, for the roar or whispering of the keel-cloven oceans of earth, breathe up a
murmur of tune, harp-like or bell-like: the sleepy sea crooning melodies out of the great
satisfaction in its heart. As for Tormathrannion, it is all creamed and foamed over with
blossom, glowing in the mellow radiance of late afternoon; and the perfume of the blooms of
its roses and magnolias is over the sea for leagues around. Reinaak the Valiant, king of
Targath, breathes it as he leans against the prow of the dragon boat that draws so swiftly,
from the east and south, towards the mountain, and gives himself up to a tumult of exultant
thought.
Beyond doubt, he thinks, his quest is near an end. If there is any Mountain
Tormathrannion - as holy religion declares there is - it is that mountain yonder; and there on
its breast, at a thousand feet or so above the sea-level, those stars, those rubicund diamonds
and strange flashings of topaz lights, are the fruit on the Appletree of Enlightenment, which he
has but to taste and the world is his. For he will know all that is to be known, and man nor
god able to withhold secrets from him; and with such knowledge in his possession, who shall
stand against him? Nor Bortin king of Gonmar, with all his stubborn armies; who shall pay,

now soon, for his iniquities.


With the thought of Bortin his mind is quickly in a whirl: the name is flame touched to
the powder there. That man! - who robbed the world of peace.... whose wild ambitions....
whose vile cruelties!.... Five million warriors, the flower of Targath, slain since he, Reinaak,
came to the throne, because that doomed man could not rest with what he had! But not
unavenged: the Gods be thanked, cold hell was peopled with some five million or more of the
treacherous Gonmariaid. And they should have their king with them soon; ay, they should
have their vile king with them! - He devised ugly deaths for Bortin, and wished that there were
speed with the dragon boat.
After all, why weary his mind with such thinking? There was no doubt of it: how could
one doubt that mountain looming up from the sea like a burst of grand music - like a sudden
shout from the Sons of God - like a proud signal to the skies? For days he had known he was
on the verge of another world, holier and more mysteriously beautiful. Let him fill his being
with infection of it, and hate grandly and calmly, unperturbed. The Sea of Storms was long
passed - no longer had the dragon boat to spread dominating wings over waters obsessed
and raving, and beat down for itself a narrow path of peace. No longer the black billows rose,
on this side and that, with demon faces grinning and howling, and impotent clawed hands
swung out to clutch and tear. Quiet was here, and low bells tinkling in the crisp of the
wavelets, and wandering spirits, beautiful as flowers, that rose to glide singing along the
ripples, and vanish; - beings shadowy as evening, shot through with apricot and violet
splendors of the sun. Here one was half a god already, immortality thrilling through one's
being at its work of transmutation. Let one hate as the gods do, without anxiety.
Even the Nine Rowers of the boat - those mysterious silent kings of Faerie he had
been with a year and a day since his druids with their magic evoked them from their
customary commerce, the portage of the dead, to carry him beyond the limits of the world, even they, he thought, had changed a little in these new august surroundings. Though they
were silent still, and as ever seemed unaware of him, a light had grown in the inscrutable
blueness of their eyes; the dark flame that embodied them glowed more richly; the stars that
twinkled and vanished about their heads shone with a larger rhythm. For here was Mountain
Tormathrannion within the borders of the World of the Immortals; the light and odor of the
Apples of Tormathrannion thrilled all the air of these wonderful regions. One breathed here as
the gods breathe, - confident, equal-hearted with the stars: let one's mind be without
perturbation, one's hatred - For that matter, why hatred at all? Or one might keep the sweet
of it and let the bitter go by. The bitter was gone by; for there was no uncertainty now, nor
lack of power. Of course he would crush Gonmar. Knowledge being power, he, having all
knowledge, would be all-powerful: the world would be his, and there should be peace in it.
Severe so far as Gonmar was concerned; gentle for the rest of men. For Gonmar was the
one thing that spoilt the beauty of the world; or Bortin of Gonmar was, the root of Gonmaric
wickedness. He should be punished; slain; in an exemplary manner, to make ambitious
peace-breakers tremble forever.
With long oars the Nine Kings drove forward; the melody of the wavelets grew always
sweeter, their glitter and jewelry more magical. Now the boat was between the long arms of
the bay, and the pearl-dim sands of the shore shining in quietness near. Glory, honor, power,
dominion should be with Targath forever and ever: with Targath; with the Superior People;
the one race on earth that knew how earthly affairs should be ordered. No anthem that was
ever sung so thrilled, so surged, so fountained splendid as now the soul and the blood in the
veins of Reinaak: were there dragons between this and the tree; were there furious lions, or
spirits armipotent assembled, it should go hard with them all, he thought, but he would come
to his goal.... magnificently come to his goal. So with sword drawn he leaped from the boat,

and never glanced back, but passed the shallows and the wet sands and the dry, and by the
path up between the cliffs began the ascent, of Tormathrannion. There were no dragons
there, no lions; no armed spirits opposed him. Through the quiet of primeval worlds; through
a foam and over-creaming of roses; by thyme-sweet hollow and bluebell gloom, and knolls of
azalea, magnolia, rhododendron: he came up at last to the level space where the Tree grew.
The sun hung low in the heavens, and all the waters ran silvery and golden and
liquescent rainbows, and the sky was a mute music of the colors of the dreams of God. Trunk
and boughs and leafage of the tree stood out against those gleaming wonders; and the three
ripe apples he had been given to know would be there shone as large and luminous as the
low sun, but with richer, rosier crimson. They were translucent, and odorous, and pervaded
the evening; no least breeze stirred any leaf or twig; the hush of God was upon the world;
the far-crooned melody of the sea no louder than a heart-beat. Glory, honor, power,
dominion.... Bortin king of Gonmar, tremble on your throne! On tiptoe, quiet as the stars with
exultation, he came to the tree, and plucked an apple, and ate.
And the hush broke into sudden music, and he was aware of all Cosmos and its
systems as song. The ground on which he stood, and the tree, and the wide shining waters
and the sun and his own being, were but the overtones and echoes, the far pulsings and
ultimate vibrations, of a song. Myriads upon myriads of constellations, outward and outward
and yet within and deeper within, - the music of myriads on myriads of Singers, themselves
the music of other myriads on myriads. Above, around, within him, lo, worlds upon new
worlds: existing, springing into existence, waning away like the dying notes of a song; and all
tossed up into life, and held static in tensest motion, by a keen intoxication of delight. Eternity
burned in every moment: no atom of time but was pregnant and vital with the whole. The
glory of the sky was within him; the low sun squandered its beauty from some not remote
region in himself. He was the gleaming sea, and he was the mountain; he was the Tree of
trees and its magical fruit. The knowledge that inhered in those apples flowed out from the
center of him through the infinite channels of his conscious thought.
Gradually particularity and defined vision grew: phrases, rhythms, and motifs became
distinguishable in the paean that is time and space and the luminous greatness beyond. The
sea, that had seemed empty at first, was gemmed with many islands; but they were like no
islands in the world of men. Each was as a crown of million-colored jewels shone through by
a light more exultant than the sun's. And each was clear and familiar to his vision, as if he
moved bodily in the shadow of its trees. What august, shadowy-shining beings, all of gemhued flame, dwelt in the glimmering peace of them! what calm all-seeing eyes! what majesty!
Even the thought in their minds he could see: it was peace, and the joy of God; the songstream outflowing from the Center, whose foam is visible creation and the sentience of
existing things. He remembered that there had been trouble and darkness: a non-knowledge
of himself: that he had emerged from some crippled chrysalis existence wherein all things
had seemed other than now he knew them to be. - He had never glimpsed his own being until
now. What wonder, what glory it was!
He remembered Targath, and how he had puffed himself up with lordship over that toy!
And Gonmar, and how he had lashed himself with desire of it; and made his desire seem to
himself the ambitions and greed of the Gonmariaid. How worthless now were Targath and
Gonmar, and all the glory, honor, power, and dominion that might be enjoyed in them! Better
to be least in yonder islands, than to hold haughtiest monarchy of the whole human world.
Least or greatest, in yonder islands he would be. He would never recross the seas he had
traversed; but leave the Targathwy and the Gonmariaid to their warfares and folly, and dwell
there where peace was, and wisdom shining-eyed with beholding the ultimate things.
But even as that desire came on him, he knew it incapable of fulfillment. Never,

embodied, might he reach the islands: which were the reserve and holding of the immortal
dead. No; he must go back and re-assume his kinghood; that grievous burden must be
taken up again. Were it not so, he perceived: were he, living, not in his place at his work,
there would be a note in the song left unsounded, a flaw in the immense design which is God.
But knowledge constantly grew in him: he would go back, and bring peace and news of what
he had seen into the world; and naught else could ever be so well worth doing. For more
and more, as his vision cleared and settled, the peace and the song and the delight of God
became also cognisable as war, growth difficultly attained, continuous meeting with and
triumph over resistance. Ever and ever, he perceived, at the rim of things cherubim and
seraphim did battle. The Center being peace, the circumference was necessary onset and
expansion; and on that circumference, the place of honor, the principalities and powers that
fought, the thrones and dominions that pushed forward, were the Souls of Men, the obscured
princes of beauty.... With them, with them he would be! He would come with all knowledge
auxiliar into their conflict, a harbinger and turner of their courses to victory. Swift now be his
footsteps down to the sea-beach, and to the dragon boat that should bring him back into the
world!
So he turned; and in a dusk still radiant, saw the boat in the bay, and approaching.
The same boat or another: shaped like a dragon certainly, and with nine kings of Faerie
rowing. He had no time to ponder that; for there at the prow, where lately he himself, stood
now one who, of all the possible inhabitants of all possible worlds, he knew to be Bortin king
of Gonmar, the man of all mankind whom he - , Hated? The word came into his mind, and
puzzled him; the sound of it was familiar, but the secret of it gone. How in heaven's name
could one look on.... the like of that.... and not be stirred to love - and compassion?
He watched him come to land and cross the bay and begin the ascent; but with eyes
much more for his mind than for his body. For there, coming up the path in the twilight under
the early stars, was.... himself again; or it was the extraordinary glory of the universe, the
beauty of the worlds without end; a god crested in the heavens with plumes of constellations
and stellar fire. But himself, deprived, hemmed in and in anguish; the glory and the beauty
dimmed with oblivion; a god pierced through with a poisoned arrow, absorbed in the agony of
a little fire that burned with much smoke and stench in the lowest reaches of his being. And
every throb or fume was as it were words visible for Reinaak to read; thus: "That man!.... who robbed the world of peace.... whose insatiable ambitions.... whose
vile cruelties.... Five millions, the flower of Gonmar, slain since I came to the throne of my
fathers; because a fool lusted to mimic demigod conquerors of old. But not unavenged, the
gods be thanked; cold hell is peopled now.... "
And so on. "Poor heart of a god!" thought Reinaak. "But he will eat the apple, and
know; and all this mortality will be cured." Then it flashed upon him that indeed mortality was
like that; and in the world the minds of men we're so suffering or liable to suffer. And he
himself, while he was human - while a man's body was on him, - of the world of men
inescapably he would be, - part and parcel of it, flesh of its flesh and spirit of its spirit; and all
that misery, that eating disease - possessed he never so much of wisdom and joy - would be
a thorn in his heart and a great load on his shoulders until - . Heavens! how could he bring all
mankind to this mountain, and feed it with fruit of this tree - on which never at any time were
there more than the three ripe apples? One he had eaten; and one was for Bortin of
Gonmar; what should it profit them to take back with them the sole apple that would remain,
that one man of their choosing, and only one, might eat and be wise? What could they do, he
and Bortin - "You here, king of Targath?"
- "Brother, brother, I rejoice that you have come! Now can we - "

- "Ay, we can." Bortin's sword was drawn.


- "Pick the apple quickly, my brother; and - eat! It will - "
- "Your sword! your sword, Targath! Draw, and quickly, before I - "
- "Sword? Draw?" With all his knowledge he had never thought of this, and smiled
with surprise at the strangeness of it. "No, but eat the apple, dear brother, and - "
- "Four times this 'brother,' insolent! Dog, will you draw?"
Then Reinaak saw what would be, and laughed a little at the impasse and because it
would be happy to be dead; and sobbed once because of the great sorrow he could not
prevent; and put a hand to his sword-hilt to draw and break the vile thing if he should have
time; but had not time; Gonmar was quite insane with hatred; and in a flash the thing was
done.
Bortin wiped his blade on the dead man's cloak and resheathed it. It was ten years too
late in the day to try tricks with him. Had he but turned to the tree; had he lifted a hand to
pluck the apple, Targath's sword, he knew well, would have been in his side and Targath's
laugh of triumph in his dying ears. He went towards the tree; quite carelessly, for there was
little to be gained now by eating the fruit. He had attained; he had achieved the purpose of
his voyage; his druids had been night. He had gone as they had bidden him go; and now his
enemy was dead, and he had but to take in Targath at his pleasure. Still, religion was
religion; and it said that this mountain was, and this tree, - and the apples on it, so and so
and so and so. And anyhow, apples quenched thirst.... He plucked one of the two that hung
there, and ate....
In the song, in the joy, in the great glory of the universe, one flaw, one rift and discord;
one wound, that ached; one poison-spot spreading anguish through the whole: himself, and
the thing he had done. Ah, Targath! my brother! my brother!
........
The world was quite filled with his renown, and even his subjects in Targath came to
love him. He was a better man, they said, than poor hate-racked Reinaak their own last king.
There never was a wiser monarch, men said, than Bortin the Founder of the Empire; nor,
heaven knew, a kinder or juster or more friendly. Nor indeed, they added, a sadder.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 25, no. 4)
--------------Bluen Blossom
- Hon. Nan Ino Herbert-Cooper, Baroness Lucas
The whole world was glad in tender green and fruit-blossom; every leaf and grassblade spread the fullness of its life to the sunlight; a warm ripple of life stirred in the grass
around Penedri's head, and the trees dipped in the wind above her. It was the last great
triumph of Spring, and as she listened, Penedri heard the soft hum of the myriad voices from
all the growing things around her rise stronger and stronger and then break forth into one
great wave of song that swept all through the Forest, leaping from wood to wood and from hill
to hill like a fire of music, kindling as it passed the inner life of things.
Then Penedri's eyes, piercing through the maze of greenness and song, found a misty
inner world of faint forms and figures, the inner thoughts of all growing things.
From out of that dimness there came toward her shadowy figures of old long-robed

men, and beyond them a cavalcade of knights. Slowly they gathered about her and quietly
they talked amongst themselves. "It is the maid," said one. "She who was the Priestess of
Tre-Ogis when we were still as men. Ah! little daughter, thou wert the child of Spring then, a
child of pure white blossom, that knewest the voices of woods and didst keep thine altar-fire
burning. But thou didst choose to be like unto the Spirit of the Ages and cross the Mead of
Bluen Blossom to search the deeper ways of Summer and leave thy life of simple wisdom. All
is as thou wouldst have had it; and in repayment for thy choice thy wisdom has gone from
thee, and tomorrow thou shalt become the wife of a King, with jewels to thy head and riches
to thy hand."
"But I know it all, the memory is still mine," cried Penedri fiercely. "And I will not be
wedded,.... I will come back to thee. Now.... now.... this living moment."
"Child, thou madest thy choice many lives ago. Abide thou in that choice!"
A cloud was passing over the sun, and a shadow fell across them; and looking up they
saw far away in the depths of the sky the Spirit of the Ages pass from the Fields of Spring into
the Meads of Bluen Blossom. "She passeth even as thou hast passed, into the ways of
Summer, O child who wert once of us. Come, O Brothers, back into the dimness - our day is
passed - we are forgotten!"
And with those words they left her and passed back into the green of the Forest once
more, and Penedri looking up saw again the great figure in the sky passing down the last
blue-flowered slope and reaching the heavy shade of the Summer-Woods.
Ever since Penedri first lay down that morning on the turf a change had fallen on the
land, the fresh exhilaration of Spring was gone and the voices of the Forest came in the
deeper tones of Summer.
"She passeth even as thou hast passed," repeated Penedri; and she rose to follow the
path that wound away to the Palace. And as she rose a leaf of silvery green fluttered down
from her hair and she caught it and caressed it, then gazed with wondering eyes, for at her
touch it throbbed and quivered and then was lost to sight and then came once more, as faint
and elusive as that Inner World she had seen; and then Penedri fell upon her knees with a
sob of sudden joy, for there within her hands was a tiny dream-like child - a child only seen by
her eyes, only known to her heart.
"They told me that I had forgotten, lost, or thrown aside, the wisdom of those earlier
days," she cried, "but it is not so, for is not this the flamelike spirit of wisdom come back to
me? Is not this faerie child the voice of that Inner Wisdom I had near forgotten; is it not the
memory of those sunlit days come back to my heart once more, come back in faerie form? Is
it not the Star of my dreams come to lead me onward to higher, better things, who yet shall
teach me to read again the life that is all around me, the wisdom of woods and winds and
stars? My heart has searched in blindness and yet even so has found. Once more will I be a
child of Spring.... and yet and yet what were the words? 'She passeth even as thou hast
passed.' Oh sorrowful way, thou art mine! There is no life but the life of sorrow for me. Oh,
my Dream-Star! guide me even in these the heavy woods of Summer," cried Penedri, the
tears falling fast; and rising she crossed the glade of fading bluebells and passed into the
woods beyond, carrying the Star-Child with her.
For seven weeks the wedding-feasts were held at the old King's Castle, and folk said
such joyous time had never before been known among common men; but long before the
feasting ended some said the young Queen was drooping and her eyes were growing dim,
and when the weeks had turned to months the Queen was no longer young to the eyes of her
people. She passed on the ways of her life like some silent shadow - like a dimly colored
shadow of the stately, silent Queens of the moldering tapestry that lined her Hall. And

wherever Queen Penedri went, there was the unseen Star-Child whispering to her of the
Ancient People of the Spring, of the rites and temples of the olden days, of the great White
Spirits and the silent speech of all the things around her, till the Queen sickened for her
freedom.
And then of a sudden great changes came for all one bitter month; the young King,
Penedri's Lord, fell ill and died, and the Queen sickened and lay exceeding near to death.
Light first broke when word was spread throughout the kingdom that an heir was born, but
even then men feared that the Queen must pass away, following her Lord.
All through those long succeeding days of her sickness the Queen lay calling, calling
for the flowery deeps of the Bluen Mead, and crying to the Child of Dreams to cool the aching
of her heart with the light of its starry eyes.
But at last the fever ebbed and the Queen crept back into life, a life that filled from hour
to hour with a thousand strange new hopes and joys and tender cares. "There is but one sole
aim left me," pondered Penedri, "for does not the whole of my strength belong to the little
king? For what else have I been drawn back into my life but to guide him in his helplessness
and hold the land in keeping for him?"
And so she took her place once more in the old throbbing world of regal cares and
courtly pleasures, seeking in vain to lose her sadness in her joy of the little king, hurrying from
her queenly duties to find peace and safety in gazing on the child. Yet even with eyes and
heart thus strained upon him, that little shadow from the Spring Woods lay next her heart and
filled her life with its murmurings.
As the Spring drew near the Queen would lie for hours with her baby in her arms
gazing out across the lands, and her waiting-women wondered that such great unrest should
be gathered in her eyes.
"Thou canst not forget me," sang the shadow, "for I am more nearly a part of thee than
even thy child. Spring is coming, coming, and the woods are whispering in their new life.
Turn and listen, O Summer-Queen, and come back - come back again."
And with the words a little fluttering breeze came up from the wooded valleys that
stirred the deepest yearnings in Penedri's heart and brought tears from her heart. "I am not
strong enough," she wailed. "I can no longer remain torn between the two. Oh, Spring, that I
might come with thee! . . . that I might choose again and live thy life! But I have chosen, and
I have passed the Bluen Meads. My child and I yet must wander in these woods."
........
The Queen, winding her mantle round her, sped out into the misty night. "Oh night of
the sorrowful wind, I am come, I am come, I am free!" she whispered faltering through the
dew-wet grass. "Oh Spring, I am with thee once more, I am alone with thee and thy children
this hour, even though my way lieth not with thee . . . for I am lost in the Woods of Summer.
"Take thy child once more, take the star of my life quickly, for I cannot wait, I have
chosen and must abide my choice . . . take him from me while yet I have the strength of my
word. Oh far-spreading Spirit of Night! Oh Stars so great with tears! Oh fresh green things!
Oh dew of the Night! Oh Innermost Spirit of Wisdom! Take back that which thou gavest. Oh
wait, and linger yet a little longer, for I will win back to thy side though it be not till twice ten
thousand years have passed. Oh that I too might come and retrace my steps through the
Meads of Bluen Blossom! - But I may not. Farewell, oh dwellers in my heart!"
And the Queen laid the shadowy child in a bosom of fern and turned away that her
aching heart might see him no more, but the tears choked her and she fell and lay amid the
dew-hung flowers, sobbing forth her sorrow to the night. Softly, softly, the peace of the

silence fell around her like the falling of dew, and hushed her to sleep, and then there came a
figure blown like a waft of moon-lit mist among the trees, that bent and kissed her on the
brow.
And in the early morning, when the frightened huntsmen came searching through the
Forest, they found the still cold body of the Queen, resting amid the flowers, and a little tender
leaf clasped in her hand.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 28, no. 6)
--------------A Mad World
- Percy Leonard
"Unbrotherliness is the insanity of the age." - Katherine Tingley
"'Tis a mad world, my masters." - Shakespeare
In a bright summer's morning, high over shining rivers, snow-capped mountains, and a
vast checkered plain, a radiant presence newly-come from Venus suddenly appeared. His
godlike form of purest ether cast no shadow, for the sun-shine glanced with undiminished
brightness through his clear outlines.
Sensing a new arrival, one of the viewless guardians of the Earth, impelled apparently
by sheer volition, glided aloft, and waited with respectful deference such as is due to one
arriving from a planet more advanced. As in a detailed landscape painted by a master-hand,
the European countries lay in extension far below, and the visitant hung poised at such a
dizzy altitude it seemed as though he only had to gaze with fixity at any given spot, to have
the details suddenly enlarge before his eyes.
Thus calmly stationed in the cold clearness of the upper air, they watched the tiny
figures as they moved beneath. Many were occupied in building houses, others were working
in the fields, and as high noon advanced the smoking factories poured forth their crowds of
busy workers, blotting the streets from view with streams of moving specks.
South of the Polar Cap of snow lay forests of dark pines, where the tall trees tottered
and fell beneath the strokes of Scandinavian woodmen. Loaded on vessels, the huge logs
were carried south, while from the warmer climates fruits and spices, olive-oil and silks, were
shipped to the inclement regions of the north. Workers in factories were making shoes and
clothes for toilers in the fields; and garden-produce, hauled by straining horses, could be
seen converging slowly towards the swarming populations of the towns in friendly interchange
for articles of luxury and use. In the wide range of strenuous activities lying outspread before
their gaze, mishaps occurred from time to time, and it was good to see how tenderly the
injured, carried on stretchers or supported by the friendly arms of comrades, were conveyed
to hospitals and tended with the greatest care.
Some picturesquely tinted with the soil in which they worked, were making trenches to
reclaim a swamp, while others in industrious gangs were laying out superb and spacious
pleasure-grounds for public use. Rivers were being spanned by bridges, piers rose from the
tossing waves, lighthouses slowly reared their tapering shafts toward the sky; while over all
the sunshine poured, and fleecy clouds threw shifting shadows on the varied scene.
"What is the meaning of this restless hurry and exertion?" asked the visitor. "What
motive urges on the denizens of Earth to such toil?"

"Sire," answered the attendant, "our humanity is so defenseless and so frail, that if it is
not draped in woven fabric, sheltered by masonry, and frequently supplied with nourishment,
it very soon would perish from starvation and the cold. To keep themselves supplied with
clothes, to build them shelters and provide their food, unceasing labor is required; so that the
vast majority of Earth's inhabitants pass almost all their time in work. That group of men
engaged in dressing stones and then arranging them in box-like form are building houses, for
lacking such protection they could never manage to survive the bleak, inclement weather
which prevails on earth at certain seasons of the year."
A narrow, sandy neck of land upon the far horizon-line was being cut to give a passage
for the shipping of all nations out of the landlocked southern sea, to Asiatic ports.
"That," said the stranger with a pleasant smile, "will be of profit and advantage to the
shipping of the planet as a whole. These dwellers on the rind of Mother Earth appear to live
in perfect amity, presenting an unbroken front against their common foes: famine, exposure,
nakedness, and the results of accident. In course of time I make no doubt that the whole
planet will become a pleasant place of residence. Concerted action to resist the forces that
oppose the human race and to develop Nature's fathomless resources for the good of all, can
hardly fail to bring about the end in view.
"But what are those extended lines of men striding across the field? Marching with one
accord they turn now to the right now to the left, and stop with such precision, one would
imagine that their movements were directed by a single mind. Why are they thus allowed to
take their pastime while the others are at work?"
"These are our soldiers," said the guardian with some confusion, "and their function is
to force the wishes of the people of one place upon those who dwell elsewhere, or to resist
such interference on the part of others. Within those metal tubes they hold, skilfully blended
chemicals are changed to gas all at an instant, and the force thus generated is employed to
drive lead-pellets into the bodies of their brothers, often resulting in their death."
The visitor from Venus had allowed his mind to wander from the point before the
explanation reached its close. It struck him as so palpably absurd that he imagined that his
ears had played him false, and wishful not to trouble his informant by persistent questioning,
he let the matter drop. The lengthening shadows and the gold and purple glories of the
western sky, gave timely warning of the close of day, so with a gesture of farewell and as it
seemed in a rosy glow that issued from the region of the heart, he shot aloft and vanished in
the still, blue depths.
Part II.
Some decades passed away and once again at a high vantage-point below the
windswept sheet of cirrus cloud, a visitor from Venus checked his impetuous descent and with
a penetrating glance gazed on the landscape as before. The faithful guardian from beneath
again ascended and remained attentive by. Humanity below was in state of fierce activity,
destroying like a foolish child what it had labored to produce.
Great cities, shattered by explosives, poured forth their crowds of terrified inhabitants,
running for shelter from the falling bricks and slates. Grain in the wheat fields, now long overripe, was shaken from the rustling ears with every breath of wind. Turnips and beets plowed
under by the wheels of field-artillery; forests transformed into bare mountain-slopes of
blackened stumps, and flattened fields of barley strewn with the dead, lay in the ghastly
clearness of the morning sun. The waterway cut through the isthmus was now choked with
the desert-sand and all humanity seemed dominated with a common fury to destroy itself.

Peasants from widely distant points who formerly had worked to serve each others'
needs were now drawn up in line of battle with intent to kill. Aircraft were letting fall
explosives of high power that shook the air like muttered thunder as they struck on palaces
and towers below, converting noble structures into heaps of stones and clouds of flying dust.
Huge battleships, a maze of intricate machinery, the fruit of years of patient toil, were lifted in
the air and scattered in contorted fragments all around, while human trunks and limbs fell
through the murky air like dreadful rain upon the sea.
Astounded and amazed, the visitor inquired how it had come to pass that Earth's
inhabitants had been surprised by extra-planetary foes, and who were the invading powers.
"No foreign enemy intrudes upon our globe," replied the guardian with a sigh. "The
human race has simply turned upon itself, its separate members rending one another even as
madmen tear their own flesh. These many years they slowly reared a social fabric intricate
and strong, then of a sudden they become possessed with fury and destroy the work of their
own hands."
"I had imagined," said the visitor, "that Earth was the abode of men endowed with
reason; but it appears like an asylum for the deranged."
"In sober truth," confessed the guardian of the Earth, "our people are not wholly sane
nor ever will be till they realize and act in harmony with Universal Brotherhood as Nature's
fundamental law."
Saddened and shocked past all expression, the illustrious visitant withdrew; not, let us
hope, in horrified disgust, but to devise some scheme for helping those who seem so
incapable of managing their own affairs.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 29, no. 2, Aug., 1925)
--------------The Treasure
- Ralf Lanesdale
Hafiz the fruit-vendor was discontented with his lot, for he felt that he was born to fill a
bigger place in the world than the one that he had fallen into. He fell into the position of fruitvendor more by chance than by design of his own; it was a distinct fall in his eyes, though it
was a fall from most profitless ambitions to a practical subsistence for himself and family. So,
on the whole, it might be considered a soft fall from the clouds, such as some soaring aviators
of other lands and other times might envy. Still he was distinctly dissatisfied, and his family
took note of the fact; they could hardly do otherwise, for he never spoke of anything else
when he was at home.
This habit of complaining caused his wife to think that he would be better for a change
of occupation; and, for herself, she was prepared to submit to parting from her lord for a
space of time, feeling herself quite competent to provide for the family, if only her husband
were out of the way. So she had a dream. It happened so; and she accepted it as an
answer to an unspoken prayer. The dream was simple, and she hastened to tell it to her
husband. It was a promise of wealth to be had by making the journey from Jerusalem, where
they were then established, to Cairo. No more; but then it was a definite promise, no vague
allegory, that might be read in several ways; it was quite plain; and she made it clear to Hafiz
that no difficulty would be put in the way of his leaving home provided that he returned
wealthy. Nothing was said to indicate any desire on her part that he should return with undue
haste, or that he should return at all, unless he acquired the promised wealth and brought it

with him.
So Hafiz set out on his journey and in due course arrived in Cairo. It was natural that,
as he was about to become a man of wealth, he should treat himself with proper respect, and
he did so. The result was that his money was soon spent, and, though he made many
inquiries as to the most likely means of securing wealth with ease and celerity, he was not
able to see that his chances were any better in Cairo than they had been in Jerusalem.
Naturally he drifted again into the business of a fruit-vendor, and in that capacity he
met many men like himself, men who felt that they were destined to some great career but
were temporarily compelled to adopt a humble mode of life.
To one of these he confided with some preciseness the nature of his hopes, and was
laughed at more scornfully than he thought necessary or becoming. The other explained his
laughter by saying that he himself had dreamed a similar dream last night, but he set so little
store by dreams that he would make his new friend Hafiz a present of the wealth he had
seen. Then he proceeded to details, and carefully described the treasure that he saw
concealed beneath the floor of a poor house, which he also described minutely.
Hafiz listened in amazement; for the description of the house and its surroundings
exactly fitted the one he had occupied in Jerusalem and in which he had left his family. It was
hard for him to restrain his astonishment and delight. He was just as sure of the truth of this
dream as he had been of the truth of his wife's: and he lost no time in making arrangements
for the return journey. He managed to borrow enough money at enormous interest to enable
him to travel quickly; and he lost no time in going home, only stopping on the way to buy a
pickaxe and a shovel, with which he triumphantly entered the poor house he called his home.
It belonged to his wife, but he was the lord and master, and he came with such an air of
triumph that all the family waited open-eyed and open-mouthed to see the vast wealth he had
brought.
But Hafiz sent them all out of the house, even his wife, and went to work with the
pickaxe, so that the noise of the blows he struck could be heard outside.
Whereupon his wife and children set up a great lamentation, for they thought he was
gone mad and was wrecking the house. They called to him to open the door, they implored
him to stop demolishing their home, they wept and lamented so that all the neighbors came to
know what had happened. But one old man, who knew the former fruit-vendor and thought
him not such a fool as most men, asked all about the matter. Now when he heard of the
dream and of the journey to Cairo and of the sudden return, he said:
"Wait and see! Wait and see! There may be great treasures in a man's own house,
which he never knows of till he has gone abroad, and learned in some distant land of the
wealth that lies waiting for him in his own home. Wait, my daughter, and do not call thy
husband mad because he believed in thy dream."
So the woman was comforted, and called her children to her, and told them their father
was preparing a surprise for them. With that the children were soothed, and though they had
little hopes of any very pleasant surprise they did their best to be cheerful, only hoping the
house would be open in time for supper.
At last the noise ceased inside and the sun set, yet the door remained shut, and the
woman waited outside. The neighbors went home for supper and left them alone.
When all was quiet in the street, Hafiz gently opened the door and put out his head
calling his wife in a whisper. She rose at once and quieted the children; then Hafiz let them
in one at a time, as if he were afraid a stranger might slip in with them. When they were all
inside he bolted the door and embraced his wife and all the children. The floor was dug up
and a great hole was gaping in one corner, but it was dark. He lit a lamp and closed the
windows more securely. Then he uncovered a copper vessel, such as they had never seen in

the house before, and displayed to their astonished eyes the hoard of gold that the fruitvendor of Cairo had so minutely described.
Then the rejoicing began, and after that the supper; such a supper as none of them
had ever eaten before; though the food was precisely the same as that they were
accustomed to eat: but the sight of the gold gave it such a savor that it might have been the
most sumptuous repast. And the plans they made for the future were so glorious, that the
family already had forgotten their past poverty, and were enjoying the greatest of all joys, that
of anticipation.
Then the wife told Hafiz of the words of the old man in the street. "A man may have a
great treasure in his own home, and not know it till he has gone abroad to learn of its
existence and how to get it."
Then Hafiz looked at his faithful wife and his children, and he was ashamed to think
that he had made them all miserable with his complaints, when he had the treasure of their
love waiting for him to learn its value. When he thought of this he looked at the gold with
other eyes, it had less interest for him, and yet more; for he saw it in a new light. "Look!" he
said. "In that copper pot is education for the children. There in that vessel is help for our
neighbor, who lost her husband and can scarcely keep her children from starvation. Look!
how bright it shines, the gold that will save their lives and help so many. Look! it shines with
all the noble deeds you children will do when you have learned all that the schools can teach
you; but it does not shine as brightly as your eyes; and it is not as precious as your love.
No, the treasure I have found was here before my eyes, but I did not know it till I found that
copper kettle. So we will keep it as the most precious treasure, to remind us that our real
wealth is in our own home waiting for us to find it out."
(Theosophical Path, vol. 29, no. 5)
----------------The Turn of the Wheel
A Little Tale of Karma
- Bryan Kinnavan [William Q. Judge]
[Reprinted from The Path, Vol. V, No. 7, October, 1890.]
I.
He was the son of a small ruler in Rajputana. His father, of the warrior caste, governed
a district including several villages as well as his own small town with justness and wisdom,
so that all were prosperous and happy. The ruler was called a Raja; he lived in a building
made of stone, built on a hill that commanded the town. The son, of whom this tale tells, was
born after the Raja had been many years childless, and was the only child to whom the
father's honors and power could descend. He was named Rama after the great Avatara.
From the time he was born and until he could speak, a strange look was always to be seen in
his baby eyes; a look that gazed at you without flinching, bold, calculating, as if he had some
design on you; and yet at times it seemed to show that he was laughing at himself, sorry too,
melancholy at times.
Rama grew up and delighted his father with his goodness and strength of mind. The
strange glance of his eye as a baby remained with him, so that while everyone loved him,
they all felt also a singular respect that was sometimes awe. His studies were completed, a

first short pilgrimage to a celebrated shrine had been made very early by his own request,
and he began to take part in the administration of the affairs of the old and now feeble raja.
Each day he retired to his room alone; no one was permitted to come within three rooms of
his; and on the fourteenth of the month he spent the entire day in retirement. Let us go with
him in fancy to one of these monthly retreats and listen with his consent.
II.
The room is an ordinary Hindu room. Hard chunam floor, the bed rolled up in the
corner, on the walls one or two flat metal plaques inlaid with enamel and representing
different gods and heroes. He enters and goes up to the wall in front of one of these plaques
- Krishna. The strange look in his eyes grows deeper, stronger, and a stream of light seems
to rush from them to the object on the wall. His lips move.
"Atmanam atmana - " he seems to say; the rest is murmured so low we cannot hear it.
The words are in his own dialect, but in the mind of the hearer they translate themselves. He
says:
"This weight upon my heart is not from this life. I have known no sorrow, have lost no
object that I loved. My ambitions are fulfilled; the present is bright, the future shows no
shadow. When, O Krishna, shall I know that which I now know not, nor what it is that I long to
learn? Yet even now a ray of hope steals into my soul."
Just as he uttered the last words a ringing sound came from the metal plaque and
Rama gazed steadily at it. The plaque vibrated, and a subtile scent spread from it over the
whole room. The air seemed to vibrate slowly, undulatingly, and then a dazzling shape of a
young man seemed to form itself upon the floor, while the vibration centered in the form and
the scent turned into light. Rama looked steadily at this being who stood there erect and
terrifying, yet calm and strong with peace all about it. It was the calmness and power of it that
terrified. As Rama looked, it spoke:
"Do you forget the Upanishad, 'Two birds sit in one tree; the one eats the fruit and the
other looks on'?"
"No," said Rama, "I forget not. They are the personal and universal. The one who
looks on is my higher self - Atman."
"I am thy higher self. I come to tell thee of three words. Forget them not, forget not
me. They are: Action, Law, The fruit of action."
"These," said Rama, "I have heard. Action and Law I know, but the fruit of action, is it
that which eats within?"
The form of beauty replied: "It is the ignorance of it that hurts thee. Thou art bound in
thy future. This present birth of thine is to allow thee to make the Karma for thy next birth
better in the end, but which will be ever dark and painful if not now ameliorated. In this
present is thy future. Potential now lies the effect in what cause you make."
Then with one straight arrow-like glance into the face of Rama, the form faded, and the
plaque rang a note of farewell. Across the wall there seemed to pass a picture of poverty and
riches, of huts and buildings of stone.
Rama left the room the next day, and never after seemed to sorrow or to be annoyed.
His old father died, and he carried on the government for many years, scattering blessings in
every direction, until a rival raja came and demanded all his possessions, showing a claim to
them through a forgotten branch of the family. Instead of rejecting the claim, which was just,
instead of slaying the rival as he could have done, Rama resigned all, retired to the forest,
and died after a few years of austerity.

III.
The wheel of time rolled on and Rama was reborn in a town governed by the Raja who
had once in a former life demanded Rama's possessions. But now Rama was poor,
unknown, an outcaste, a chandalah who swept up garbage and hoped that Karma might help
him. He knew not that he was Rama; he only swept the garbage near the Raja's palace.
A solemn audience was held by the Raja with all the priests and the soothsayers
present. Troubled by a dream of the night before, the superstitious ruler called them in to
interpret, to state causes learnedly, to prescribe scriptural palliative measures. He had
dreamed that while walking in his garden, hearing from his treasurer an account of his
increasing wealth, a huge stone building seemed suddenly to grow up before him. As he
stopped amazed, it toppled over and seemed to bury him and his wealth. Three times
repeated, this filled him with fear.
The astrologers retired and consulted their books. The remedy was plain, one
suggested. "Let the King give a vast sum of money tomorrow to the first person he sees after
waking up." This decision was accepted, and the proposer of it intended to be on hand early
so as to claim the money. The Raja agreed to the direction of the stars, and retired for the
night, full of his resolution to give immense gifts next day. No horrid dreams disturbed his
sleep. The winking stars moved over the vault of heaven and of all the hosts the moon
seemed to smile upon the city as if being near she heard and knew all.
The cold early morning, dark with promise of the dawn, saw the chandalah - once
Rama - sweeping up the garbage near the palace where inside the Raja was just awaking.
The last star in heaven seemed to halt as if anxious that Rama should come in his sweeping
to the side of the palace from which the Raja's window opened. Slowly the chandalah crept
around in his task, slowly, surely. Slowly the Raja's waking senses returned, and as they
came a hideous memory of his dream flashed on him. Starting up from the mat on which he
lay, he rose and seemed to think.
"What was I to do? Yes, give gifts. But it is not yet day. Still, the oracle said
'immediately on awaking.'"
As he hesitated, the poor garbage-sweeper outside came more nearly in front of his
window. The setting star almost seemed to throw a beam through the wall that struck and
pushed him to the window. Flinging open the shutter to get breath, he looked down, and
there before him was a poor chandalah with waist-cloth and no turban, sweating with exertion,
hastening on with the task that when finished would leave the great Raja's grounds clean and
ready for their lord.
"Thank the gods," said the Raja, "it is fate; a just decision; to the poor and the pious
should gifts be given."
At an early hour he gathered his ministers and priests together and said:
"I give gifts to the devas through the poor; I redeem my vow. Call the chandalah who
early this morn swept the ground."
Rama was called and thought it was for prison or death. But the Raja amazed him with
a gift of many thousands of rupees, and as the chandalah, now rich, passed out, he thought
he smelled a strange familiar odor and saw a dazzling form flash by. "This," thought he, "is a
deva."
The money made Rama rich. He established himself and invited learned Brahmans to
teach others; he distributed alms, and one day he caused a huge building of stone to be built
with broken stone chains on its sides to represent how fate ruptured his chains. And later on
a wise seer, a Brahman of many austerities, looking into his life, told him briefly,
"Next life thou art free. Thy name is Rama."

(Theosophical Path, vol. 31, no. 6)


---------------Nineteen-Twenty-Six - Nineteen-Twenty-Seven
- Emmett Small, Jr.
I was toiling along the road as I had been toiling along it many a day, when I beheld a
tall figure with his back to the great dropping Sun; and I marveled that one should thus
wantonly turn his eyes from such glory, nor desire his soul to seek repose among the heavenflocks that roamed in the sunset-pastures of the West. And I hailed him, having in mind the
oddness of this:
"Who are you?"
"I am Nineteen-Twenty-Six. I am wise; tarry here with me, for I have lived long and
know much and can tell you all the secrets you wish to know."
And I looked on his face and thought it old and wisdom-tired. And so I held further
parley and sought to know why he did not move on but stood statue-struck in the middle of
the road.
"Look!" I urged, "there are great sunny stretches yonder where the grassy prairie-lands
laugh in the sunshine beneath the brooding purple mountains; and already the pageantry of
Evening is ascending from beyond the sea-rim, and soon Night will come riding in. Come on
with me; for I'll be hitting the onward road!"
"Ah, child!" he murmured, "you dream; and what you say is words I have heard on the
lips of other child-men caught in the webs of Dream. There is nothing beyond me. I stand
with my back to a great wall and all beyond is a depthless abyss. Stand here and face with
me the things that have been, for I am the end of all! I am wise, tarry here with me!"
And the while he spoke I looked on him, but his eyes seemed always to be fixed on
things beyond me as though I was of equal importance with the turnstile I had passed a mile
behind. His gaze was always on the past. And I, coming out of the past, had had enough of it
and wished to move on; for I could see the great fields ahead running out and stretching their
arms to the in-dancing sea.
And yet I thought that his face was good and old and wise. Surely I would be wrong
not to heed his words.... And he had said that there was nothing beyond him.... And so my
perplexity was such that I sought to see things as he did, and I turned round and put my
shoulder to his and saw the whole of nineteen-twenty-six.
And in this great backward sweep I beheld terrible, pitiful, degrading things; things that
could only have been born in the shadow of the Lost Self. And as they flashed by it was as
though all the Winds of Heaven had been exiled and were keening for their wandering souls.
And of what I watched I remember this: I saw a boy steal; and he was not the soul of
one, but the shadow of a million. And I saw him shut in a dark big house, and I saw Revenge
press through the bars and sup with him; and presently they stalked out together: and then I
beheld Murder, and it was not the murder of one, but the murder of a million. And I saw Death
clutch a million lives and I beheld the weariness of despair on the worn-out bodies of them all.
And I saw War slip in to the home of a family and sear its heart-ties with the fire of Ambition
and Jealousy; and it was not the hearth of one home but the hearth of a million that fell in the
flames that leaped up.
And I heard the words of the Old Year again - "I am wise: tarry here with me!" and I
shuddered that such sights should have fed the wisdom of Nineteen-Twenty-Six.

And then I beheld things that were splendidly and royally performed, things that could
only have been done under the aegis of the Higher Self, and they were as the breath of whole
fields of lavender and the lutings of a great company of lutists. And of these I remember an
Artist at his canvas; and here too, it was not the soul of one that spoke through his brushstrokes, but the soul of Many. But sorrow came over me when I saw his picture finished and
placed in a great gallery. For one of fame and importance in the world went by and stared
and did not understand; and it was not the Soul of one that could not understand but the
Ignorance of Many. And so I beheld the Musician and the Educator, the Poet - but I dared not
probe too far, for I had a fear of their passing by unrecognised as well.
So I stood there a while shoulder to shoulder with Nineteen-Twenty-Six; but I could not
feel that the Past was all: that it held the key to Peace. For as I stood there I had entered
into the hearts of a million people as they had pressed on towards the last day of the year;
and I found that those that looked only backward - no matter whether it was with pride or
pleasure or sorrow or joy or disgust or anger or gratified ambition or even aspiration to a
degree realized - I found that those that looked only backward were glutted with their own
self-importance, though some called it atonement, this which was really a gloating over the
Good-Evil of past actions.
Enough of the Past! I was sick of it! A great nausea swept over me and I could have
kicked over the Old Fellow into the abyss of nothingness he prated of as the All there was
behind him. Out of my way! Let me but taste of the Future and drink in great draughts of its
gold and sunshine. The Future - and I visioned the promise of nectared moments that would
glide unnoticeably into the Cup of Eternity, and my lips clinging to its rim, sipping, sipping....
And I swung out - (oh the Beauty and Glory I shall draw into my heart!) - and stumbled,
and the pale clay road reeled up to meet me as I fell, knocking over the tall backward-looking
figure of NineteenTwenty-Six; and together we spun through Space; and the dizziness of a
billion stars flooded us; and I knew not whether it was a moment or an aeon before cluster by
cluster, one by one blinked themselves out, and I swam up to Day again. For the air was all
music-strown and I caught the lilt of light laughter, and One leaning from out the Unseen
whispered:
There is no Past but what is as a dream of the Night, picturing battles and struggles,
victories and defeats; and there is naught of Good in it but what you fashion pure-flamed at
the Forge of the Present:
There is no Future but what is as a dream of the Day, visioning the Peace of utter
perfectibility; and there is naught of Truth in it but what you weave with the shuttle of the Soul
at the Loom of the Present:
But in the arms of Today lies the glow of endless Pasts, the gleam of eternal Futures.
Awake to the EVER-PRESENT!
- And the whisper rippled into light laughter again that lilted upward yet lingered half a
pulse-beat ere it paled into the pearl pavilions of Dawn.
- Or was I still balance-drunk and visioning clay roads like swords lightning-winged
darting about me? Was it truly an awakening?
And I marveled I know not how long, till I awoke to an awareness of my Companion.
He was standing there as before, but facing forward now in the same direction I had been
traveling.
"Who was that?" I queried. "What was that laughter? Whose was that voice?"
"I do not know," he answered.
And I, marveling still more, looked up, and cried out. Was this the face that had stayed

me but a few moments before, weighed down by its victories and weighed down by its
defeats, full-blown with its self-importance and deeming much a failure that was in reality a
success and giving a false value to what he in his poor perspective deemed advancement: a
blurred-eyed and tired old man with no vision but a backward stare? Was this the same, he
who had boasted, "I am wise"? . . . And I looked again, and indeed it was a face of youth and
radiance. Perhaps - perhaps....
"Who are you?" I demanded, not sorry nor glad, but longing for even just a little stick to
hold on to.
And the tall figure laughed. "I do not know. I am just born. I know nothing. - But look
how the dew has dropped into the heart of this little wayside flower and is sparkling and
trembling there. What happiness they share!...."
And so with the birds singing, and both of us but half-guessing the trick that had been
turned; but glorying in the Simplicity of each Moment - unknowing yet reborn - we started
down the road together.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 32, no. 2)
--------------"True Gold Fears No Fire"
(From the Chinese)
- Lafayette Plummer
[A Paper read before the William Quan Judge Theosophical Club, Meeting of Feb. 18,
1927]
I was feeling rather blue - out of sorts with the world in general. The trouble was that
everybody went about selfishly enjoying himself, and I was left alone to get over my worries
as best I could. I felt so badly about it that I went to a friend of mine and told him my tale of
woe. I had known him for many years, and he seemed to take a particular interest in me, but
on this occasion he merely said: "Open the windows that are shutting out the sunlight; a little
fresh air will quickly blow the clouds away."
This seemed rather abstruse; but my friend was well deserving of my confidence in
him. He had helped me out of many a difficulty, had helped me to see myself as I was, so to
speak. And so, in this instance, I knew that if I went about my affairs, and forgot my worries,
the meaning of his words would dawn upon me in time.
Now, this friend of whom I speak was a jeweler. He had set up his establishment a few
doors from mine, and some days later he invited me over to see him at work. His workshop
was a neat little room with a work-bench in the center, a machine of his own device on the
right, and a small furnace at the far end. The place was well lighted by a large window on
each side of the room.
When he had shown me around, he carefully locked the door (against possible
intruders, I supposed), and drew the blinds over the windows. There was an air of
expectancy about his proceedings, and I watched him anxiously as he fed great chunks of
coal into his hungry furnace. He placed some bars of gold in the crucible, and while they
were melting, he busied himself with putting his machine in working order and arranging his
tools.
As soon as the gold was melted he threw into the pot a quantity of cleaner - a greasy
substance containing certain chemicals, - which set the molten gold in violent agitation,

causing it to throw off great quantities of thick black smoke. The room was soon filled, so that
I could no longer see the furnace nor the gold. The heat became intense, and when I could
stand it no longer, I begged him to open the windows and let in some fresh air. Within a few
minutes the room was cleared, and the sunlight streaming in, fell on the gold, and it shone as
I have never seen gold shine before.
I saw that he had called me in to teach me a lesson that I needed to learn. I felt great
humility and, on expressing my thanks for his kindness, was preparing to leave, when he
asked me to stay. He had something interesting to show me.
He raised the heat of the furnace till it glowed red, and applied more cleaner to the
gold. Again the smoke rose, but it was dispelled by the fresh breeze blowing in, before it had
time to form a cloud and obscure the gold from my sight. When the smoke ceased to rise,
and the dross had been skimmed off, my friend made the third and final test. He raised the
heat of the furnace until I thought it too would melt, and put in a double dose of cleaner. It
had no effect, but rose to the surface to be skimmed off again. My friend merely said: "True
gold fears no fire. Look within!"
I gazed into the shining lake of gold. It was a most beautiful sight. Colors played
about the surface and shone with dazzling light. As I watched, my friend took from a shelf a
small ivory box which, when opened, was seen to contain a large diamond. I have never
seen a gem to compare with it for size, purity, and brilliance. It sparkled and flashed with light
of its own.
My friend placed it in my hand, bidding me throw it into the gold.
When the ripples had subsided the diamond floated in the center of the lake of gold. I
watched it, and suddenly it broke in two. Each part then divided, and again and again till
there were a myriad of twinkling points.
No longer saw I the surface of the gold, but seemed to look down, down, and all
around me were these twinkling sparks. And they were all moving. Here and there they
whizzed past, and now a comet trailed silver across the sky, and far, far away, great suns
glowed, and gave life to solar systems. And as they moved on, wonderful music filled the
space around me. And the notes came from the stars themselves as they sped on their
appointed courses. It was so wonderful that my head grew giddy. I clutched at flying particles
till my senses left me, and I fell on the floor of the workshop.
When I was able to regain my feet, my friend bade me look again into the molten gold.
I did so, holding his hand, feeling a sense of security in his grasp. This time, the diamond
again floated on the surface of the gold, but around it was a strange design. It was like a
seven-pointed star. And all about it were strange symbols and figures.
After a few moments my friend drew the diamond from the golden lake and set it in an
ivory slab about six inches on a side. He then poured the gold into a container which formed
a part of the machine to the right of the doorway of his workshop. He set this machine in
motion and soon had seven fine strands of pure gold. Then with the strands he wove around
the diamond on the ivory slab, the same seven-pointed figure I had seen in the crucible. His
deft fingers moved rapidly, and it was like a work of magic when he had finished. He placed
the whole in my hands, saying: "Take it: a gift from a friend."
When I had recovered from my amazement, I asked him to explain the meaning of the
symbols.
He said: "There is little I could tell you, and that would but confirm what you already
know. All knowledge comes from within. The universe was brought into being for the
evolution of man, and there is nothing to be hidden from him. But we cannot know the
universe until we know ourselves. And this knowledge can come only when the nature of
man, like the gold in the pot, has become so pure that no trials or adverse circumstances can

ruffle it or cause bad thoughts to arise. Then man can see within himself, as you saw in the
gold, the workings of the universe, and hear the music which underlies all nature."
He then told me about the Kings of old, great men who understood the ways of Mother
Nature and who came to rule and instruct humanity. But now they are obliged to guard these
secrets to save men from using them to their own destruction. But they are not lost. Every
now and then Messengers from the Gods come to earth to remind men that there is much to
know, "for," he told me, "the day will come for humanity when the glory of civilization - true
civilization - will exceed that of any in the past; but this can come only through the efforts of
man to purify the hidden gold, and learn to know the Higher Self."
(Theosophical Path, vol. 32, no. 4, April, 1927)
---------------The Country of the Flying Arrows
- Percy Leonard
[Reprinted from the Universal Brotherhood Path, 1901]
There were many pilgrims passing through the Country of the Flying Arrows on their
way to the Golden City, and I was one of the journeying throng.
Every traveler carried a bow, and on his back he bore a quiver full of arrows, and the
air above us was thick with arrows and sometimes one of them would fall heavily and wound
one of the pilgrims. Some of the wounded would fall to the ground, and as they lay they
would shake their fists at the blue sky because they thought that a powerful archer lived up
there who shot at them for his sport.
But later on I came to understand that no one was hit except by his own arrow, for
when I helped to pull the barbs out of the wounds of my friends, I always found their own
names plainly written on the shafts. Sometimes indeed another's arrow would brush by one's
cheek, or even knock one's hat off, but the arrows never buried their heads save in the
quivering flesh of those who had shot them thoughtlessly into the air.
Many in their wanton folly aimed their arrows up into the air, thinking they would never
see them again, but though they flew and floated overhead for a long time, they always fell at
last and buried their heads in the backs of the foolish bowmen who had shot them.
I made friends with one of my fellow-travelers named Sheelah who seemed to be very
near the Golden Gates, and I noticed that he never spent an arrow except to shoot at one of
the fierce animals that lurked by the wayside. He was always very happy even when he was
struck by one of the fast diminishing cloud of arrows that sailed over his head. He used to
say that he was glad when an arrow descended upon him with its quick rush and heavy final
thud, because there was then one less overhead to fall. And one day when the last remaining
arrow struck him he became radiant with exultant joy, and I saw him no more.
Here and there among the bushes that bordered the path, and always more or less
concealed from view, were Mighty Bowmen pacing to and fro. They had reached the Golden
City, had learned the final secrets of their craft and had returned to help their younger
brothers on the way. Watchful, alert, serene, and confident, they never spent an arrow
without a purpose, but with unerring marksmanship they hit without fail the dragons and
ravenous beasts that prowled among the bushes by the way.
They would often help a stricken pilgrim to his feet again and show him his own name
upon the arrow, but for the most part those they helped seemed not to hear their voices, but

stormed with impotent rage against the blue sky above them.
There were a few who heeded their advice and soon these wise pilgrims saw that the
cloud of arrows overhead began to lessen day by day as they fell, and they took great care
never again to aim their shafts thoughtlessly into the air.
Much did I learn in the country of the Flying Arrows, but the greatest lesson was this:
Every arrow that strikes us is shot from our own bow.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 34, no. 2)
--------------The Philosophy of Work
- Geoffrey Barborka
[A Paper read at the William Quan Judge Theosophical Club Meeting of July 8,
1928]
In the ancient land of Aryavarta lived once a householder, Rama by name, who having
fulfilled his duties according to the scriptures and having placed his son in charge of his family
was desirous of retiring into the forest - there to devote himself to spiritual ends.
Having decided on such a course, Rama settled his affairs, and set out. On his way he
encountered by the roadside a beggar, who was in a pitiable state, and so requested help of
him. His cry fell on deaf ears, however, for, thought Rama, it is time to leave all such worldly
affairs alone; let others less occupied care for the wretched. Yet, as he passed on, he
seemed to hear a voice: "Inaction in a deed of mercy becomes an action in a deadly sin."
Well, he had left the world and its ways behind: yet the words somehow weighed on
his mind, and after going on his way a little, he looked back, but saw nothing of the beggar.
That is strange, he mused but continued on his way, - surely the Bright Ones do not descend
nowadays on our earth of strife, and yet, mayhap....
Later, on his way, he saw one clad as he, but going the opposite way from him, and
therefore upon meeting, he had no scruples about addressing him; and after greeting him
properly as befitting one in such a station of life, he inquired as to his destination, saying that
he himself was bound for the forest and asking whether he was not pursuing the correct
course.
"The forest lies in that direction, truly," replied the hermit. "But as to the correct course
in life, I am convinced that a life in solitude leads not to final emancipation any more than a
life in the city's midst."
"And does not a solitary life lead to final emancipation?" queried Rama, "for when
action ceases, fresh causes are not set in motion."
"Quite so," replied the hermit. "Yet many have found comfort from distress, relief from
cares and troubles, and solace after disappointments in work - in loving service for others.
Even Janaka and others attained to liberation by the performance of action."
"Aye, and the scriptures also say, 'Yet the performance of works is by far inferior to
mental devotion,'" countered Rama.
"And likewise, 'Do not be incited to actions by the hope of their reward, nor let thy life
be spent in inaction,'" replied the hermit.
"Yet the whole trend of the scriptures has for object self-attainment, self-mastery, and
Knowledge, and is this not greatly enhanced by a life of quiet meditation and freedom from
the pairs of opposites?" Rama continued.

"Listen further to another sacred text," said the hermit:


"'Believe thou not that sitting in dark forests, in proud seclusion and apart from men;
believe thou not that life on roots and plants, that thirst assuaged with snow from the great
Range - believe thou not that this will lead thee to the goal of final liberation. Think not that
breaking bone, that rending flesh and muscle, unites thee to thy "silent Self." ....The blessed
ones have scorned to do so.'"
"And yet the man of supreme meditation is considered greater than the performer of
actions," persisted Rama.
"True, but the supreme meditation is most difficult of attainment; even the perfect
control of the mind has been likened to the difficulty of restraining the wind."
"And," continued the hermit, "even when the mind is restrained and no fresh causes for
action are set in motion, there are still the unexpended effects to be reckoned with, and canst
thou say that these are fully exhausted? Take, for instance, the fact of thy coming thus far;
was there no work left undone by thee?"
"Now that you mention it, on the way there was one who begged for help - yet I passed
him by, - though even at the time I seemed to hear a chiding voice: 'Inaction in a deed of
mercy - '"
"'Becomes an action in a deadly sin,'" concluded the hermit; "and the scripture
continues:
"'If thou art taught that sin is born of action and bliss of absolute inaction, then tell them
that they err.... Shalt thou abstain from action? Not so shall gain thy soul her freedom. To
reach Nirvana one must reach Self-Knowledge, and Self-Knowledge is of loving deeds the
child.'"
"Yet when I did turn back there was no one there," said Rama.
"Is it possible that a deva has made his station there?" mused the hermit; "truly by thy
nonperformance of work didst thou greatly miss."
"Let me hasten on," said he, "and see what may befall me - the Bright Ones are rare to
see in this yuga. Fare thee well! Though the forest-life may benefit thee, do not hesitate to
return to a life of action!" he added in parting.
In a cool secluded place in the forest, Rama made his retreat; neither too high nor too
low, and spread with the sacred kusa grass. At break and close of day he greeted the Sun
with proper observance; likewise in the middle of the day when the Sun had reached its
highest point.
And though he had ceased performing fresh cause for action by abstaining from work,
in the thought-world affairs were active enough: he experienced the sensation of his thoughts
becoming an army; and strived valiantly to master them.
One day messengers from his home reached him, telling him that his faithful wife had
passed on; and his son urged him to return.
He was still firm in his purpose, however, replying that death must come to all
creatures that are born, and that grief for the missing ones should not be indulged in.
And so his days passed by in quiet seclusion.
Again messengers came to Rama, this time telling him that his son had been taken ill
unto death, and that now his aged parents were dependent on him for support and attention.
The news moved him deeply; and they urged him to return to his home.
Remembering his converse with the hermit upon his entry into the forest, Rama
decided to return to a life of action in order to give his aged parents proper support.
The first thing that he saw after setting forth on his journey back to his home in the city
was a youth plowing with a pair of bullocks. Rama admired the strength shown in the task,
and the beautiful way in which the furrow turned over the fresh earth - this reminded him of

the simile that effect follows cause as the furrow the plow. And then the sowing that would
follow: "Sow kindly acts and thou shalt reap their fruition."
On nearing the city he saw a chandala at work cleaning the walls; it was a delight for
him to watch the marble gleam in contrast to the rest of the begrimed surface: thus, thought
he, should the mirror of the mind be cleansed of all that soils it.
The varied activities that he witnessed as he passed along on his way took on greater
significance: the weaver at the loom not only produced a beautiful piece of work, but wove
his destiny in and out among his fellows; the goldsmith in his intricate designing, the artist at
his easel, the sculptor at his bust - each at his appointed task was creating something more
than just their particular piece of work. Best of all he admired the potter at his task: to see
the lump of clay transformed into an object of beauty by the skill of the craftsman was a
wonderful sight.
Everywhere there was the hum of activity; the production of work - action; should
anyone cease another would come to take his place urged on with even keener effort: action
and work, its fitting result; effect after cause; waking after sleeping; life after death; rebirth
again and again....
His musings were interrupted by cries of "Mad elephant; mad elephant; out of the
way; clear the street!" And the crowd surged in all directions, each one hastening to safety.
Alone remained in the center of the street a little child, utterly oblivious to his
surroundings, forgotten in the general panic of the moment. Without a moment's hesitation,
Rama rushed out, picked up the child tenderly and turned back for safety; but before he
could make the necessary steps, the maddened brute was upon him. With a desperate effort
he thrust the little one into safety - himself collapsing from the untoward effort after his
rigorous forest-life.
A shriek from the terror-stricken crowd, and it was over - the elephant rushed madly on;
such a delicate human frame being as nothing to its fury.
The fine chord uniting Rama to his body was snapped, and the soul passed out; but
even with its last physical pulsation, so to speak, appeared at his side what to the gaping
throng bore the semblance of a wretched beggar, but to Rama's awakened vision,
resplendent in aethereal light, poised the form of a deva. And the vibrations that were
transmitted to his mind formed themselves:
"Rama, thou hast learned thy lesson, this time. Action in a deed of mercy....
Silence; while the procession of his life's events were reviewed; - and then a deeper
silence; the change had come. Another entity had joined the bright realms.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 35, no. 3)
------------------My Kingdom
- R. Machell
I found myself a wanderer upon the earth not knowing whence I came nor whither I
should go: my very name seemed strange to me. Only I felt that somewhere on the earth
some place awaited me, some home, some dwelling-place that I could call my own.
A strange idea possessed me that in reality I was a king dethroned seeking in exile for
the palace that was mine: and yet I knew not where my kingdom lay: I was a stranger in a
strange land.
So I inquired who was the ruler of that land wherein I wandered, meaning to seek

employment at the court until such time as I could solve the riddle of my life.
It seemed that there were many rulers in the land while all agreed that the chief ruler of
the universe, the King of kings, was God.
But when I sought to know where he held court, and which road I must take to reach
his palace, none of them seemed to know just where it lay nor how to go there. The general
opinion was that it was not approachable by mortal man, but stood wide open to the dead,
provided that they had declared their faith in him before they left their bodies.
This did not satisfy me, for I thought the ruler of the universe cannot be so securely
hidden from the living that none should know his dwelling-place, nor can approach him while
they are alive. I told them that I wished to find their God and offer him my services.
They answered, I must wait and pray; for God loves prayers.
I prayed; but nothing came of it. I waited; but I found myself no nearer God.
They said I was impatient, I must wait longer and pray more earnestly.
They spoke of legendary times when God had walked with men. That which had been
might some day be again.
But why not now? The past is gone, I said; it cannot be recalled; the future is no
nearer than it was a thousand years ago. And in a thousand years from now it will not be the
present, which is always Now: the future never comes.
That is the mystery of Time, they said. I must have faith.
Can faith transmute the processes of Time? I asked. Are not all things subservient to
Time, which was ordained by God immutable? Can faith revoke God's ordinance?
They answered: Faith can accomplish miracles. Seek faith.... 'Seek, and you shall
find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.'
And so I searched the secret places of my heart and found therein the shadow of my
soul's desire, and called it Faith, and followed where it led, in hope to solve the mystery of
Time, the great magician, who is divine vice-regent of the manifested universe, than whom
there is no higher power on earth, save only the supreme, the Self divine, whose name is the
Unutterable.
Following this shadow of myself I came at length upon the boundaries of earth, and
stood before Time's castle-gate and knocked; but no man answered: only the wind sighed
sadly, whispering a message that I could not understand.
And then the sound of waves came to me from beyond the castle-walls; and I thought
I heard the roar of Chaos surging round the rocks of Time, and the long murmur of the
pebbles on the beach uttered Time's challenge to Eternity.
So there I sat me down despairingly to count the grains of sand, each one a century;
and as they fell to earth they rang like bells that chime the passage of the ages. Then looking
up I saw the gate was gone; and where it stood, behold! the open way.
The ocean lay before me and the sun was low. Then stepping down I crossed the
shifting piles of pebbles on the shore, and stood upon a rock laid bare by the receding tide,
which gleamed and glittered to my feet, like liquid jewels molten by the setting sun, to mock
my longing with that glowing semblance of a path where no road lay.
There was no bridge nor any boat to bear me over that unmeasured waste. Was this
the end of all my wandering? Was this the boundary of Time's domain, the ocean of infinity?
The daylight died upon the rocky shore. I strained my eyes, yet failed to pierce the
gloom or grasp the limits of the night. The realm of form seemed merging into all-pervading
nothingness. Even thought itself dissolved in impotence.
I cried: What am I that I should seek to know the mystery of Time and of Eternity?
Only the Absolute can comprehend Infinity. But what am I if not a radiation of the Absolute?
Am I not I, the knower; I, the thinker; I, the Self? There is in me the root of consciousness,

the seed of all that is.


"I am that which began,
Out of me the years roll,
Out of me God and man,
I am equal and whole;
God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily;
I am the soul."
That spark of consciousness in me, that says I AM, in degree reflects the Absolute, and
is itself the bridge between the finite and the infinite. My kingdom is the everlasting Now. And
from the deep I heard a voice that cried: "Take thou the scepter of Truth and ascend. Thou
art a soul!"
(Theosophical Path, vol. 36, no. 2)
----------------Bach's Fugue in D Minor
An Interpretation
- Kenneth Morris
The Sun rose over a world of barren mountains that were nowhere peaked or jagged,
but all round of brow, and ruddy purple now that the sunrise lit them. They were all of the
same height; so that you could see hundreds of thousands of them: mountaintops stretching
away to the edge of the world.
Down deep in the valleys between them was the Worm of Abomination; lying half sunk
in marshlands; his immense length sprawled through valley after valley. People said, 'If the
Worm should awake the world will be destroyed.... by the fetor of his breath.... by the principle
of death inherent in his coldness.' Through seven-score continents nothing was so much
dreaded as that the Worm of Abomination should awake.
But the Prince of the Sun thought otherwise; and determined to awake the Worm.
So now, when his Sun-car had risen over the Mountains of the Worm midway between
dawn and noon, he leaped down from it on to the rounded surface of the nearest
mountaintop.
His helmet of flaming gold rises in a peak above his head; he is clad in luminous
golden armor intricately worked and designed, with peaks jutting out over the shoulders and
at the knees. From every inch of it a dazzle of little flames arises; so that his whole mien is
scintillant and quivering. His limbs are never still; their motion is flamelike; he dances rather
than leaps from the sun on to the mountaintop, with a quick tremulous rhythm not easy to
make out. His girdle-ornaments, the only things not golden about him, are of glowing, flaming
sapphires and topazes, rubies and emeralds and amethysts, chrysoprase and diamonds and
beryls; they make myriads of broken rainbows about him as he moves.
He dances down towards the valley. The mountainside is of barren rock; but where
his feet fall a little life-light quivers. Here and there he drops a jewel; where they touch the
rock, clearest waters bubble up from it in little pools and basins, round which, all in an instant,
flowers spring up and bloom. Blue hyacinths glow where the sapphires fell; purple irises
where the amethysts; the rubies have become crimson peonies, the emeralds, floors of
moss.

The Prince of the Sun goes dancing down.... and discovers at last, in the cold darkness
of the valley-bottom, the head of the Worm. This is the venomous region of peril; as he
enters it, his golden armor fades out; he is now shadowy in dark olive-green, trembling up
from the ground.
He drops an amethyst on the Worm's head, and a diamond.... The head begins to glow
and become luminous. Waves of light travel down from it along the spine. Through valley
after valley, in which its enormous length lies sprawled, the light-waves travel.
It lifts its head out of the filth - its head that has now grown luminous and beautiful
altogether. It lifts its long length, along which the waves of ever-increasing light go speeding.
It throws out beautiful and bediamonded pinions, and rises in the air singing and glorifying the
Gods. Light from its scintillant gem-lit scales falls on the barren mountainsides, and flowers
spring up and into bloom everywhere. The flowers are singing the praises of heaven, and
glorifying the Beauty at the Heart of Things. The Worm, coiling and wreathing its lovely length
in the firmament, sheds light on the worlds and on the worlds of worlds; is glorious after the
fashion of a galaxy of stars; gives birth to music upon music. The world has become
luminous and beautiful altogether, and there is no fear of any peril in it anywhere.
But in the swamp at the bottom of the valley, where the head of the Worm once rested
- there lie the bones of the Prince of the Sun.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 36, no. 2)
----------------The Cave of the Echoes
A Strange but True Story *
- Helena Petrovna Blavatsky
(* This story is given from the narrative of an eye-witness, a Russian gentleman, very
pious, and fully trustworthy. Moreover, the facts are copied from the police records of P---.
The eye-witness in question attributes it, of course, partly to divine interference and partly to
the Evil One. - H.P.B.)
In one of the distant governments of the Russian empire, in a small town on the
borders of Siberia, a mysterious tragedy occurred more than thirty years ago. About six
versts from the little town of P---, famous for the wild beauty of its scenery, and for the wealth
of its inhabitants - generally proprietors of mines and of iron foundries - stood an aristocratic
mansion. Its household consisted of the master, a rich old bachelor and his brother, who was
a widower and the father of two sons and three daughters. It was known that the proprietor,
Mr. Izvertzoff, had adopted his brother's children, and, having formed an especial attachment
for his eldest nephew, Nicolas, he had made him the sole heir of his numerous estates.
Time rolled on. The uncle was getting old, the nephew was coming of age. Days and
years had passed in monotonous serenity, when, on the hitherto clear horizon of the quiet
family, appeared a cloud. On an unlucky day one of the nieces took it into her head to study
the zither. The instrument being of purely Teutonic origin, and no teacher of it residing in the
neighborhood, the indulgent uncle sent to St. Petersburg for both. After diligent search only
one Professor could be found willing to trust himself in such close proximity to Siberia. It was
an old German artist, who, sharing his affections equally between his instrument and a pretty
blonde daughter, would part with neither. And thus it came to pass that one fine morning the

old Professor arrived at the mansion, with his music box under one arm and his fair Munchen
leaning on the other.
From that day the little cloud began growing rapidly; for every vibration of the
melodious instrument found a responsive echo in the old bachelor's heart. Music awakens
love, they say, and the work begun by the zither was completed by Munchen's blue eyes. At
the expiration of six months the niece had become an expert zither player, and the uncle was
desperately in love.
One morning, gathering his adopted family around him, he embraced them all very
tenderly, promised to remember them in his will, and wound up by declaring his unalterable
resolution to marry the blue-eyed Munchen. After this he fell upon their necks and wept in
silent rapture. The family, understanding that they were cheated out of the inheritance, also
wept; but it was for another cause. Having thus wept, they consoled themselves and tried to
rejoice, for the old gentleman was sincerely beloved by all. Not all of them rejoiced, though.
Nicolas, who had himself been smitten to the heart by the pretty German, and who found
himself defrauded at once of his belle and of his uncle's money, neither rejoiced nor consoled
himself, but disappeared for a whole day.
Meanwhile, Mr. Izvertzoff had given orders to prepare his traveling carriage on the
following day, and it was whispered that he was going to the chief town of the district, at some
distance from his home, with the intention of altering his will. Though very wealthy, he had no
superintendent on his estate, but kept his books himself. The same evening after supper, he
was heard in his room, angrily scolding his servant, who had been in his service for over thirty
years. This man, Ivan, was a native of northern Asia, from Kamschatka; he had been
brought up by the family in the Christian religion, and was thought to be very much attached
to his master. A few days later, when the first tragic circumstance I am about to relate had
brought all the police force to the spot, it was remembered that on that night Ivan was drunk;
that his master, who had a horror of this vice had paternally thrashed him, and turned him out
of his room, and that Ivan had been seen reeling out of the door, and had been heard to
mutter threats.
On the vast domain of Mr. Izvertzoff there was a curious cavern, which excited the
curiosity of all who visited it. It exists to this day, and is well known to every inhabitant of P---.
A pine forest, commencing a few feet from the garden gate, climbs in steep terraces up a long
range of rocky hills, which it covers with a broad belt of impenetrable vegetation. The grotto
leading into the cavern, which is known as the 'Cave of the Echoes,' is situated about half a
mile from the site of the mansion, from which it appears as a small excavation in the hill-side,
almost hidden by luxuriant plants, but not so completely as to prevent any person entering it
from being readily seen from the terrace in front of the house.
Entering the Grotto, the explorer finds at the rear a narrow cleft; having passed
through which he emerges into a lofty cavern, feebly lighted through fissures in the vaulted
roof, fifty feet from the ground. The cavern itself is immense, and would easily hold between
two and three thousand people. A part of it, in the days of Mr. Izvertzoff, was paved with
flagstones, and was often used in the summer as a ball-room by picnic parties. Of an
irregular oval, it gradually narrows into a broad corridor, which runs for several miles
underground, opening here and there into other chambers, as large and lofty as the ballroom,
but, unlike this, impassable otherwise than in a boat, as they are always full of water. These
natural basins have the reputation of being unfathomable.
On the margin of the first of these is a small platform, with several mossy rustic seats
arranged on it, and it is from this spot that the phenomenal echoes, which give the cavern its
name, are heard in all their weirdness. A word pronounced in a whisper, or even a sigh, is
caught up by endless mocking voices, and instead of diminishing in volume, as honest

echoes do, the sound grows louder and louder at every successive repetition, until at last it
bursts forth like the repercussion of a pistol shot, and recedes in a plaintive wail down the
corridor.
On the day in question, Mr. Izvertzoff had mentioned his intention of having a dancing
party in this cave on his wedding day, which he had fixed for an early date. On the following
morning, while preparing for his drive, he was seen by his family entering the grotto,
accompanied only by his Siberian servant. Half-an-hour later, Ivan returned to the mansion
for a snuffbox, which his master had forgotten in his room, and went back with it to the cave.
An hour later the whole house was startled by his loud cries. Pale and dripping with water,
Ivan rushed in like a madman, and declared that Mr. Izvertzoff was nowhere to be found in the
cave. Thinking he had fallen into the lake, he had dived into the first basin in search of him
and was nearly drowned himself.
The day passed in vain attempts to find the body. The police filled the house, and
louder than the rest in his despair was Nicolas, the nephew, who had returned home only to
meet the sad tidings.
A dark suspicion fell upon Ivan, the Siberian. He had been struck by his master the
night before, and had been heard to swear revenge. He had accompanied him alone to the
cave, and when his room was searched, a box full of rich family jewelry, known to have been
carefully kept in Mr. Izvertzoff's apartment, was found under Ivan's bedding. Vainly did the
serf call God to witness that the box had been given to him in charge by his master himself,
just before they proceeded to the cave; that it was the latter's purpose to have the jewelry
reset, as he intended it for a wedding present to his bride; and that he, Ivan, would willingly
give his own life to recall that of his master, if he knew him to be dead. No heed was paid to
him, however, and he was arrested and thrown into prison upon a charge of murder. There
he was left, for under the Russian law a criminal cannot - at any rate, he could not in those
days - be sentenced for a crime, however conclusive the circumstantial evidence, unless he
confessed his guilt.
After a week had passed in useless search, the family arrayed themselves in deep
mourning; and, as the will as originally drawn remained without a codicil, the whole of the
property passed into the hands of the nephew. The old teacher and his daughter bore this
sudden reverse of fortune with true Germanic phlegm, and prepared to depart. Taking again
his zither under one arm, the old man was about to lead away his Munchen by the other,
when the nephew stopped him by offering himself as the fair damsel's husband in the place of
his departed uncle. The change was found to be an agreeable one, and, without much ado,
the young people were married.
Ten years rolled away, and we meet the happy family once more at the beginning of
1859. The fair Munchen had grown fat and vulgar. From the day of the old man's
disappearance, Nicolas had become morose and retired in his habits, and many wondered at
the change in him, for now he was never seen to smile. It seemed as if his only aim in life
were to find out his uncle's murderer, or rather to bring Ivan to confess his guilt. But the man
still persisted that he was innocent.
An only son had been born to the young couple, and a strange child it was. Small,
delicate, and ever ailing, his frail life seemed to hang by a thread. When his features were in
repose, his resemblance to his uncle was so striking that the members of the family often
shrank from him in terror. It was the pale shriveled face of a man of sixty upon the shoulders
of a child nine years old. He was never seen either to laugh or to play, but, perched in his
high chair, would gravely sit there, folding his arms in a way peculiar to the late Mr. Izvertzoff;
and thus he would remain for hours, drowsy and motionless. His nurses were often seen
furtively crossing themselves at night, upon approaching him, and not one of them would

consent to sleep alone with him in the nursery. His father's behavior towards him was still
more strange. He seemed to love him passionately, and at the same time to hate him bitterly.
He seldom embraced or caressed the child, but, with livid cheek and staring eye, he would
pass long hours watching him, as the child sat quietly in his corner, in his goblin-like, oldfashioned way.
The child had never left the estate, and few outside the family knew of his existence.
About the middle of July, a tall Hungarian traveler, preceded by a great reputation for
eccentricity, wealth and mysterious powers, arrived at the town of P--- from the North, where,
it was said, he had resided for many years. He settled in the little town, in company with a
Shaman or South Siberian magician, on whom he was said to make mesmeric experiments.
He gave dinners and parties, and invariably exhibited his Shaman, of whom he felt very
proud, for the amusement of his guests. One day the notables of P--- made an unexpected
invasion of the domains of Nicolas Izvertzoff, and requested the loan of his cave for an
evening entertainment. Nicolas consented with great reluctance, and only after still greater
hesitancy was he prevailed upon to join the party.
The first cavern and the platform beside the bottomless lake glittered with lights.
Hundreds of flickering candles and torches, stuck in the clefts of the rocks, illuminated the
place and drove the shadows from the mossy nooks and corners, where they had crouched
undisturbed for many years. The stalactites on the walls sparkled brightly, and the sleeping
echoes were suddenly awakened by a joyous confusion of laughter and conversation. The
Shaman, who was never lost sight of by his friend and patron, sat in a corner, entranced as
usual. Crouched on a projecting rock, about midway between the entrance and the water,
with his lemon-yellow, wrinkled face, flat nose, and thin beard, he looked more like an ugly
stone idol than a human being. Many of the company pressed around him and received
correct answers to their questions, the Hungarian cheerfully submitting his mesmerized
'subject' to cross-examination. Suddenly one of the party, a lady, remarked that it was in that
very cave that old Mr. Izvertzoff had so unaccountably disappeared ten years before. The
foreigner appeared interested, and desired to learn more of the circumstances, so Nicolas
was sought amid the crowd and led before the eager group. He was the host and he found it
impossible to refuse the demanded narrative. He repeated the sad tale in a trembling voice,
with a pallid cheek, and tears were seen glittering in his feverish eyes. The company were
greatly affected, and encomiums upon the behavior of the loving nephew in honoring the
memory of his uncle and benefactor were freely circulating in whispers, when suddenly the
voice of Nicolas became choked, his eyes started from their sockets, and with a suppressed
groan, he staggered back. Every eye in the crowd followed with curiosity his haggard look, as
it fell and remained riveted upon a weazened little face, that peeped from behind the back of
the Hungarian.
"Where do you come from? Who brought you here, child?" gasped out Nicolas, as
pale as death.
"I was in bed, papa; this man came to me, and brought me here in his arms,"
answered the boy simply, pointing to the Shaman, beside whom he stood upon the rock, and
who, with his eyes closed, kept swaying himself to and fro like a living pendulum.
"That is very strange," remarked one of the guests, "for the man has never moved from
his place."
"Good God! what an extraordinary resemblance!" muttered an old resident of the town,
a friend of the lost man.
"You lie, child!" fiercely exclaimed the father. "Go to bed; this is no place for you."
"Come, come," interposed the Hungarian, with a strange expression on his face, and
encircling with his arm the slender childish figure; "the little fellow has seen the double of my

Shaman, which roams sometimes far away from his body, and has mistaken the phantom for
the man himself. Let him remain with us for a while."
At these strange words the guests stared at each other in mute surprise, while some
piously made the sign of the cross, spitting aside, presumably at the devil and all his works.
"By the by," continued the Hungarian with a peculiar firmness of accent, and
addressing the company rather than any one in particular; "why should we not try, with the
help of my Shaman, to unravel the mystery hanging over the tragedy? Is the suspected party
still lying in prison? What? he has not confessed up to now? This is surely very strange. But
now we will learn the truth in a few minutes! Let all keep silent!"
He then approached the Tchuktchene, and immediately began his performance without
so much as asking the consent of the master of the place. The latter stood rooted to the spot,
as if petrified with horror, and unable to articulate a word. The suggestion met with general
approbation, save from him; and the police inspector, Colonel S---, especially approved of the
idea.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said the mesmerizer in soft tones, "allow me for this once to
proceed otherwise than in my general fashion. I will employ the method of native magic. It is
more appropriate to this wild place, and far more effective as you will find, than our European
method of mesmerization."
Without waiting for an answer, he drew from a bag that never left his person, first a
small drum, and then two little phials - one full of fluid, the other empty. With the contents of
the former he sprinkled the Shaman, who fell to trembling and nodding more violently than
ever. The air was filled with the perfume of spicy odors, and the atmosphere itself seemed to
become clearer. Then, to the horror of those present, he approached the Tibetan, and taking
a miniature stiletto from his pocket, he plunged the sharp steel into the man's forearm, and
drew blood from it, which he caught in the empty phial. When it was half filled, he pressed the
orifice of the wound with his thumb, and stopped the flow of blood as easily as if he had
corked a bottle, after which he sprinkled the blood over the little boy's head. He then
suspended the drum from his neck, and, with two ivory drum-sticks, which were covered with
magic signs and letters, he began beating a sort of reveille, to drum up the spirits, as he said.
The bystanders, half-shocked and half-terrified by these extraordinary proceedings,
eagerly crowded round him, and for a few moments a dead silence reigned throughout the
lofty cavern. Nicolas, with his face livid and corpse-like, stood speechless as before. The
mesmerizer had placed himself between the Shaman and the platform, when he began slowly
drumming. The first notes were muffled, and vibrated so softly in the air that they awakened
no echo, but the Shaman quickened his pendulum-like motion and the child became restless.
The drummer then began a slow chant, low, impressive and solemn.
As the unknown words issued from his lips, the flames of the candles and torches
wavered and flickered, until they began dancing in rhythm with the chant. A cold wind came
wheezing from the dark corridors beyond the water, leaving a plaintive echo in its trail. Then
a sort of nebulous vapor, seeming to ooze from the rocky ground and walls, gathered about
the Shaman and the boy. Around the latter the aura was silvery and transparent, but the
cloud which enveloped the former was red and sinister. Approaching nearer to the platform
the magician beat a louder roll upon the drum, and this time the echo caught it up with terrific
effect! It reverberated near and far in incessant peals; one wail followed another, louder and
louder, until the thundering roar seemed the chorus of a thousand demon voices rising from
the fathomless depths of the lake. The water itself, whose surface, illuminated by many
lights, had previously been smooth as a sheet of glass, became suddenly agitated, as if a
powerful gust of wind had swept over its unruffled face.
Another chant, and a roll of the drum, and the mountain trembled to its foundation with

the cannon-like peals which rolled through the dark and distant corridors. The Shaman's
body rose two yards in the air, and nodding and swaying, sat, self-suspended like an
apparition. But the transformation which now occurred in the boy chilled everyone, as they
speechlessly watched the scene. The silvery cloud about the boy now seemed to lift him, too,
into the air; but, unlike the Shaman, his feet never left the ground. The child began to grow,
as though the work of years was miraculously accomplished in a few seconds. He became
tall and large, and his senile features grew older with the ageing of his body. A few more
seconds, and the youthful form had entirely disappeared. It was totally absorbed in another
individuality, and to the horror of those present who had been familiar with his appearance,
this individuality was that of old Mr. Izvertzoff, and on his temple was a large gaping wound,
from which trickled great drops of blood.
This phantom moved towards Nicolas, till it stood directly in front of him, while he, with
his hair standing erect, with the look of a madman gazed at his own son, transformed into his
uncle. The sepulchral silence was broken by the Hungarian, who, addressing the child
phantom, asked him in solemn voice:
"In the name of the great Master, of him who has all power, answer the truth, and
nothing but the truth. Restless spirit, hast thou been lost by accident, or foully murdered?"
The specter's lips moved, but it was the echo which answered for them in lugubrious
shouts: "Murdered! murdered!! mur-der-ed!!!"
"Where? How? By whom?" asked the conjuror.
The apparition pointed a finger at Nicolas and, without removing its gaze or lowering its
arm, retreated bacwards slowly towards the lake. At every step it took, the younger Izvertzoff,
as if compelled by some irresistible fascination, advanced a step towards it, until the phantom
reached the lake, and the next moment was seen gliding on its surface. It was a fearful,
ghostly scene!
When he had come within two steps of the brink of the watery abyss, a violent
convulsion ran through the frame of the guilty man. Flinging himself upon his knees, he clung
to one of the rustic seats with a desperate clutch, and staring wildly, uttered a long piercing
cry of agony. The phantom now remained motionless on the water, and bending its extended
finger, slowly beckoned him to come. Crouched in abject terror, the wretched man shrieked
until the cavern rang again and again: "I did not.... No, I did not murder you!"
Then came a splash, and now it was the boy who was in the dark water, struggling for
his life, in the middle of the lake, with the same motionlessstern apparition brooding over him.
"Papa! papa! Save me.... I am drowning!".... cried a piteous little voice amid the uproar of the
mocking echoes.
"My boy!" shrieked Nicolas, in the accents of a maniac, springing to his feet. "My boy!
Save him! Oh, save him!.... Yes, I confess.... I am the murderer.... It is I who killed him!"
Another splash, and the phantom disappeared. With a cry of horror the company
rushed towards the platform; but their feet were suddenly rooted to the ground, as they saw
amid the swirling eddies a whitish shapeless mass holding the murderer and the boy in tight
embrace, and slowly sinking into the bottomless lake.
On the morning after these occurrences, when, after a sleepless night, some of the
party visited the residence of the Hungarian gentleman, they found it closed and deserted.
He and the Shaman had disappeared. Many are among the old inhabitants of P--- who
remember him; the Police Inspector, Colonel S---, dying a few years ago in the full assurance
that the noble traveler was the devil. To add to the general consternation the Izvertzoff
mansion took fire on that same night and was completely destroyed. The Archbishop
performed the ceremony of exorcism, but the locality is considered accursed to this day. The
Government investigated the facts, and - ordered silence.

(Theosophical Path, vol. 36, no. 12)


-------------A Dream (1899)
- Ernest O. Kramer
The First Night
And I entered the great city at the time of the full moon. The sun lighted it brightly by
day, and the full round moon by night.
But there was no brightness or joy in the hearts of the people, but I saw that there was
a dread upon all, though none would speak of it to his neighbor, nor could he, for none knew
what it was, and therefore was the dread more fearful.
And the dread grew to fill all their thoughts so that the ordinary business of life had no
interest for them, and they were suspicious, one of the other, and there was no feeling of
kindliness or comradeship among them; and they sought the open spaces where one could
look behind and above and round about to see what was coming.
As night came on, many would not go within the walls of their houses. The bright full
moon arose above the city and many were the sleepless and apprehensive ones who
watched her course.
When she was about a third of her way across the heavens, suddenly cries resounded
all about, "The moon! the moon!" And all looked quickly up to see a black and crooked band
pass swiftly across the moon's face from east to west, followed shortly by another. The moon
seemed to shiver.
Consternation and fear seized all the people: they had found the source of the dread;
all knew that it was something connected with the moon. Apprehension increased. Some
said the end of the world had come.
But nothing more to alarm them happened that night, and it was with relief and joy that
the sun was seen to rise at his appointed time the next morning, and there arose in the
people a false assurance that all was well.
Thus passed the first night.
The Second Night
But the dread persisted and none could dismiss it, and as the day advanced and
evening came on, it increased. This night no one could stay within walls or any confined
place, and no one thought of sleep.
And the moon rose clear and full, and when it reached the place of the black bands of
the previous night, the eyes of all the great crowds were fixed upon it in fearful expectancy.
Suddenly a black and crooked band passed swiftly across its face from east to west,
then another and another. These crooked, black, and sinister bands passed with swifter and
swifter succession across the face of the bright moon; it shook, it swayed from side to side
like a thing in agony under repeated assaults, and suddenly, as if unable to bear any more,
with a terrific and deafening detonation that seemed to shake the universe, it shattered into a
hundred bright, jagged pieces, which flew off into space like white meteors, only to go out,
one by one, and disappear. Sudden and black darkness settled on the earth. Cries, groans,
and prayers resounded on all sides.
And the earth when the moon shattered, it, too, shook to its center; it struggled to
regain its equilibrium. Houses fell, monuments of man's arrogance and ingenuity swayed and

toppled to earth, a stupor of despair settled on the people - the end of all was at hand.
Huddled together in fear and trembling, they passed the remainder of the black and awful
night, waiting for the final catastrophe.
Thus passed the second night.
The Third Night
The sunrise glow finally appeared in the east, growing brighter and brighter until the
flowing disc of the sun appeared to view. Never was sunrise hailed with greater relief and
thanksgiving, and as his warming rays thawed the fear in the hearts of the people, some
measure of hope was reborn in a people united at last - united in a brotherhood of misery and
fearsome hope.
As the sun lighted and warmed the earth, a hysterical exuberance and insincere
activity was manifest among the people. Perhaps all was well, after all. But as the day
advanced, and the sun sank lower and lower in the west, all this left them and they became
again a prey to fear, a prey to dread of the coming night. The moon had been destroyed.
The universe was falling to pieces. Perhaps it would be the earth's turn tonight. Again all
sought the open spaces and crowded together for companionship in misery.
The sun sank low, then out of sight. Twilight and then darkness descended over the
earth. Hardly a sound was heard, but amid this awesome silence and at the time when the
moon should rise, a strange and beautiful glow gradually appeared in the East. It grew
brighter and brighter in the awe-inspiring silence. All eyes were fixed in dumb amazement
upon this wonder, and as they watched the radiance grew and grew, until slowly a bright and
glorious disc, full and round, appeared, and the whole earth was filled with a new and
beautiful light.
But who can describe this wonderful new orb and its light? Soft and radiant like a
glowing diamond, without heat, it yet gave light and radiance, the most beautiful that ever was
seen. Its color - men knew not how to describe it for they had no name for it. And as they
watched its course across the heavens its beauty increased, and all hearts were filled with joy
and hope. All knew that something glorious and beneficent had come to them.
Thus passed the third night.
The New Day
And the next night, and ever afterward, this new sun arose, shedding peace and joy
over the whole world. Always it shone, full and round, with a glorious light all its own.
It radiated health and life. It shone into the minds and hearts of men. All those who
could receive its light and gaze undismayed upon its glorious disc, were vivified into men of
soul and wisdom. Forgotten were despair and dread, suspicion and hate, selfishness and
greed.
As to those who could not receive its light - an irresistible sleep overcame them
wherever they happened to be, whether in palace, house or den, on the streets or on the
country roads, and so they were found by many hundreds every morning. But they never
waked again for all were dead; and this continued until there were no more left.
And all knew who these were, though many had never been suspected before: they
were the heartless ones, the soulless ones, those who preyed on their fellows, those to whom
the accomplishment of their desires was the only good.
And men were transformed with the light of wisdom and love. The Great City was
rebuilt without palaces or hovels, and re-inhabited by men who seemed of a new race, without
riches or poverty, but all in aglorious harmony of wisdom and love. And the beneficence of
the wonderful new sun increased as the days went by and men lived according to its light. All

foul places and pestilential swamps became dried up and disappeared. Devastating storms
ceased. Diseases disappeared. Poisonous and disease-bearing insects were no more.
And soon new flowers appeared in the fields, flowers of many new and beautiful forms
and of the most exquisite colors; and these were colors that the eye of man had never
perceived before. And merely to look out over a field of these flowers caused the heart to
swell with joy and the soul to yearn in thanksgiving to the Great Lord of all.
And the people went in great crowds to the fields and woods to see and feel the glory
that surrounded them. And as the flowers increased in number, all poisonous and noxious
plants disappeared so that soon none was to be found.
And the cities became places of beauty, where men lived and worked together in joyful
harmony.
And I stood looking down the length of a beautiful valley. Green hills enclosed it on
both sides. In the center was a broad, green, grass-carpeted floor, and on the hillside
beyond, a village of beautiful, white dwellings nestled. And the children, the youths and the
elders of the village, were assembled on the green floor of the valley, all dressed in white
garments. And the children formed into a circle, then the youths, then the elders. And all
joined in a dance of beautiful form and movement, whereof every part had a meaning - a
dance of joy and thanksgiving. Life was joy. Earth was a paradise. A new day had dawned.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 36, no. 12, Dec., 1929)
-----------------Marya the Sinner
- Oleg Kursky
"Isn't it a beautiful morning, Petr Ivanovich," said Nikifor Stepanovich to his friend, as
they were waiting in front of the house for Mitka, the coachman, to drive up with his brichka.
"A wonderful morning, Nikifor Stepanovich," replied the host. "Just the kind of morning
for traveling. Can you smell the steppe? If you can't, I do," he added, filling his lungs with the
fragrant air of dawn. "It's going to be a warm day, I believe."
"Very warm indeed, Petr Ivanovich. That was a splendid idea of yours, to start before
sunrise."
"Yes..... That's the best time with us. Later in the day we get such heat - such heat!...."
Here Petr Ivanovich threw open his coat, the color of coffee diluted with chicory, and shook it
a couple of times to show how hot it was in July in this part of the country.
At that moment a springless antediluvian brichka, one of those strange conveyances
which can be seen nowadays only in 'Holy Russia,' drawn by a little bay horse, clattered out
of the cart-shed. A long strap of leather - lining from its peeling interior - was dangling on one
side. A box of food noisily danced on the bottom. Mitka, a boy of about twenty, sat gaily in
the front part of the carriage, on an improvised seat made of an old tea-box. He held a long
whip in his right hand and whistled with all his might.
"Please, Nikifor Stepanovich," said the host, inviting his friend to take a seat in the
ramshackle carriage.
"Oh no, Petr Ivanovich. After you, after you."
"By no means, Nikifor Stepanovich, my dear. Only after you."
"No, but this is really too much of you, Petr Ivanovich. I cannot allow myself."
"Nor I, my dear Nikifor Stepanovich. Please do get in."
Nikifor Stepanovich stepped clumsily into the brichka. The vehicle uttered a loud

scream which apparently was meant to convey its suffering under the respectable weight of
Nikifor Stepanovich.
Petr Ivanovich followed immediately after his friend. As he clutched at the seat with
one hand, and seized the shoulder of Mitka with the other, the brichka squeaked with a shrill,
heart-rending note, as if to say: "Oh, why should I suffer so much?"
Both friends were now sitting in the carriage. Mitka began whistling a more cheerful
melody, as he knew that now he would have behind him the knees of his master and his
friend to lean against, and thus would have a better chance to avoid falling off the brichka
when the speedy little horse went at his best pace.
"All right, Mitka; let's go," said Petr Ivanovich to the boy.
Mitka whipped the little horse, and the brichka started at full speed. The road was
rough at first. Deep ruts were left over from the last rainy season, so that the driving was a bit
risky and the two friends held to the seat with all their might. The bucket fastened on behind
jingled at every bump of the road, and the box rattled incessantly on the bottom of the car riage, however hard Petr Ivanovich tried to keep it steady with his feet.
Soon, however, the road became a little better, so that both friends were able to stop
holding on, and light their pipes. When they reached the end of the village and the brichka
drove into the wide steppe, the road became perfectly smooth, and even Mitka, instead of
leaning against the knees of the passengers, turned on one side and let his legs hang down,
occasionally sharpening his sole on the swift-revolving wheel.
"What a wonderful morning, Petr Ivanovich," said again Nikifor Stepanovich looking at
the sky, where a few larks stood almost still over the sweet-smelling earth, acclaiming the
dawn.
"The best morning I've ever seen, Nikifor Stepanovich!"
And truly, the morning was ideal. The sun had already made its appearance and
slowly began rising in the deep blue vault of the summer sky. A few scattered clouds on the
eastern horizon were floating like fairy-boats on an ethereal ocean, presaging a hot day. The
wide rolling plain, with a few hillocks here and there, stretched endless before the eyes of the
travelers. The far-off distance was suffused in a lilac glow. The reaped corn, the high grass,
the wild hemp, covered the limitless steppes, and the wild flowers opened their hearts to greet
the rising sun. A covey of partridges rose up from the ground and flew away as the brichka
drove by. Far away one could hear a peewit wail mournfully. A kite soaring high over the
earth watched its prey. The air was filled with the music of crickets and grasshoppers and
field mice, and the fragrance of the steppes spread far and wide.
Petr Ivanovich and his friend were going to the fair at Astrakhan. Neither of them liked
to travel on a steamer, and therefore instead of taking the shortest way down the Volga, they
decided to cross the steppes in the old-fashioned way.
Both were apparently in the best of spirits this early July morning. Nikifor Stepanovich,
with his clean-shaven, rosy chin, rather thick nose, and little pig-eyes set deep in the head,
had a smile so broad that it seemed as if it would reach the brim of his wide, yellow straw hat.
Petr Ivanovich, with his rather square face, small turned-up nose, and whiskers, was
looking just a wee bit more stern than his friend, and was busy cleaning with a handkerchief
the spectacles which he had just taken off. He was a resident of the little town of V--- which
the brichka had left but a few moments ago. Indeed, he was a judge in that town, and was
respected by every one of its inhabitants.
His friend, Nikifor Stepanovich, was on his way from Moscow to Astrakhan, and had
stopped for a short visit in the house of Petr Ivanovich. He had described to his host in
glowing words the expected richness and variety of the Astrakhan fair, and Petr Ivanovich,
fascinated by the description, had decided to accompany his friend on the trip. In his turn,

Petr Ivanovich had converted Nikifor Stepanovich to his idea of traveling by land, and it was
therefore by mutual agreement that they started this morning on their long journey across the
rolling steppes.
Some time went by. The little bay horse was running as fast as it could. The heat of
the day began to be felt already. A cloud of white dust rose behind the brichka. Mitka, his
head drawn into his shoulders, his arms hanging helplessly between his knees, his face
covered with perspiration, overcome with drowsiness, had been sleeping for the last half hour
or so. The reins of the carriage were idly falling off on both sides of the tea-box. But the little
horse did not mind apparently, and steadily followed the winding road.
"A beautiful country, Petr Ivanovich," said the friend, looking over the wide sweep of the
steppes. "What mighty grass is growing here. It's twice as high as with us. And what wheat
down there. Just look at it! I think your peasants must be quite well-to-do people. Aren't
they?
"Oh yes indeed! Each one of them in our district has some fifteen acres at least. They
are quite rich even. Those fields yield a magnificent harvest as a rule. Besides, the peasants
have a good many sheep and pigs. With such grass as you see around that hillock, you can
imagine that the cattle do not suffer from starvation."
"How long since you've settled here, Petr Ivanovich?"
"I believe I bought the little house some twelve years ago," said Petr Ivanovich
frowning slightly as if trying to remember. "I paid five hundred rubles for it. I wouldn't sell it for
a million, Nikifor Stepanovich. It's a gold mine, this land here. A real gold mine. You plant a
seed, and you've got a pumpkin that two men can hardly carry away."
"Yes, a beautiful country. A rich country. A gold mine, just as you say." Saying this
Nikifor Stepanovich once more lighted his pipe which the wind had blown out.
The two friends remained silent for a while. The brichka rattled along between newlyharvested corn. The dew had evaporated by now. The grass was gradually drooping, and
the birds disappeared one after the other seeking shade under the thick vegetation. The air
had lost the freshness of early morning and the July heat began to dry the palate of our
passengers.
"Isn't it getting hot?" said Nikifor Stepanovich taking off his coat. "Yes, awfully hot,"
said Petr Ivanovich, wiping the perspiration off his forehead.
Soon, to the right, about five miles from the road, appeared a small village. On the
opposite side, two hillocks rose from the plain. One of them was a little higher than its
neighbor, and something white crowned it, but owing to the violet mists hovering over the
steppes, one could not discern very well what it was. Great stretches of wheat covered the
hillside almost down to the very road. On the smaller hillock the corn was already gathered
into sheaves. On the other it was still standing.
The road was seen to lead right towards the hills, run along their side for a while and
then again cut clear through the infinite expanse of the steppes.
As the brichka was approaching the two hillocks, leaving the village to its right, Petr
Ivanovich began apparently to feel uneasy. He changed his position several times; he took
off his spectacles; he replaced them again on his nose, then he suddenly took off his hat and
began crossing himself repeatedly, as if uttering a silent prayer.
"Don't you feel well, Petr Ivanovich?" inquired the friend with utmost consideration in
his look.
"Perfectly well, dear Nikifor Stepanovich, perfectly well!"
Petr Ivanovich, however, continued to move uneasily and to cross himself once in a
while.
Nikifor Stepanovich looked at him with anxiety.

"Petr Ivanovich," he asked him finally, "why are you crossing yourself so often? I do
not see any church around. Is that a holy spot?" and Nikifor Stepanovich took off his hat and
began crossing himself also.
"Ah, that's true," said Petr Ivanovich, as if awakening from a dream, "I forgot that you
are a stranger in our country. You see, that's the Sinner's Hill," he added pointing to the larger
hillock on their left.
"The Sinner's Hill?"
"Yes. I suppose you haven't heard the story of Marya the Sinner? Have you?"
"No. Never heard of her. Who was she?"
"Just a moment, just a moment. Let's drive past the hill, and I'll tell you all about it.
You will see from the other side the white ruins of the church on the very top. That's where
she is buried now," and Petr Ivanovich placed on his rather large breast a few more crosses in
the old Russian style.
Nikifor Stepanovich's curiosity was aroused. He wanted to know who Marya the Sinner
was, and who had built the little church on the top of the hill. He would have liked the little
horse to run quicker so that they would pass the hill as fast as possible. At last the horse
turned around the hillock. The burnt expanse of the steppes appeared again; the scorched
hillside began receding behind the brichka, and Nikifor Stepanovich could easily see the walls
of the half-ruined church crowning the hill as if with a white cap.
"Do you see the ruins, Nikifor Stepanovich?" inquired Petr Ivanovich after a moment's
silence.
"Yes, I do. How white they appear against the blue background of the sky."
"That's where she is buried - Marya the Sinner."
"You promised to tell me about her. Who was she?" inquired Nikifor Stepanovich with
a note of impatience in his voice.
Petr Ivanovich took off his spectacles, moved slightly on his seat, looked around over
the steppes, gave a croak, and put on the spectacles again.
"Marya the Sinner," he began at last, "was a girl of that village there." Saying this, Petr
Ivanovich pointed to the small hamlet slowly receding on the right. "She was a good girl in
every way. I knew her well. She used to bring milk and butter down to the little town. Her
folk were rather poor, but honest and sincere beyond description. They were proud of their
girl. They were proud of their honesty too. One day they learned that Marya had fallen in
love with Vanka the Cripple. Now Vanka the Cripple was rather a good boy then. But a few
years before that time he behaved badly in the village, and the peasants did not like him.
Poor Vanka tried hard to recommend himself by working for the peasants, but the peasants
disliked him just the same. The father of Marya, when he learned of her foolishness, scolded
her severely and threatened her with expulsion from their home if she did not cast away her
wretched lover. But Marya had made up her mind and no threats availed. One day she went
away with Vanka the Cripple, and disappeared for quite a while. Nobody saw the poor girl,
and her parents, after a few days of terrible anger, gave up searching for her."
Petr Ivanovich stopped. He wiped off the perspiration which was pouring over his face,
scolded the sleepy Mitka, who was still dozing on his tea-box, and took several puffs at his
pipe.
"Yes," he continued, "but I must tell you first, dear Nikifor Stepanovich, that we used to
have at that time in our little town another priest than the one you saw at the church last
Sunday. Father John was his name. A strange-looking man he was, the Lord forgive me for
saying this of him. He was quite a young man. I'll never forget his snub-nose, his fat face, his
bright red cheeks, and the funny little eyes, which changed their color from time to time. Just
like two little bright spots were his eyes, like a pig's eyes, you know?" Here Petr Ivanovich

made the funniest grimace Nikifor Stepanovich had ever seen on a man's face.
"Father John had red, smooth, dry hair, which barely reached down to his shoulders.
And the beard.... ha, ha, ha, the beard," and Petr Ivanovich began shaking with laughter.
Nikifor Stepanovich, without knowing why or how, began also laughing, apparently to keep his
friend company.
"The beard, the beard," continued Petr Ivanovich, "just think of it, it was a good-fornothing beard, a little clump of hair, scarce and scraggy. You could not comb it at all. It could
hardly be smoothed. But you could snip it once in a while. You know, just come and snip it a
little, as with one of our he-goats."
Here Petr Ivanovich and his friend burst out laughing.
"Well, you know, this little Father John of ours, was a funny man in every way. Nobody
had ever seen a clean cassock on him. He wore as a rule a mud-stained one, patched and
re-patched all over. He had a wide-brimmed hat, always mud-bespattered and very much too
large for his head. Well, this Father John was a nice kind of a priest all around, anyhow. He
was a little stupid, slovenly and rude. But he was well-intentioned, you know. He liked to
come to me and eat my cracknels on Sunday afternoon. The poor man probably went hungry
the rest of the week. I did not mind it, God knows!
"Father John used to know Marya and her parents in the village yonder. He went to
see them many a time, if I remember rightly. Once Father John was sitting at home. You
know that house which is on the opposite side of the church, just below the marketplace?
Don't you?"
"Yes, I think I've seen it," said Nikifor Stepanovich indifferently.
"Well that was his home then. - Yes, but I must tell you first about the hill we've just
seen. That's a remarkable hill. They say it's as old as the ages. Long ago, before Holy
Russia became a Christian land, the heathen worshiped their goddess Lada there. They had
other gods too, but Lada, the spring-goddess, the mother of light, was the most revered in this
part of the country. They had a special cult for her and her son Lado, the god of youth and
health. When Vladimir the Little Red Sun baptized Russia, the Greek monks who came from
Byzantium did not like it that the people should worship the heathen gods on this hill; so they
built a little white church on the top of it, and thought that, in building it, they would banish the
pagan gods, and replace their worship by that of the Holy Virgin. But it is said that the Slavs
worshiped their goddess Lada and the Holy Virgin at the same time, and no amount of
preaching could make them forget their heathen gods.
"Many years passed by. Tribes crossed the wild steppes on their way to the north.
The little church on the hill was abandoned and soon fell into decay. It is said that during one
of the raids made by the Tatars, it caught fire and was demolished. Since then it is but a ruin
covered with wild flowers in summer, and with heaps of snow in winter-time."
Petr Ivanovich once more used his red handkerchief to whip off the heavy drops which
crowned his forehead. He lighted his pipe for the third time and continued: "Down there," he
said pointing again to the village, "they say that someone was inclined to rebuild the church,
but somehow or other the plan never took shape, and so the ruin is standing to this day.
"Well, once in the early autumn, when the evening was stormy, and the wind was
howling like a flock of wolves, and the sky was laden with heavy clouds from which the rain
poured in cold streams, Father John, sitting in his house, drinking tea with cracknels, heard a
strange sound outside the door. He listened attentively. He heard the same sound again. It
was like a faint sobbing, and a very slight knocking against the panel. Father John stood up
and went to the door. He put his ear to it and listened. The same faint wailing sound reached
him once more. This time it seemed to him it was a human sobbing. He opened the door just
enough to see what it was that produced this weird sorrowful note. The wind rushed in

violently. Drops of cold rain lashed his face. He peered into the darkness but didn't see
anything. He opened the door a little wider, squeezed half of his body through it and strained
his eyes to see. And then he saw, on her knees in the mud, soaked through with rain,
barefooted, bareheaded, with flowing hair, Marya, the village girl who had disappeared a short
time before.
"Marya was bent low, almost lying on the ground. She was weeping bitterly, and her
body was shaking with sobs. Father John stepped out, as he was, without overcoat or hat.
Marya, seeing him approaching, tried to stand up, but she was so weak that she could not
rise from the ground. She lifted her head a little and, wiping her tears with her hair, she
pleaded with Father John to shelter her but for one night and give her something to eat, as
she was almost dying from hunger and weariness, and anguish.
"She told him how Vanka the Cripple had deserted her on the third day. How he had
left her alone in the wild wind and the pouring rain, without food or shelter, and how she had
come back to the village to seek refuge in the house of her parents. But her father had, with
curses, bidden her be gone, and her mother had cast stones on her, as she could not bear
such disgrace. Therefore she had come to Father John, to seek pardon for her sins, and
shelter from the storm.
"But Father John, the Lord God forgive him," and Petr Ivanovich crossed himself three
times, "said to her that her sin was indeed very heavy, and that the best thing for her to do
would be to go once more to her parents' house and seek pardon there. He did not speak
harshly to Marya, because he pitied her, but firmly and gravely. He explained to her with a
kind smile that if he took her in and let her spend the night in his house, he would dishonor
the holiness of his office and the sanctity of the church. He was supposed to take care of the
souls of the peasants entrusted to him, and therefore if he were to allow her to find shelter in
his home, he would lose his power over the wicked and bad things would be thought of him.
He enjoined Marya to return to her father's home and say that Father John sent her thither
with his blessing.
"Marya slowly rose from the ground. She was not weeping any more. Suddenly she
had regained some strength. She knotted her hair, looked with a smile at Father John, and
walked away into the stormy darkness, while the Father stepped into his nice little warm
house, and shut the door."
Petr Ivanovich stopped for a moment. He turned his head and looked once more at
the little hillock, which by now was gradually disappearing from sight wrapped in the lilac
mists of the far-off distance. He sighed deeply and stared for a while into vacancy. He was
apparently deeply impressed by his own story.
Nikifor Stepanovich, plunged in thought, remained perfectly silent. The brichka, white
with dust, was rattling away along the road. The little bay horse was doing its best, and Mitka,
after a nice sleep, had just awakened and looked cheerfully around.
The sun was high up in the deep, pellucid sky. The coolness of early dawn had given
place to a sweltering heat, the summer-heat of the wild steppes. The air was still and silent.
The rooks had taken refuge under the grass; the mole-rats did not strike up any more their
squeaking music; the marmots ceased calling to each other from their tiny holes in the
ground. The distance with its lilac tints was veiled in a soft mist rising from the earth under
the scorching rays of the midday sun. Everything appeared torpid with heat. Not a sound,
not a hush.
"Yes," continued Petr Ivanovich, "Father John closed his door. But when he closed it,
he was troubled and thought perhaps he had done wrong. That night his sleep was dis turbed
with awful dreams. He woke up a couple of times and each time he seemed to see Marya
standing in front of him, her hair loose, her scanty garment soaked with rain, her hands

imploring for help.


"Father John rose early the next morning. He could not sleep, however hard he tried.
The weather had cleared up a little, so he put on his overcoat and his dirty wide-brimmed hat,
and went to the village some five miles across the plain. He wanted to see Marya and to
speak about her to her parents. But he did not find Marya where he thought, and the
peasant, speaking scornfully, told him that she had not come back during the night.
"Then Father John began to feel seriously alarmed. Fear crept into his soul and,
leaving the village, he went searching for Marya all over the countryside. But nowhere could
he find her that day. He went far into the steppes, visited some other small villages and
hamlets scattered hither and thither, in hope of finding her, and when the night fell he realized
that he had lost his way.
"In vain he tried to recollect the road on which he came, and retrace his steps, but
somehow or other his memory failed him this evening, and he could not understand where he
was. When it became quite dark, and the stars were lit above his head, twinkling as if saying
to him: 'Well, what are you looking for, you fool?' he glanced once more around him and lo,
he found himself quite near to the hillock where stood the ruined church."
Here Nikifor Stepanovich turned his head towards Petr Ivanovich and looking at him
with inquisitiveness and utmost attention, opened wide his mouth as if getting ready to catch
his next word before it was uttered.
Petr Ivanovich, however, did not stop or make any sign, and, undisturbed, continued in
the same calm voice.
"Father John recognised where he was. He knew that the hill was some ten miles from
the village where Marya used to live. As he was not inclined to walk this evening for over
twenty miles to regain the town, he decided to pass the night under the shelter of one of the
sheaves of corn left over from the harvest. But as he stood there, looking at the hill and the
little church on its top, he suddenly saw a great light enveloping the hillside from every
direction. In this effulgent light he beheld wondrous beings, beautiful shapes moving slowly
along the slopes, ascending towards the church. Majestic, stately forms, wrapped in light,
swept noiselessly on their course and seemed to vanish as mysteriously as they had
appeared. In the midst of them all stood someone grand and imposing. He did not know
why, but the conviction came to his mind that it was the ancient goddess Lada, who watched
over her people.
"Father John made the sign of the cross and invoked God to have mercy on him in the
presence of the heathen goddess. Soon he perceived a shining light coming out of the
church itself. A distant chant reached his ear, and it seemed to him that he had heard it
before, many a time. He listened and listened, and recognised finally the ancient prayer that
the church ordains for the repose of the soul of the faithful. Innumerable voices sang the
requiem, and it seemed as if all the beautiful beings joined in that holy chant. Down the
hillside flowed a heavy and sweet perfume, as if of incense, mingled with the soft fragrance of
white lilies. It wrapped the hill in its ethereal waves. Then gradually the chant grew fainter
and fainter until it slowly died away. Then after a moment, a grand melody of love and victory
leaped forth from the ancient ruins. It was a triumphant hymn, and so marvelous were the
tones it struck, that poor Father John fell on the ground and worshiped and worshiped. The
trooping hosts with the wondrous figure of light were now receding on all sides and soon
vanished in the darkness. The light faded away, and there was nothing left but the faint
gurgle of a brook, and the whisper of the night-wind through the sheaves of corn.
"A heavy sleep overtook Father John. He did not wake up until late in the morning.
When he recollected what he had seen the night before, he gathered all his courage and
ascended the hillside to the little church. The day was bright and warm. A few late flowers

opened their hearts to drink in the rays of the autumnal sun. Father John walked with
reverence and even fear. His head was bare, his hands were clasped, and his eyes were
directed towards the top of the hill.
"When he reached it, he stood before the ruin, hesitating to enter it. Finally he
resolutely stepped inside. The dead outcast lay in the ruined church, where she had gone to
seek shelter. Pitying, though not mortal hands, had closed her eyes, and crossed her hands
on her bosom. Overcome with grief and shame, poor Father John kneeled down and prayed
that morning as he had never prayed before. Soon after he left our little town and took the
habit in a far-off monastery.
"That's the story about Marya the Sinner," concluded Petr Ivanovich significantly,
crossing himself three times.
"Yes," said Nikifor Stepanovich, "poor girl, she was misunderstood."
"Poor girl," repeated Petr Ivanovich, "may the Lord God forgive her her sin."
"Mitka," he added suddenly, "let's stop here somewhere. I begin to feel as if a dozen
brichkas were driving over my palate. Don't you feel the same, dear Nikifor Stepanovich? Let's have something to drink!"
"Certainly, Petr Ivanovich, it's a very good idea you've got there. Let's stop and have a
drink!"
At the first sign from Mitka, the little bay horse stopped almost short. The passengers
got out of the carriage, which resumed on that occasion its heart-rending cries, to which was
added this time a rather supplicatory note, as if the brichka was asking: "Won't you give me a
drink also?"
In a few minutes, both friends lay down on the thick fragrant grass of the steppes. The
box was extracted from the bottom of the carriage and opened. Cold tea, cracknels, a dozen
huge pears, and a few sandwiches with cheese and bacon made their triumphant
appearance. And while Mitka was unharnessing the little bay horse and dusting off his
brichka, Petr Ivanovich and his friend attacked the reinforcements, looking at each other with
delight.
"Say, Nikifor Stepanovich," said Petr Ivanovich biting gaily into a juicy pear, "wasn't it
the most beautiful morning?"
"The best one I've ever seen, Petr Ivanovich," answered Nikifor Stepanovich, and his
smile that time almost reached to the brim of his wide hat.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 37, no. 1, Jan. 1930)
---------------Hell, Heaven, and Beethoven
Suggested by the First Movement of the Fifth Symphony
- Bingham T. Molyneux
As all the world knows, there came a knocking at the door; and he rose from the low
couch in front of the fire to open to it. But even as he rose the room was full of them.
"Eh?" said he; "What?"
"We are the Bailiffs of Hell," said the foremost of them. "Your hour has come."
The high mantelpiece and lofty white walls of the room were gone: a sulphurous blast
blew in and they crumbled away. The lamp-light gave place to the howling glare and gloom of
Hell; on all sides the infinite cliffs of Hell loomed up spaceward forever. This was the bottom
of existence, the ignoble ultimate profundity: millions of light-years away from the light of any

star.
He stood in a waste desolation filled with gloomy shapeless figures that swam and
drifted above and round him, and were venomously inimical and armed with barbed stings;
between him and natural being was the weight of all existent and imaginable evil and
measureless unilluminable despair.
"You are in Hell the Inescapable, Ludwig van Beethoven!" the malignant shadows
wailed at him. "Forever and ever you are in - ."
"Little you understand, you others," said he; and picked up his baton. "Listen you, Hell
- and Heaven!" said he in whose heart and mind were all the orchestras of the stars. "Listen
you!"
There are things you can do in Hell that you cannot do on earth and imbodied. So
now: he had but to swing his baton and Hell was alive and loud with the music of his soul.
Formlessness flowed into form; terror grew slowly into beauty.
"Why do you weep, you others? Why does this fiery joy bring you tears?"
"You have imposed order on us, and we begin to remember. We weep because of the
condemnation that was put on us of old, when we desired a greater beauty than Heaven's."
The baton swayed and shook with power as the beauty in the burning soul of him
fountained itself out over conquered Hell. "Alas, where is our ancient valor?" cried Azazel that
had been the standard-bearer of Hell.
"Alas that ever we were contented with this!" wailed Asmodeus; and Demogorgon:
"Behold the pale-green armor glinting on our bodies; and from our shoulders re-budding the
stateliness of wings!"
Then a voice rang out from the purlieus of Hell: "Where art thou, our Battle-Leader
against the Angels-without-Vision? Where art thou, Lucifer, Son of the Morning, and Chieftain
of the Spirits that aspired?"
And the music surged forth and eddied through the chasms and flooded Hell with glory,
crying, "Behold, I am here!"
Hosts on hosts, armed and beautiful, marshaled themselves on the waves of it. Gone
were the horrible shadows; in their place were the angels that aspired and fell. "Lead us, O
Lucifer; and we shall not fail you!" they cried. Mounting through the murk between the
precipices the hosts soared upward on invincible wings; and the Son of the Morning, the
Master of Music, at the head of them.
The light-years of deep space fell headlong beneath them; they were music, and they
aspired again towards Heavens greater than Heaven. The thought in their hearts was war;
the shout in their throats was war; and war the music on the lips of them. War against the old
oppression; war upon the limitations imposed on things. Were they not the noblest third of
the stars; and in such order of battle as could not come by defeat? - Up they rose on wings of
music; and the precipitous walls of the abyss fell away beneath them; and the stars and
constellations dropped down like rain.
From the battlements of Heaven the horns rang out in warning.
"What is it you see in the depths below, Lord Michael, Lord Gabriel, Lord Uriel, Lord
Raphael?"
"A host of angels and archangels ascending, who are nobler of aspect than the
captains of Thy host: yea, who are nobler and more beautiful than we!"
"Let the hordes of Heaven descend and oppose them; because what is Better is the
enemy of what is Good. Let the grand Constellations descend, well armed and well
charioted, horde by horde under its captains!"
And Heaven poured forth its mightiest: rank on rank, battalion by battalion they came;
and Michael Archangel at the head of them.

"Lord Gabriel, Lord Gabriel: who is this that comes against us? Not on these hymns
transcending Heaven's hymns was Lucifer wont to come war-ward of old."
"Lord Michael, Lord Michael, what is this music that dis-angels us? I would make war
but for the love of them that arises in my heart."
"Who art thou, O Most Beautiful, Most Sublime? Who art thou who with thy music
drivest us headlong in through the ports of Heaven?"
But the music swept on and on, up and up, to the Throne; and swirled and eddied
round about the Throne, and forth from the Throne; and was fountained from the Throne
through space; kindling up suns and planets on the confines of chaos.
And the angels and archangels, victors and vanquished, circled through space about
the Throne; not one of them now without vast aspirations; not one of them without vision of
the Glory-that-Might-Become.
They sang to the music of the One on the Throne; and the beauty of their magnificent
Alleluias crashed out through chaos beyond the ultimate borders of space. There was no
more war between Heaven and Hell; there was no Heaven or Hell: but only the choirs of
constellations that sang, and the music that moved them to their princely singing, and the
Burning Heart and Mind from which the Music came....
The baton dropped.... and silence collected itself together again from the regions
beyond chaos itself.... "Little they understood, those others!" sighed Ludwig van Beethoven....
--------"Mortals, O dear friend! by their actions which are of a mixed character, or which are
meritorious and pure, attain to this world as the goal, or to residence in the world of the gods.
Nowhere is there everlasting happiness; nowhere eternal residence. Over and over again is
there a downfall from a high position attained with difficulty."
- Anugita , P. v. 297
(Theosophical Path, vol. 37, no. 1)
-------------The Bewitched Mirror
- Prince A. Tzeretelef
(Reprinted from The Theosophist, June 1880, H. P. Blavatsky, Editor)
A few years ago I purchased at Moscow an old and long-deserted house. The whole
building had to be repaired and almost rebuilt. Unwilling to travel from Himky, my summer
residence, to town and back several times a week, I decided to superintend the work
personally and to take up my abode on the premisses. As a result of this decision, a room
was hastily prepared for me in the main building. It was in August; all my acquaintances and
friends had left the city; nowhere to go, no one to talk with; it was the dullest period in my
life.
Once - as I well remember, it was on the 27th of August - after passing the whole
morning in the intellectual occupation of disputing with the carpenters, having rows with the
masons, and debates with the furniture men, and thus spoiling several ounces of blood - a
torture known but to Moscow proprietors - I was sulkily eating my dinner at the Gourinsk Inn,
when - O joy! I met with two old and valued friends. I pounced upon them and would not let
them go before they had accompanied me home, and taken a cup of tea with me. After

talking over various subjects with more or less animated debate, the conversation chanced to
turn upon Spiritualism. As a matter of course, none of us believed in spirits, everyone of us
hastening to bring forward the thread-bare and commonplace arguments which usually serve
on such occasions.
"Do you know, Yurey Ivanovich," said to me one of my friends, "that I was actually
assured the other day that there was nothing in the world more terrifying for a person than to
stand alone, at midnight, before a mirror, and with two lighted candles in one's hands, to
thrice repeat loudly and slowly one's own name, without dropping the eyes from the reflected
image? I was told that it produced the most awful feeling of nervousness. Few men are
capable of such a feat."
"It's all bosh," remarked his companion, getting up to take his leave of me. "This
superstition is of the same kind as that other one, of being unable to eat champagne out of a
soup-plate with a large spoon, without perceiving the devil at the bottom of the plate. I tried it
myself and nothing happened. However, you can make the mirror-experiment yourself. In
your deserted and empty house, the thing must come out quite solemn. Well, goodbye; it is
getting late, and our train leaves tomorrow at nine."
They went away. My servant came to inquire whether I needed him for anything else;
and, being answered in the negative, went off to bed at the other end of the large house,
where he slept in some far-off hole. I was left alone. I feel positively ashamed to confess
what happened after that - yet I must do so. How the idea of trying that experiment with the
mirror could have entered into my head - the head of a respectable husband, father of a large
family, and a judge - I know not, but it did. It was like an obsession. I looked at my watch, it
was a quarter to twelve - just the very time. Taking a lighted candle in each hand, I
proceeded to the ball-room.
I must tell you that the whole width of my new house was occupied by a large and very
long hall, lighted with windows at the two ends. It was just then under repairs. Along the
walls there stood scaffoldings, and the place was full of lumber and rubbish. At one side an
enormous glass door opened into the conservatory and garden; at the opposite one there
was a gigantic looking-glass over the mantel-piece.
A better spot for the evocation of spirits could hardly be found. It is with difficulty that I
can now describe or account for the state of my feelings, while I was passing along the
deserted and gloomy passage leading to the ballroom. I had been so thoroughly annoyed
during the whole day, so prosaically irritated, that my mental state could hardly be favorable to
experiments of such a kind. I remember well that, upon pushing the heavy door open, my
attention was drawn to the once elegant, but now very damaged, carving upon it, and that I
was calculating how much money I would have to lay out for its thorough repair. I was calm,
completely calm.
When I entered, I was caught in an atmosphere of decay, dampness, whitewash, and
fresh lumber. The air was heavy; I felt oppressed with heat, and yet chilly. The enormous
windows, stripped of their blinds and curtains, stared in oblong black squares upon the naked
walls; the autumnal rain (which I had even suspected while in my room) was drizzling against
the window-panes; trembling at every gust of wind, the glass rattled in the old windowframes; while the draught, creeping through the crevices and keyholes, whined and sung,
filling the old house with mournful cadences. The very sound of my footsteps seemed to
awaken a strange and weird echo. I stopped - but the sound did not stop at once; it went on
slowly dying away until it broke with a soft and wearisome sigh.
A strange sensation suddenly and irresistibly got hold of me. It was not fear - no, but a
kind of sickly, melancholy feeling in the heart. Aroused by the silence reigning in this old
uninhabited mansion and by the unusual surroundings, there now awoke at the bottom of my

soul much of that long-forgotten past which had slumbered for so many years amid the wear
and tear of commonplace daily life. Who knows whence and why these unbidden guests now
came trooping before the eyes of memory, bringing forth a series of pictures with them;
scenes of early childhood and youth; remembrances and sweet recollections, hopes
unfulfilled; and grief-heavy sorrows which I had lived through and thought over?
All this arose at once and simultaneously with its images of the past and the present;
crowding in upon me at all sides, it confused and entangled the clearly defined pictures, and
replaced them with vague recollections. But, as in our dreams, when the sorrow of the
preceding day as well as the expected joy of the morrow never leave us completely free from
their grip, so over all these dreamy recollections, whether joyful or melancholy, spread, like
the cold and heavy mist of an autumnal rainy day, the cold and dull reality. A hopeless, an
unaccountable weariness got hold of me, enveloping my whole being as in a ghostly shroud.
The sudden noise of a rat, disturbed in its nocturnal wanderings, put an abrupt stop to
the wanderings of my imagination. I slowly approached the mirror, pulled off its brown cover,
and shuddered at my own reflection: a pale, sorrowful face, with dark flickering shadows
upon it, looked at me with an unfamiliar expression in its eyes and upon its stern features. I
could hardly realize it was my own.
The whole interior of the large hall with its lumber and scaffolding, its veiled statues,
and the enormous garden door at the end of a double row of pillars, was reflected in the
mirror. The weak, waving light of the two wax candles was hardly able to chase the darkness
lying in thick black shadows under the lofty ceiling, upon which the heavy chandeliers with
their innumerable crystal drops painted fantastic spots; from my legs extended two gigantic
shadows, branching off upon the inlaid floor and merging into the penumbra of the corners; at
every movement these shadows ran swiftly right and left, now lengthening, at another
moment shortening. Again I glanced at my watch; it wanted three minutes to midnight.
Placing a chair before the looking-glass, I laid my chronometer upon it, and with the
two lighted candles clenched in my hands stood before the mirror, awaiting midnight. All was
quiet and the silence around was profound. Naught was heard but the ticking of my watch,
and the occasional fall of a rain-drop passing through the old leaky roof. And now the watch
hands met; I straightened myself up; and, firmly looking upon my own countenance in the
mirror, pronounced slowly, loudly and distinctly, "Y-u-r-ey I-va-no-vich Ta-ni-shef!"
If I had failed before to recognise my own face, that time I was utterly unable to
recognise my own voice! It was as if the sounds reached me from far, far off; as if the voice
of another somebody had called me. I went on staring at myself, though never taking my
eyes from the face. The reflection had become paler still, the eyes seemed immeasurably
enlarged and the candles trembled violently in its hands. All was quiet; only my two shadows
began moving swifter than ever; they joined each other, then separated again, and all at once
began rapidly growing, elongating themselves, moving on higher and higher. They slipped
along the veiled statues, flung their clear-cut, black patches upon the white walls, climbed
along the pillars, separated upon the ceiling and began approaching nearer and nearer.
"Yu-rey I-vano-vich Tanishef!" I slowly pronounced again my name; and this once, my
voice resounded in the old hall more muffled than ever. There was in it something like a note
of sorrow, reproach, and warning. No, this voice, so soft, with tones in it so broken, was not
my voice!
It was the familiar voice of some one I knew well, who was near and dear to me. I
heard it more than once, whether in my dreams or waking hours.... It had hardly died away,
when a window-pane, jingling and tinkling under a new gust of wind, suddenly burst. It was
as if a harp-chord had broken; its pure, metallic ring filled the room, and was caught up by
the wind which began its long and lugubrious dirge, a song of awe and sorrow. Unable to

resist the first impulse, I took my eyes for one instant from the mirror, and was going to turn
abruptly round, when suddenly recollecting that I had to keep my eyes fixed upon it all the
time I looked again, and - remained rooted to the spot with horror.
I found myself no more in the looking-glass! No; I was not asleep, neither was I
insane; I recognised every smallest object around me: there was the chair with my watch
upon it; and I saw distinctly in the mirror every part of the room reflected; the scaffolding and
statues, and the drop-lights were there, all of them as they were before. But my shadow had
also disappeared, and I vainly searched for it upon the inlaid floor. The room was empty; it
had lost its only tenant. I - I myself had gone, and was there no more!
An inexpressible, wild terror got hold of me. Never, in the range of the experience of
my whole life, had I experienced anything approaching this feeling. It seemed to me as if I
were living over this same event for a second time; that all this had happened to me before,
on the same spot, illuminated by that same flickering light, in this same identical, heavy,
gloomy silence - that I had experienced all this, and had waited here before now, feeling that
something was going to happen, that it noiselessly approached, that invisible and inaudible, it
is already near the door, that this empty ball-room is a stage, whose curtain is slowly rolling
up, and that one second more, one more effort, but to pronounce once more my name - only
once - and that door will noiselessly open.
The name, the name, I have to pronounce it for the third and last time - I repeated over
and over to myself mentally, trying to summon up my courage and collect my thoughts. But
all my will-power had gone. I felt like one petrified, I was no longer my own self, but a part of
something else; I could not and did not think; I only instinctively felt that I was being
irresistibly drawn into a vortex of fatal events, and went on staring like a maniac into the
mirror, in which I saw the empty hall with everything in it, but - myself!
With a desperate, superhuman effort, I shook off that state of paralysis and began to
utter my name for the third time: "Yur-ey Ivano-vich Ta.... !" but my voice broke down, and my
tongue clave to the roof of my mouth, at the shrill, trembling, extraordinary tones which made
the whole house vibrate with echoes in the midst of this ominous silence. The wind howled
and moaned, the doors and windows violently trembled, as the knob of the entrance door
slowly but audibly and distinctly turned. Uttering a shriek of terror, I threw down both the
lights and pressing my head between my palms, rushed out of the room like a madman.
What happened after that I know not. I came to my senses only in the morning, when I
found myself in bed, in my own room, and with a dim mist working in my brain. Gradually I
recalled all the incidents of the preceding night, and was just going to decide in my own
thoughts that the whole was but a dream, when my servant handed me, with a look of blank
amazement, my watch and the two candlesticks that the workmen had just found before the
uncovered mirror in the ball-room.
I have narrated a Fact: though to explain it is more than I could undertake. One thing I
know well, I will evoke myself before a looking-glass no more, and strongly advise others
never to attempt the experiment.
---------------The Sword of Light
An Ancient Irish Tale Re-told
- Art O'Murnaghan
This story is full of mystical touches and seems to be a symbolic record of a certain
initiation through which passes a candidate of full seven mystical years of growth.

This land of the Ancient Mysteries is said by Greek tradition to be an island to which
men journeyed that they might learn more about the Mysteries. High tribute surely, for the
Mysteries were taught among their own islands, and history links, in this respect, the rites
celebrated in Samothrace with those of Sacred Ierne of the Hibernians.
In West Kerry, near the sea, among lonely mountains, rises the cloud-swept peak of
Brandon Mountain. It was known as a 'mountain of pilgrimage' long before the coming of
Christianity, and today you will find a circle of big stones near the summit. The line of ancient
Bards still remains as a vestige in the native tellers of old stories in Gaelic. You must bear in
mind a remarkable proof of this - the tellers of the stories are not readers of books, probably
some of them could hardly sign their names, but the language in which they have their store
of Tales of the Old Wisdom, is that of masters in the use of words, and the form of the
narrative is finished and professional (shall we say?) in its shape.
This is the story of an only son, his mother, a widow, having no one else belonging to
her. Shawn is his name and of the Cold Feet is his description or surname. The mystical
nature of the tale is seen when we hear that as a child he grew so fast that when he had
reached the age of seven years he could not find room in his mother's house, which was at
the northeast corner of Brandon Mountain. In at least one story, the figure of a house refers
to the body of the person, and there may be significance in this case. When he was seven
years old his feet were not in the house when he was asleep. At fifteen years only his head
could find room by night. Food became difficult to get and "one day above another" - in other
words, on a day of decision - he told his mother he must go out into the great world to find
food for them.
So Shawn went out, and rested neither in the clear day going, nor in the dark night
coming, until he came to a high, roomy castle. He did not knock, but went in until he met the
master, who asked if he were a servant in search of a master.
"I am in search of a master," is all he replied.
He was engaged to herd cows for a day and a year, for small hire and his keeping. He
slept there that night; the first step completed, he took his first breathing-space.
Next morning, going out with the cows, his master was there before him with the
warning to take good care of himself - no mention of the cows - that everyone of those who
took service with him had been killed by one of four giants who lived next his pastures. Four
brothers they were - one was four-headed, one six-, the third eight-, and the fourth twelveheaded.
"By my hand. I did not come here to be killed by the like of them. They will not hurt
me, never fear," said the hero.
Not long were the cows grazing, when the least of the giants, "caught the odor of a
man from Eirinn" and came forward, trying to strike terror into the heart of the young man by
threats.
"It isn't to give satisfaction to you that I am here, but to knock satisfaction out of your
bones," was the answer. They fought till sunset and then, before the dark, the boy took the
four heads off the giant, and put them into muddy gaps for a dry, solid road for the cows, and
drove them home to his master.
On each of the three following days, a fiercer fight was waged, and on each sunsethour a giant was killed, and his heads made into stepping-stones for a firm road for the cows.
On the fifth day, the dreadful mother of the giants came raging out to him, and she had
steel claws on hands and feet - a characteristic of the cat-tribe night-hunters, more clear of
sight in the dark than in the light.
She told him, also, that he was a man out of Eirinn. (This seems to suggest another
country, does it not? And he had crossed no sea as yet. But anyway, he was no longer in

Ireland.)
She complained that the giants should have been asleep in her castle, and owing to
the scarcity of trees she could not make cradles for them - so we may read that they were not
fully grown. She also told him she knew he had come all the way from Brandon Mountain to
kill her sons.
"Glad would I be to tear you to pieces, but 'tis better to get some good of you first. I put
you under spells of heavy enchantment that you cannot escape, not to eat two meals off the
one table, nor to sleep two nights in the one house till you go to the Queen of Lonesome
Island, and bring the Sword of Light that never fails, the loaf of bread that is never eaten, and
the bottle of water that is never drained."
"Where is Lonesome Island?"
"Follow your nose and make out the place with your own wit," said the hag.*
(* The word 'hag' in Irish folk-lore means simply a very ancient woman, and did not
necessarily imply the repulsive appearance usually connected with it in English stories. The
Calliagh or Hag of Beara, is the name of the Oldest Woman on earth - the Ancient
Grandmother she was also called - and she lived not a great distance from the same Brandon
Mountain.)
In the dusk, Shawn drove home his master's cows.
"You'll never have trouble again in finding men to mind your cattle," he said, "the heads
of all the giants are in the muddy gaps from here to the end of the pasture, and there are now
good roads for your cattle. I have been with you only five days, but another would not do my
work in a day and a year - pay me my wages!"
The man - not now the master - paid him, gave him a good suit of clothes for the
journey, and his blessing. The next step taken, he is reclothed for the further journeying he
must take, farther from his mother's house, from the roomy castle of his master, and sent on
his way with a blessing.
Away went Cold Feet now, having undergone four days of ordeals, and a fifth day on
which a new task was put upon him. He was
"new on the long road, and, by my word, it was a strange road to him. He went across
high hills and low dales, passing each night where he found it, till the evening of the third day,
when he came to a house where a little old man was living. The old man had lived in that
house without leaving it for seven hundred years, and had not seen a living soul in that time.
Interesting details - the evening of the third day - the willing watcher for seven times
one hundred years, who had not seen a living soul in that time. You will find different
statements about the living soul with two other old men. Note also the different forms of
conversation - after the usual Irish salutations: Good health to the old
man, and one hundred thousand welcomes in return.
"Will you give me a night's lodging?"
"I will, indeed, and is it any harm to ask, Where are you going?"
"What harm in a plain question? I am going to Lonesome Island if I can find it."
"You will travel tomorrow, and if you are loose and lively on the road you'll come at
night to a house, and inside it an old man like myself, only older. He will give you lodgings and
tell where to go the day after."

He left good health with the old man and received his blessing.
There is here nothing about the Island, and a simple blessing at parting. He traveled
swifter than the hare in the wind and in the heel of the evening arrived at the house of his
second guide. Here he goes straight into the house where a little old man was sitting at the
fire. Follow the usual salutations.
"Why did you come; and where are you going? Fourteen hundred years am I in this
house alone, and not a living soul came in to see me till yourself came this evening."
"I am going to Lonesome Island if I can find it."
"I have no knowledge of that place, but if you are a swift walker, you will come
tomorrow evening to an old man, like myself, only older; he will tell you all that you need, and
show you the way to the island."
From this old man he received good wishes for the road. He traveled more swiftly and
at nightfall greeted the third old man.
"A hundred thousand welcomes! I am living alone in this house twenty-one hundred
years, and not a living soul walked the way in that time. You are the first man I see in this
house. Is it to stay with me that you are here?"
Here is the personal affection test and the invitation to halt on the way - to get a little
needed rest and comfort and give companionship to a lonely soul.
"It is not, for I must be moving. I cannot spend two nights in the one house till I go to
Lonesome Island, and I have no knowledge of where that place is."
"Oh then, it's the long road between this and Lonesome Island, but I'll tell where the
place is, and how you are to go, if you go there."
"The road lies straight from my door to the sea. From the shore to the island no man
has gone unless the Queen brought him, but you may go if the strength and the courage are
in you. I will give you this staff, it may help you. When you reach the sea throw the staff in
the water and you'll have a boat that will take you without sail or oar straight to the island.
When you touch shore pull up the boat on the strand; it will turn into a staff and be again
what it now is.
"The Queen's castle goes whirling round always. It has only one door, and that on the
roof of it. If you lean on the staff you can rise with one spring to the roof, go in at the door,
and to the Queen's chamber.
"The Queen sleeps but one day in each year, and she will he sleeping tomorrow. The
Sword of Light will be hanging at the head of her bed, the loaf and the bottle of water on the
table near by. Seize the sword with the loaf and the bottle, and away with you, for the journey
must be made in a day, and you must be on this side of those hills before nightfall. Do you
think you can do that?"
"I will do it, or die in the trial." said Shawn.
"If you make that journey you will do what no man has done yet," said the old man.
"Before I came to live in this house champions and hundreds of kings' sons tried to go to
Lonesome Island, but not a man of them had the strength and the swiftness to go as far as
the seashore, and that is but one part of the journey. All perished, and if their skulls are not
crumbled, you'll see them tomorrow. The country is open and safe in the daytime, but when
night falls the Queen of Lonesome Island sends her wild beasts to destroy every man they

can find until daybreak. You must be in Lonesome Island tomorrow before noon, leave the
place very soon after mid-day, and be on this side of those hills before nightfall - or perish."
And this is the last word that passes between the pilgrim and his last guide. In the
story there are no blessings, no good wishes for the road. Shawn rose in the dark before the
dawn, ate his breakfast, and at daybreak he started on the road.
Three times seven centuries had passed with never a living soul on that road. Who
was this old man? Hundreds of picked, high-born aspirants had struggled through the miles
of terror, and died before they had attained - and then he had come to the point where the
road ran straight from his door to the sea, and the island. And from that moment never a
pilgrim had tried to reach it; whether others had succeeded in reaching the points where the
other two Ancients could have helped them, we are not told. The first had not seen a living
soul, and not a living soul had gone in to the second house to see the old man sitting at the
fire. There is food for much meditation on the points of this wonder-tale of the Island of the
Mysteries.
And now let us return to the Pilgrim journeying in his straight line to the sea and the
island - the Queen, and the three precious things, given to no man, but to be taken, swiftly
and silently, while their guardian slept.
Away he went swiftly at daybreak, over hills, dales, and level places, through a land
where the wind never blows and the cock never crows; and though he went quickly the day
before, he went five times more quickly that day, for the staff added speed to whatever man
had it.
On the Irish bog-land, in the silence of night - and a miracle of silence it is, to stand
after midnight, looking across unseen miles of flat, dark brown peat, and listening in vain for
the shadow of a sound. At such a time you realize the companionship that the wind brings to
a listener into the still silence - you are assured of touch, and that there are moving twigs and
grasses - the touch of the free wind on your face, and the uneven rustling at your feet, and in
patches around you are links with the everyday.
And there is never a rising of the sun without the crowing of a cock - it is mystical, this
linking of the two things - and the pilgrim was traveling by the light of a day never associated
with cock-crowing. It does not say that the crowing of a cock was never heard there, but
there the cock never crows. And his swiftness was multiplied above all the daily increasing of
speed, five times, the number of the known senses.
And he came to the sea, did as the old man had directed him, and all was as the old
man had said it would be. But when he should have darted away immediately with the three
precious things he went towards the door; but there he halted, turned back and stopped awhile with
the Queen. And then - away with him.
A tremendous moment - all the daring of his journey, the double daring of his entry of
the Queen's castle, were excelled in this last moment. It was very near he was then, says the
story, to returning no more - having gained his object, to have surrendered everything on the
spot and at the moment of Victory. And it is said that though he traveled there swiftly, he
strove more in going back.
When the sun was near setting he saw the last line of hills, and remembering that

Death was behind and not far from him, he used his last strength and was over the hill-tops at
nightfall. The whole country behind him was filled with wild beasts.
"Oh!" said the old man, "but you are the hero, and I was in dread that you'd lose your
life on the journey, and by my hand you had no time to spare."
Shawn gave him back, with thanks, the staff, stayed there the night, and next morning
left his blessing with the old man and started back the way he had come, spending a night
with each of the old men. He came to the ancient Hag who had sent him on the quest; she
was outside the castle before him.
"Have you the sword, the bottle, and the loaf?" asked she.
"I have. Here they are."
"Give them to me," said the Hag.
"If I was bound to bring the three things, I was not bound to give them to you; I will
keep them."
"Give them here," screamed the Hag raising her nails to rush at him. With that he drew
the Sword of Light and sent her head spinning through the sky in the way that 'tis not known
in what part of the world it fell, or did it fall in any place. He burned her body then, scattered
the ashes, and went his way farther.
A very masterful man, this newly-made Hero - he had made his way into the master's
castle without knocking; he 'took off' the heads of the giants whose lives he had taken, and
he took his leave, after five days, from the service he had promised for a day and a year. He
did not ask, "May I go?" He said, "Give me my wages" - and it was so, and he was clothed
anew and got his master's blessing.
He had achieved where others died.
He forced his way through all the ordeal the Hag had put on him, and took by stealth
the treasures of the
sleeping Queen, finishing his task, and standing before her to claim his quittance. Refusing
her possession of the things she had used him to obtain, he took her life, and took his leave.
There is a hint of the demon in the suggestive words "or did it (her head) fall in any place."
I will go to my mother first of all, thought he, and when his feet struck small stones on
the road, the stones never stopped till they knocked wool off the spinning-wheels of Old Hags
in the Eastern World.
There is a new power in his going, a power which animated even the stones he kicked;
they were carried by it until they reached the very presence of the Ancient Sisters who sit
through the ages, spinning the thread of destiny for many a man, and even affected their
eternal spinning.
And with that evening comes a change. He feeds the people who give him lodging,
with the loaf, and the woman of the house, when he is asleep, substitutes one of her own,
without his knowledge. At two succeeding houses on the following nights, he loses the bottle
and the Sword of Light. And each day he travels more swiftly than before. On the second
day, if he fell in his running he had not time to rise, but rolled on until the speed that was
under him brought him to his feet again.
He came to his mother's cottage, and in great rejoicing at having food to free them
from all further anxiety, they make their meal, and soon the bread is gone. Even then he is
blind to the extent of his loss. His mother has a little meal in the house and would go out for

water. "I have water here in plenty," says her son, and he discovers his loss. He thinks the
Old Hag enchanted the things before he killed her. And so they had to live in the old way, but
Cold Feet was "far stronger than the first time" and was able to take all he wanted of food and
no man nor all the men in the country could stop him.
But the Queen of the Lonesome Island had a son, who grew so rapidly that "when he
was two years old he was very large entirely." She was grieving always for the things taken
from her, and there was no light in the chamber. All at once she thought: "The father of the
boy took them. I will never sleep two nights in the one house till I find him." And she went
with the boy the same way that the Hero had traveled. It is recorded that they stayed one
night with each of the three Ancient Men, but never a word of any conversation. The first one
must have known who she was, at any rate, as she came straight up the road from the sea to
his house.
She recognises her loaf, her bottle, and the Sword at the houses they lodge in for one
night, but beyond asking where they came from and being met with a lie, she makes no
attempt to take them back.
When they come near to Brandon Mountain she sees a man coming down hill with a
fat bullock under each arm, as easily as another would carry two geese. He put them in a
pen near the house and came out and saluted her. The boy broke away from her, ran to the
man, and would not be taken away from him.
"How is this?" said she; "the child knows you! Have you always lived in this place?"
Then he tells his story to her, she asking how he found the way and how he "came
near forgetting" his life with her. When he brought the things home they were useless.
"What is your name?"
"Cold Feet."
"You are the man." said the Queen. "Long ago it was prophesied that a hero named
Cold Feet would come to Lonesome Island without my request or assistance, and that our
son would cover the whole world with his power. Come with me to Lonesome Island."
So they left Brandon Mountain after the Queen had given the Hero's old mother good
clothing. "You will live in my castle," said she to her. Coming to each house where he had
been robbed, Cold Feet and not the Queen asks where the people had obtained the three
things, and throws their lies back at them, taking them back himself.
All the Old Men were glad to see Cold Feet, especially the Oldest, who loved him.
They all arrived safely at Lonesome Island where they lived on in happiness and there is no account of their death, and they may be in it yet for all we know.
And this wonderful story was told to Jeremiah Curtin, who collected in his time many of
the folk tales of the American Indians, as well as those of Irish speaking peasants. Whether
he saw nothing of its symbolism, or whether he left it alone, all his comment on the story is:
"This is a good hero, an excellent herdsman and cattle-thief. What a splendid cowboy
he would be in the Indian Territory of Wyoming. He has a good strain of simplicity and
heroism in him. The bottle of water that is never drained, is like the basket of trout's blood
(also water) in the Indian tale of Walokit and Tumukit."

If it is studied in the spirit in which it seems to have been created, there would seem to
be a mine of rich seams of teaching waiting for the reader who can recognise the golden
gleams of the incorrodible metal amidst the earth and dust now laid before them. Very
fascinating is the barely-hidden suggestiveness that peeps out in almost every sentence. The
Spirit of Ancient Eirinn smiles a wise smile at you, gentle reader.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 38, no. 1)
---------------The Upas-Tree Bough
- Paul Landor
At first I looked around with delight as my horse carried me lazily up the hot narrow
valley. The landscape glittered with all the fleeting loveliness which the wizard rain evokes
from that half-desert country. Late spring glowed in splashes of emerald bush or gushed from
the tawny earth in rivulets of painted wild flowers. Close at hand - tier above gigantic tier rose the shimmering amethystine ramparts of the Superstition Mountains.
But as I rode further and further into this fold of the western ranges the strangeness of
its beauty began to oppress me. There was something here unearthly, disturbing - for beauty
as well as ugliness can hold a quality of menace. So that when I came upon a solitary tree I
was not surprised to recognise an Upas-tree. Unlike its tall bosky relatives, however, this tree
was stunted, twisted into a sort of dwarf monstrosity. There was one bough just within reach,
as I rode under its dark foliage, that protruded like a threatening arm, out of all proportion to
the thwarted stature of the tree itself.
The horse, appreciating this sudden patch of shade, halted and dropped his head to
crop the brief herbage beside the trail. And then I noticed, lying half concealed beyond a low
spur of the foothills, a group of comfortable ranch-buildings.
I shook the reins and urged my horse onward, for here I saw a welcome substitute for
the dubious accommodations which I felt sure awaited me if I pushed on to Rough River
Camp.
A sharp trot soon brought us within hailing distance of the ranch. Yet here too a spell
seemed to linger. Not a sound broke the deep hot stillness of waning afternoon. Not a
movement enlivened the tranced atmosphere of these wide-spreading buildings. No curl of
smoke or bark of dog gave evidence of domestic occupancy. Evidently the family were from
home.
I was deeply disappointed. But knowing the easy customs of the West I was
determined not to leave without exhausting every possibility of a night's shelter. I therefore
rode around to the front of the house and here discovered the reason for the silence which
enveloped everything. The place was deserted. Doors hung crazily from their hinges and the
gratings of the long Spanish windows had begun to rust even in that dry air, and what had
once been a garden had surrendered at last unconditionally to the outer wilderness.
I dropped out of the saddle and pushed through the coarse desert-weeds which
choked the patio and so into a dim central hall. The place was quite empty. I walked through
all the rooms and found nothing anywhere but a heap of moldering garments lying as if hastily
kicked into a corner. I stood for a moment looking out into the mournful patio and thinking
how well this desolation expressed the sense of fatefulness that had seemed to me to
overhang the whole locality.
I was about to turn away when a curious feeling came over me. I am not superstitious,

yet I could have sworn that someone or something nudged me and led me to glance again at
the forlorn heap of garments on the floor. And then I noticed a gleam of color, and stooping,
disentangled from the unpleasant heap a ragged shred of black lace from which still dangled
a rose of ruby velvet. By some miracle of coincidence this bit of feminine coquetry retained its
original luster of color and softness, while the wisp of hand-woven, Spanish lace was eloquent
of violence done.
As I gazed speculatively at the dismal remnant, something - was it the wind? - stirred
all through the deserted place like a sigh of remembered pain. Finding that I could not bring
myself to throw this sad souvenir back where I had found it, I slipped it into my pocket, and
was about to look further among the heap of articles when a shrill neigh from my horse
recalled me to the fact that we were both tired and had yet some hours of rough travel before
us.
Sparkling desert darkness had fallen when I drew up before the combined hotel,
'saloon,' and general store of Rough River Camp. I took my horse around and saw him fed
and stabled before I entered the long, low room where a motley crew of miners, ranchers,
cow-punchers, and such ilk were eating, drinking, gambling, and otherwise taking their noisy
ease. But I was used to such rough good-humored company and found these men quite to
my liking.
There was a big table at one end of the room and here I sat down after ordering supper
and bringing a steaming bowl of hot coffee to take the mountain chill out of my saddle-weary
bones. Across from me two men were matching coins, big handsome fellows in wide
sombreros and bright neckerchiefs. Several others made desperate onslaught upon
immense mounds of beans with gravy and fried potatoes. The air was heavy with the fumes
of coarse tobacco and hilarious with the repartee of rough-and-ready wit.
A good many pairs of appraising eyes regarded me from different angles, for Rough
River Campers felt all the curiosity of a remote settlement where a mere self-indulgent tourist
would not lightly adventure. So I at once presented my credentials, as it were, receiving
instant acceptance with much gratuitous advice and information. Before long I was laying in
beans and fried potatoes with the best of them.
"Which way ye bin travelin', Stranger?" asked one of the coin-flippers. "Come from
Bristow or over the South Trail?"
"Neither. I rode up the valley from Flinders Flats - left there before sun-up day before
yesterday. You know all about these parts, I take it?"
"Ought to - cow-punchin' all up and down here most o' my life. Why?"
"What place is that just down the valley from here? A deserted ranch, the one where
the Upas-tree stands."
"Oh, you mean Ramon's Place," he said. "You didn't stop there long, did ye?" and he
gave me a queer look.
His voice was deep-pitched and as he said the words 'Ramon's Place' all the men
within hearing looked at me suddenly.
"Hardly," said I, "and I guess you know it. Anything queer about it?"
"Did I say there was?"
"No, but it seemed to me there was something odd about such a good house and what
looked like a promising ranch-site going to rack and ruin like that."
And then I drew from my pocket the bit of lace with its glowing rose and laid it in front
of me on the wooden table.
At that a stillness fell.
Someone behind me cleared his throat suddenly and a great hairy hand reached

across my shoulder. But it did not catch up the lace as I had expected. Instead, one horny
finger just touched the ruby rose.
"A piece of Rosita's mantilla, it looks like," said a raucous voice that had a quaver of
feeling under its roughness. "Did ye find it at Ramon's, Mister?"
I looked up into the grizzled face of an old miner and instantly pushed a stray chair in
his direction.
"Sit down, Pardner," I invited. "You're right, that's where I found it, kicked into a corner.
And who, may I ask, is 'Rosita'?"
"Who she was, you mean, Mister, - 'cause she ain't alive no more. Um-m - who was
she? Well, boys,
- who was Rosita? Why, she were just Rosita, ain't that so?"
All the men, most of whom now stared solemnly at the speaker, nodded, as if this
statement explained the question exhaustively.
"It's a story, Stranger - belongs to these parts," said the young cowpuncher who had
first spoken to me. "You might say that Rosita was the pet of the whole outfit here. How
about it, boys?"
More somber nods from the listening company.
"Well, Rosita was Ramon's wife. But before she married him she was sweet on a
young Englishman who came prospectin' round these parts. Good-looker, he was. Dunno' I
ever saw a handsomer nor a dashin'er feller anywheres. And he and Rosita was plumb made
for each other. She was a dark little thing, all fire and velvet and sparkle - but it's no use my
try-in' to describe her - nobody couldn't describe Rosita. He was a big fair man. They sure
made a picter when ye seen 'em together.
"But then the' was Ramon. Rosita, you see, owned that ranch ye saw on yer way here
and some money left her by her father. And Ramon's mind was all made up for some time
back that the girl and her money and the ranch just nacher'ly ought to belong to him - both
bein' Spanish an' all, ye see.
"Well, of course he was madder'n a mountain-cat when he seen how Rosita felt about
the Englishman - Carruthers his name was, Montmorency Carruthers - but we didn't blame
him none fer that, 'cause he was a good, two-fisted guy in spite of it. And then came the big
surprise."
By this time everyone in the room had drawn into a close knot around the table and
every eye was fixed unwinkingly upon the speaker.
"No one knows how it happened, but this guy Carruthers was accused of a mean, lowdown crime involvin' some woman, and Ramon managed to get the whole country up against
him. I never knew whether Rosita really believed it or not. Anyways there wasn't much time
to think, 'cause Ramon fixed up a midnight party, and they took Carruthers out and hung him
on that Upas-tree ye noticed today. It all happened so suddent-like we was all plumb dazed,
wasn't we boys?"
"You bet!" said another gruff fellow whose eyes had begun to gleam with an angry light.
"Never took no stock in the accusation m'self, an' it wouldn't never have fell out that way, but it
was engineered by Ramon and a bunch of his friends from over Bristow-way. Damn halfbreed lot they was, to my thinkin'."
Another silence through which I sensed the obscure workings of a current of bitter
feeling.
"And what happened afterward?" I prompted.
"Well, then Rosita finally married Ramon an' they set up together on her ranch. She
wanted to have the Upastree cut down, the story goes, but Ramon wouldn't never hear to it."
"Some of us was a-goin' over an' make 'im do it," growled a huge fellow in the

background, "but we put it off too long."


"And then,"- it was the raucous voice of the grizzled old miner which now took up the
tale - "then Rosita found out that the story was all a lie. Some other guy confessed to the
crime, and in her cute woman's way she finally ferretted out how Ramon had known all along
it wasn't Carruthers and had just framed up his rival and pushed the thing through to get him
out of the way."
"Guess you helped 'er a little in that ferretin', hey' Martin?"
"Bet yer life, I did; wouldn't any o' you guys done the same?"
A chorus of growls gave a response sufficiently savage to be convincing.
"And Rosita?" I persisted.
"Well, Mister, the' sure was a scene, I can tell ye. She told Ramon what she thought of
him plenty, but he didn't care. He just laughed and sneered at her. An' the same night she up
an' away - clean vanished. But she left a note fer him. And an ol' woman what worked on the
ranch told me she seen 'im when he read it, an' she never wanted to git no closer to hell than
what she saw then in Ramon's face. Some says Rosita put a spell on 'im. Anyways, he
never tried to find 'er, but lived on fer a time at the ranch, drinkin' an' cursin' an' raisin' the
devil gener'ly.
"The next thing we heard was that Rosita'd been killed accidental - way down South
somewheres. An' ye'd think that would've ended it, wouldn't ye?"
"And didn't it?"
"No. Because from the time of Rosita's death, even before the news reached Ramon,
they say the place was haunted, though I don't hold much with them sort of dadoes myself - "
Here a hoarse laugh shook the company.
"Don't you believe him, Stranger," said the big man from the rear. "Martin's a sure-'nuf
second-sighter! He's seen some mighty queer things since Rosita's death. An' he ain't the
only one, neither."
The old pan-handler looked sheepish and pushed on with his narrative.
"Well, anyhow, I opine that Ramon believed in that there ha'nt if nobody else didn't. He
tried to bluff it out, but gradually fell into a hollow-eyed, ravin' wreck of himself. They do say
he tried a good many times to cut down that Upas-tree an' that some-thin' almighty queer
drove him away every time he tried. And - "
"It's a lie!"
So absorbed had we all been in the recital that we had not heard the door open. We
turned now to gaze as one man at the apparition - for no other word could describe the
haggard, sinister figure that confronted us.
"A-h-h-h, Ramon!"
It was old Martin who spoke. And the change from his raucous jerky style to this
sudden mock suavity was deadly. A quick glance from him and the big fellow with two others
slipped behind the unexpected arrival and softly closed the door.
"So it's a lie, is it, Mr. Ramon? All right, then, prove it, an' I'll eat my words. D'ye hear,
prove it!"
"That's the talk. Prove it! Prove it!" rose in a snarling chant.
"Us fellers'll go right out there with ye now," went on Martin in rising excitement, "an' ye
can show us how ye ain't afraid o' nuthin' in this world or the next by cuttin' down that Upastree. Are ye game fer it, ye varmint?" And I have never seen anything more baleful than the
look he fixed upon the Spaniard's face.
Ramon said nothing, but his dark, hollow gaze shifted from one to another of the grim
faces that were closing in on him: and he knew that his hour had come.
With a shrug of Latin fatalism he turned toward the door.

"Horses, boys," commanded Martin. "You comin', Mister? Ye better, an' bring Rosita's
rose - seems kinder like's if it might as well be there too."
Then for the first time Ramon caught sight of the glowing rose. A spasm - was it of
pain or horror? - shot across his face. He turned as gray as desert-dust.
I pitied him, in spite of all; and I suddenly resolved to go with the party, for I was afraid
that a mediator might be needed before this drama was played to its close.
Hard riding in a sullen indomitable silence brought us at last to the lonely Upas-tree.
Lanterns had been brought, but they were hardly needed, for the far splendor of the Milky
Way illumined the dry mountain air with a strange clarity.
Without a word we lined up around Ramon while Martin thrust a great ax into his
hands.
"See here," I protested to the young cow-puncher, "I won't stand by and see any harm
done to this man - "
Old Martin heard me.
"Who's goin' to harm him, Mister? Not one of us guys'll lay a hand on him; that is, if he
cuts down that tree. If he don't, I won't give no personal bond as to just what is likely to
happen to him."
Ramon grasped the ax and took a step towards the tree.
And then - what was it - there echoed a sort of hollow groan, and the whole tree
seemed - though it might have been caused by the flickering of the lanterns - contorted as if in
human agony.
"God! No!" shrilled Ramon. "No - I can't do it! - It's there - it'll get me! I can't! I can't!"
and the ax clattered to the ground.
"On with the job!" snarled Martin. "Rosita begged an' prayed when she was livin' fer ye
to cut it down. Now she's dead, an' ha'nt or no ha'nt - ye'll - cut - that - tree - down!"
Shaking like a skeleton, the wretched man tottered to the tree and raised the ax.
I'll swear that not a man in that fear-tranced circle moved, yet something - Something
dark and horrible -stretched itself down from the tree. As the ax descended we heard the
blow, but instantly the nameless Shape seemed to wrap itself around the shrieking Ramon,
and the next moment his quivering body dangled high from the Upas-tree bough.
As we rode back up the valley I threw a shuddering glance behind. The moon had
risen over the shoulder of Superstition Range, and now cast a pale glance upon all that was
mortal of a man who had forsworn mercy.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 38, no. 2, Aug., 1930)
---------------The Sapphire Necklace
(Suggested by the Cosmic Joke of Beethoven)
- Kenneth Morris, D. Litt.
Here is the Bringing-in of it:
Nothing was more treasured and admired in the Court of the Nooivray of old than a
Sapphire Necklace that the princes and regents of the constellations had given the Queen of
the Nooivray for her birthday. There were thirteen blue amazing gems in it, that had been
mined, cut, polished, and endowed with magical peculiarities in thirteen several stars: to wit,
in Altair and Aldebaran, in Vindemiatrix and Fomalhaut, Arcturus and Capella, Sirius and
Procyon, Rigel and Betelgeuze, Regulus and Algol and Unukalhai; and their chief peculiarity

was that by looking intently into any one of them, you could see in it the destinies of its native
star through the age of ages; by reason of which these sapphires were of more value than
any others, and the Necklace was without its peer in heaven. So there was grand
consternation throughout the galaxies when it was lost.
Here is how the loss happened: A squat little god by the name of Ghuggg came
begging to the door of the King of Nooivray's palace at one time; and the one that opened to
him went in to get him a bite and a sup and a present, leaving him at the open door. Now he
was exceedingly gifted in thiefcraft, so that there wasn't his equal at it in the four quarters of
the universe; and no sooner was he left alone there, than his art and his craft and his great
gifts stood him in stead, and he procured the Necklace dishonestly, and was away before
man or dog could so much as suspect him, let alone pursue and capture. As to where he
retired with it, to gloat over his spoils and his cunning: it was to a little, rough, uncouth planet
he had in a dark region of space beyond the mountains and the Brink of Things; and there he
sat chuckling in the cellar, with the necklace about the place where his neck would have been
had he had one; only there was little difference between the head and the body of him, but
that the one was uglier than the other - and none could say which that was. He had no light in
the cellar, but what came from the sapphires; and that was less than you would think, on
account of the heavy grief that had overtaken them, and their shame at the indignity they
were suffering. He sat there endeavoring to console them; for he desired them to be at their
best.
"Come now," said he; "shame and grief are unbecoming in you; I beseech you to
eschew and evitate them religiously! It was your destiny to be rescued by me, that your
evolution might be accomplished; rejoice therefore, that that which was to be has indeed
befallen!"
But the King of the Nooivray was at a loss; and at a loss were the great barons of his
court, the princes and regents of the constellations and stars. So he called them together in
council, and held a Gorsedd in a circle of stones near the Pleiades. "Is there any of you has
advice to give?" said he. "Such a disaster has not befallen us since Cuthrile king of Maim
made ice of the universe of old."
"If you would take advice of mine," said the Chieftain of Capricorn, "you would take
counsel of the man who saved you then. Merlin Druid you would consult, by my great
dominion in heaven!"
"Good advice is that!" said several of them. Then said the King's Heir of Fomalhaut:
"He had a rose-garden eastward of your principality at one time, Lord Capricorn."
"He had," said Capricorn; "and by the splendor of my stars, he has now."
"It is a wonder he was not invited here," said the King of the Nooivray. "Lord
Unukalhai, go you with your following upon an embassy to him, if it please you."
So Unukalhai and the stars of the Serpent rode forth, and came to the rose-garden,
and to Merlin Druid trimming the roses; and prayed him come with them to the Gorsedd.
"Well, well now," said Merlin Druid; "well, well now! It is the Sapphire Necklace is lost
from you, I shouldn't wonder?"
"The Sapphire Necklace it is, and lost from us it is."
"There will be little need for me to come to the Gorsedd," said Merlin. "Were you
hearing tell of Gelliwic in Cornwall at any time?"
They consulted together. "We were not," said Unukalhai.
"Or of Caerleon on Usk in Wales?"
"Lord Druid," said Unukalhai, "few will not have heard of Caerleon on Usk."
"There is a man enthroned there by the name of Arthur Emperor," said Merlin. "Go
you, if it please you, to him; and he will recover the Necklace for you."

But they doubted they were a sufficient embassy to go to the Emperor Arthur; and
returned instead to the Gorsedd, and gave the King of the Nooivray what news they had.
"Well, well; we must send to him," said the King; "though it would seem unlikely that a mortal
would find what we ourselves are at a loss over."
So then he chose ambassadors to send: Aldebaran, and Fomalhaut, and Unukalhai,
with all their retinues. And they set out, and rode through the bluebell woods and the larkspur
meads of heaven, and along the margin of the sea; and came at sunset to Caerleon on Usk;
and Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr admitted them into the feast and the presence of Arthur. Until dawn
they were at meat and mead in the hall there. Then the Emperor said: "I will listen to your
message, Lords Princes of the Stars."
They told him what they knew about the Sapphire Necklace. "Is there one of you that
has handled it or the jewels it is composed of?" he asked.
"The three of us have," they answered. "Three of the jewels are from the three stars
wherein we reign."
"Call Ol the son of Olwydd," said Arthur Emperor. Ol was such a man that seven years
before he was born his father's swine were stolen, and when he grew up a man he tracked
the swine, and brought them home in seven herds. Very powerful was his olfactory
endowment of genius.
"Ol son of Olwydd," said the Emperor; "could you track the jewels as you tracked the
swine?"
"Let us get to horse, and away!" said Ol.
And now here is the Story itself: without concealment, understatement, or
exaggeration:
So the Arthurians rode away under their lord Arthur with the ambassadors of the King
of the Nooivray: along the margin of the sea, and through the larkspur meadows and the
bluebell woods of heaven. And they came at last to the foot of mountains higher than any in
the world or Wales.
"Ha," said Ol fab Olwydd; "the Sapphire Necklace has been here."
"A marvel if it has," said proud Aldebaran; "not one of the stones was mined in these
regions."
"Lord Arthur," said Ol; "if you will take advice of mine you will ride southward with your
host through these grim mountains."
"I will do that," said Arthur Emperor.
"Then here will we leave you," said the Lords of the Stars; "and carry the news to the
King of the Nooivray in Gorsedd."
So they rode northward over the flowery meadows; but Arthur and his men prepared
to follow Ol towards the south.
"Music will be needed for this adventure," said Taliesin Benbardd; he was the Chief
Bard and Music-maker of the Universe at that time. "Listen you now," said he; "and let your
thoughts and your horses' hoofs keep time to this."
Then he persuaded the notes out of his harp with gentle fingers, so that their thoughts
began flowing with the music as they started out. Then he put coercion on the harp as they
rode on, so that the mountains were ringing with the music and the beats of the horses' hoofs
keeping time with it. So they rode on all day through the mountains that grew grimmer and
wilder always, along the edges of great chasms and over torrents that raved world-deep
below. When the sun set they came to the Brink of Things. "Over the brink the Necklace has
passed," said Ol; "but there is no tracking it by scent farther."
In front lay empty black space, an enormous abysm, wherein there seemed to be
nothing. "Is our quest to end here?" asked Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr.

"Oh, no," said Taliesin Benbardd; "the hoofs will keep time to the music still."
"Call Drem, the son of Dremidyd," said Arthur.
Drem was such a man that, when the gnat arose in the morning with the sun, he could
see her from Gelliwic in Cornwall as far off as Pen Nant Gofid on the confines of hell; and
furthermore, he could easily count the hairs of her beard.
"Drem fab Dremidyd," said Arthur; do you catch sight of anything beyond there?"
Drem looked forth carefully. "Southward and below there," said he, "there is a blacker
blackness moving, ten universes away."
"We will ride forward towards it," said Arthur Fawr.
So they leaped their horses out into the abyss; and by reason of the music of Taliesin
Benbardd, empty space was equal to a well-paved road for them, and neither better nor
worse; and the beat of the hoofs on the darkness kept time to the music.
"Is that which we seek far away now?" asked Arthur.
"Not so far as it was," said Drem fab Dremidyd. So they rode on, singing now to the
music.
Far off in the cellar of his planet Ghuggg caught a rumor of it and trembled. "Eh?" said
he; "What's That?" He could hardly induce his ears to listen to more than the beating of his
heart. "But my heart beat never to such a rhythm as that," said he. He listened further, and
groaned.
"Dear help me better," said he; "I know what it is: it is the harping of the Chief Bard of
the Universe; and the men of the Island of the Mighty on the march to it. By the stench of the
swamp of bottom-most Annwn, it is that!" said he; and grew pale over what would have been
his face, had there been much to distinguish it from the gross rotundity in front of him.
"The music of Taliesin Benbardd it is; and he strongly coercing it from the strings of his
harp; and the hoofs of the horses of the Arthurians keeping time to it as they pursue me
through the abyss!" He was bewildered and amazed; his bones molten in him with terror.
Then he mastered himself, and took courage, and planned his defense.
"Come now," said he; "where is my magic to fortify me against trouble? There is that
Drem the son of Dremidyd: his sight will be potent against me unless I take to my magic."
So he took himself to it; and croaked thrice like a frog; and thereupon the blackness
the Arthurians rode through became a million times blacker, and even more than that. "Sight
is useless here," said Drem fab Dremidyd. "The light I saw by has gone out."
"Call Clust fab Clustfeinad," said the Emperor Arthur. When the ant arose from her
nest in the morning, Clust could hear her footsteps from Esgair Oerfel in Ireland as far as to
the borders of space; and furthermore, he could hear the thought in her mind before ever she
had uttered it.
"Clust fab Clustfeinad," said Arthur, "are you hearing anything from below and beyond
there?"
"A frog croaking I heard - if a frog it was; and a man breathing I hear now - if he is a
man. Follow you me, if it please you; and I will lead you to him."
So they rode forward after Clust fab Clustfeinad; and Taliesin Benbardd putting fierce,
strong, exultant coercion on the harpstrings, and shaking out the music magnanimously
through the night; so that tremendous speed was with their horses.
"Is it far away now?" asked Arthur.
"In my deed to heaven and man, it is not far," said Clust. "It is very near at hand."
"Ah," said Arthur then; "the right fore-hoof of Fflamwen my mare struck against
hardness; and it seemed to me that the hardness was cracked."
"Cracked it was; and my genius has come back to me," said Ol fab Olwydd. "I smell
the Sapphire Necklace; and it is falling down through space below us."

"In my deed it was cracked; and my sight thereby has come back to me," said Drem
fab Dremidyd. "I can see the blackness falling away swiftly below, and a blue light shining out
through the crack in it, that has the appearance of shining from thirteen bright amazing
sapphires within."
"By the ruby in thy ring it cracked, Lord Arthur," said Clust; "and the music sounding
out through the crack is like that of the thirteen Arch-flautists of heaven; and even better.
Hark you now, if it please you!"
They heard the song of the sapphires, and it was as much as seventeen times better
than Clust had said; and even more than that. It rose out of the crack in Ghuggg's planet that
Fflamwen's hoof had made, and soared and floated out through thirteen universes, spreading
hope and delight: the sapphires with hope restored to them were appealing to the Arthurians
to deliver them.
"Woe is me, the men of Arthur Emperor are upon me!" sighed Ghuggg in his cellar.
"The roof is broken by the rude hoofs of their horses; and their intentions are not good." He
forgot the empire he desired to found, and longed only for escape. "I must set my planet to
spinning and falling, that I may sink into the swamp on the floor of Annwn and be safe from
their loathsome clamor and weapons."
He had fallen on the sapphires to hide the light of them; and now set his globe to
spinning and whizzing downwards, swifter than the arrow's flight, than the passage of the
light-ray, than the leaping of thought in the mind of a bard. Towards the swamp at the bottom
of things he sped it. But the light of the sapphires shone out through his solid ugliness and
through the cracked roof as it fell and as the Arthurians pursued it, their horses diving down
towards the depths.
"Their object is theft, and rieving, and violent robbery," sighed Ghuggg; "woe is me, a
tenfold curse on all thievers and reivers! The honest may not enjoy their lawful gains for
them!" he sighed; and sped his planet the quicker. But the swifter its fall, the swifter were the
war-steeds of the Arthurians in pursuit of it; until the apples of gold at the four corners of their
saddle-cloths burned and became molten and shone out through space. "Now I am near the
swamp!" he chuckled; and then, looking up, moaned in his terror. "Evil on their beards, they
are upon me!"
So his planet whirled downwards, obeying his desire. And there was the swamp not
ten leagues below him; and a league and more between him and Drych Ail Cibddar the
swiftest of the Arthurians. Down and down whirled Ghuggg, gathering impetus; his native
stench and corruption awaited him, near at hand.
"Woe is me, how I am oppressed by the foul effluvia arising from it!" sighed Ol fab
Olwydd. Every moment the little planet as it fell shone the brighter: the light from the
sapphires ever the more impregnating it.
"Now I am saved, and the Necklace with me!" laughed Ghuggg; "in a moment I splash
into the fluid!" And as he said it, the forehoofs of Drych Ail Cibddar's horse struck against his
roof again.
Now there are sharp rocks on the Floor of Things, jutting out from the filth and slime
there; and it was on one of them the planet struck; and what with the swift impact, and the
kick of Drych Ail Cibddar's horse, it burst open and was shattered. Out flopped Ghuggg and
dived like a frog, the Necklace about his middle, into the corruption. But Drych Ail Cibddar
drew rein in time; and in a second the Arthurians were up with him; and there they halted.
The swamp was clearly visible now by the light from the sinking sapphires.
And they blazed out the more the deeper they sank in it. The men of the Island of the
Mighty, watching, presently saw Ghuggg disentangled from them, and float upwards to the
surface, charred, dried up and withering away; so that by the time he reached the surface,

there was nothing of him to reach it.


"This is a marvel," said Ol fab Olwydd; "the stench is gone, and the air has become
sweet and pleasant."
"This is a great marvel," said Drem fab Dremidyd; "for behold you now, the foulness
and opacity of it are wasting and clearing; as if it were pure ether below us forevermore."
"In my deed to heaven and man, it is a lovely, bright, astounding marvel!" said Clust
son of Clustfeinad; "for music is coming up from the sapphires in the depths like the music of
a constellation of noblest stars!"
Arthur looked up and beheld the King of the Nooivray with his court at Gorsedd in the
stone circle near the Pleiades; and nothing between but pleasant slopes, wooded and ferny
mountains, meadows of cowslips and of gentian.
"King of the Nooivray," he cried; "behold, here is a new constellation of stars; come
you now, if it please you, and annex it to the Empire of the Nooivray!"
So those that were in the Gorsedd rode down; and came to where the Arthurians
waited; and dismounted there; and the King of the Nooivray embraced the Emperor Arthur;
and there was good companionship, warmest friendship, between the men of the Island of the
Mighty and the men of the Empire of Heaven. So together they rode down to where the
Sapphire Necklace hung, that now was a beautiful constellation of stars: blue, amazing,
exquisite islands in infinity. And they annexed them to the Nooivray; and appointed officers of
the court to be their rulers and regents. And in this order they rode together from star to star
of them, surveying their new dominion, and conversing together pleasantly, and relating to
each other the heroic tales of the Island of the Mighty and of the Empire of Heaven; and in
this order they sat at feast in the chief palace of the Nwyfre afterwards: that is to say, the
Emperor Arthur and the King of the Nooivray; the Blessed Cai and the Regent of Aldebaran;
Gwrhyh Gwalstawd Ieithoedd and the King's Heir of Fomalhaut; Greidawl Galldonyd and --(Theosophical Path, vol. 38, no. 5)
------------The Twentieth
- Winfrid von Hahn
After a successful examination at the University of Petersburg, I decided to avail myself
of the invitation of my uncle, General Petrunkevich, to spend a month or two on his large
estate near the town of Koselsk.
It was a beautiful spring morning when at early dawn I started for the Nicholas Station.
Disliking, almost hating, the sleepy coachmen with their half-broken carriages and starved
horses, I resolved to walk down the Nevsky Prospect to the station, and to enjoy the
wonderfully fragrant air of the morning.
Just before reaching the river I saw Nekludov, a friend of mine. He ran across the
street to meet me.
"Have you heard the news about Tersky?" he exclaimed, a broad smile beaming on his
face.
Tersky was a student of the University who had joined the revolutionary party and,
being suspected of a plot against the Tsar's life, was under sentence of death. I was almost
convinced of his guilt, yet I cherished hopes that by some unexpected luck Tersky would be
either acquitted or his punishment lessened.
"Haven't you heard?" he went on excitedly. "His sentence has been commuted to

transportation to Siberia! What do you think of that?"


"Good news," I said. "I am glad of it. But somebody must doubt his guilt more than I
do!"
"Nobody doubts it," said Nekludov with a shrug of his shoulders. "But who knows?
This is the twentieth!"
"What of that?"
"There's a mystery about the twentieth. Didn't you know that?"
Nekludov ran off in the direction of the University, eager to take the good news to his
other friends.
I crossed the newly-built bridge over the Neva, stopping for a moment to admire the
dazzling spire of the Fortress, shining under the rays of the morning sun. I looked over the
wide sweeping waters of the river, and the stately row of palaces stretching on both sides of
the bridge along the quay, inhaling the fragrance of the young elms sprouting already in the
Alexander Garden. Then I turned around the corner of the Winter Palace.
I had to pass in front of the palace before crossing the huge square. Between the two
main entrances the usual guard paced up and down. It was Ossip, one of the court-yard
servants. I knew him well - an old man who used to serve in the Ministry of the Interior, where
I used to see him when I visited my uncle.
"Off on a journey, your honor?" he asked as soon as he recognised me.
"Yes. To the province. Anything new in the palace?"
"Today?" he asked and grinned. "No surely. Nothing new today!"
"Well, I suppose His Majesty is out for his usual drive on the Islands. He has a
gorgeous day for it."
"Today, your honor? It's the twentieth."
"What of it, Ossip? Is the twentieth unlucky?"
"Well, I couldn't tell you. I don't know myself. All I know is that His Majesty has never
yet left his palace on the twentieth."
"Are you sure? Not the thirteenth? Why the twentieth?"
"I have wondered myself, your honor. Nobody could tell me about it."
"Well, good-bye, Ossip!"
"Good-bye, your honor. Good luck to you. Hope to see you back soon," and the old
man resumed his pacing up and down, while I went my way across the square towards the
Arch of Triumph.
After a two-days' journey by rail, I arrived at the station of Rilovtsi. Twenty miles
separated me from the property of General Petrunkevich, situated on the other side of the
river.
"Say," I asked the policeman, after stepping out of the car, "where can I get posthorses here?"
"Post-horses? There's no finding a decent dog for ten miles around. And you want
post-horses! People walk here!"
"Walk? My dear man, I am going to General Petrunkevich's. Twenty miles. That's too
far to walk."
"Better wait then. Sometimes peasants come here with their carts. One of them might
take you. Someone is sure to turn up by midday - or this afternoon - or sometime. All you
need to do is wait."
I sat down on a dirty-looking, half-broken bench, entirely surrounded with cigaretteends and pieces of paper. Over my head a sign-board begged me 'Not to spit on the floor,'
but it was obvious that other people had ignored that request. There was nothing to do but
think, and that policeman's face had vaguely recalled Ossip - so I sat and wondered why the

twentieth should be a day on which the Tsar did nothing. Naturally I arrived at no satisfactory
conclusion, except that Tsars are human like the rest of us and possibly as superstitious.
About half-past twelve an uproar on the cobblestones of the one village street
announced the arrival of a couple of carts, repaired with wire, bound with ropes, nailed
together and nevertheless apparently about to fall to pieces.
Simultaneously came the same policeman.
"There," he said, "I told you somebody would come."
He preceded me across the square.
A sturdy, sullen-looking, pockmarked peasant stood beside a cart. He wore barkshoes and a filthy gray smock.
"He'll take you," said the policeman. "Won't you?" he demanded. "Eh? Why don't you
answer?"
"Y...eeee...sss," said the peasant.
"When are you going," I asked him.
"Nunn...o...w."
"In this cart?"
"That's it."
"Will it hold together?"
"May be."
So I clambered in and as I did so it began to rain.
"Which is the front end?" I demanded.
"Where the horse's tail is, there's the front, and where you're sitting, that's the back."
The sorry jade that went by the name of horse stood perfectly still and apparently slept.
The peasant climbed into the cart, produced a long whip and proceeded to flog the animal,
which merely shook its head. The peasant swore and continued flogging. The cart squeaked
and shivered under his violence. After a while it gave a lurch and slowly moved forward.
"Faster!" I suggested.
"What for? She is tired, the brute.... We shall get there anyhow."
But the peasant seemed to understand his animal. After a quarter of a mile or so of
tortoise-like progress he turned to me and remarked:
"Aaa...ll right! . . . She is going to run pretty soon.... Nnn...ow!.... G...oooo! Cursed
brute!"
The cursed brute broke into a slow trot that made the cart rattle as if full of milk-cans.
On one side was the river. On the other stretched endless, boundless plains.... It
seemed that if you drove over them you would certainly get to the other side of the world....
It was appalling. It was Russia. Space and time resuming themselves into infinity and
eternity. That's Russia.
We crossed the river on a ramshackle bridge that squeaked at each step.
The road was classical. It was that particular trough of ground towards which all the
streams of water drained the fields on both sides. After the rain it would be a river, not a road.
Nevertheless it was the only track that could be taken by a cart; whoever should attempt the
field undoubtedly would drown in mud.
The rain which had stopped for a while began pouring again. Pools of muddy water
alternated with deep trenches of slime, where the wheels of the cart plunged to the hub; and
the peasant flogged incessantly - helping the horse, as he called it. We bounded over
invisible stones that jolted us skyward, throwing me from side to side of the cart until I ached
from head to foot. It was Russia at her worst. It seemed incredible that all that vast expanse
of morass, of mud and slimy pools in which things crept, could yield good harvests in the
summer.

"What is your name?" I asked the peasant between lurches.


"Mine?.... Tit!"
"Well, Tit, where is your village?"
"My village.... There!"
"Where?"
"There!" and he pointed towards the horizon. I could not see anything but streams of
rain and pools of mud, as far as my eye could reach.
"Are you married?" I asked him.
"Me?.... Y...eee...sss!"
"Do you have any children?"
"Children?.... Yes!.... Nine!"
"What do you do?"
"I am a laborer."
"How much ground have you?"
"Me?.... Fifteen acres!"
I could think of nothing else to ask him. I seemed to have exhausted Tit's vocabulary
and his stock of conversation, for he drove on in silence at the same slow pace. The road
had given up trying to be a road; it was a disorderly stone quarry now, washed out by the
rain. Yet it is incredible what the Russian peasant can do with his four-wheeled telega, and
the apology for a horse which usually draws it. We progressed by dropping from one rut into
another in dislocating, neck-snapping bounds. The rain poured cats and dogs on us; the
wind howled like a pack of wolves; a fog formed, growing as dense as curdled milk.
It was in that particular state of consciousness that is characteristic of the Russian
peasant, in which, apparently, he neither dreams, nor sleeps, nor wakes. It is a sort of blissful
nonexistence. Finally he woke up, turning half towards me.
"Your honor," he said, "I'll have to stop at that village yonder for a while. You wait in the
cart. I won't keep you long."
"Are you going to visit someone?" I had hopes of a fire at which to warm myself.
"Yes.... An old man."
"A friend of yours, I suppose?"
"A friend of my father. He is dying, I expect. A very old man."
"Sick?"
"No, not sick. Dying."
"Old age?"
"Dying. Old age? Yes, he is a fine old man. But what has that to do with it?"
"You know him well?"
"Fifty years, your honor."
"Fifty years? But didn't you tell me he was a friend of your father?"
"Yes, your honor."
"And how old are you?"
"Sixty-five next month."
"Then the old man must be over a hundred."
"Oh, your honor, he has lost count of his years. He lives each day as it comes. He
never counts them. Yes.... he must be a hundred and thirty now. He was older than my
father."
Partly thinking of a fireside, and partly because my curiosity was aroused, I resolved to
see this old man.
"Is he alone?" I asked Tit.
"He lives alone. Some people come and see him once in a while. He likes animals

too. He had a tamed bear cub, but he let him go. A friend of his took it to the forest."
"Does he mind strangers?"
"Not your kind, or at least, may be not."
"Do you think, Tit, he would allow me to come in with you?"
"He might. He might be glad to see you. Sometimes he likes to talk to people."
"I'll go in with you, Tit."
"Aaa...ll ri...ght!" said Tit.
We arrived at a village, where the road assumed once more the appearance of a soft
deep bed of slime. There, notwithstanding the rain, innumerable dogs came yelping through
the mud to threaten us. Pigs and chickens escaped hysterically from under the cart-wheels,
appearing to be drawn toward them by destiny, although we were only moving at a slow trot.
We stopped in front of a miserable hovel with a little garden in front of it and two birchtrees on each side.
"That's the house," said Tit, lazily getting off the cart. "I'll see whether he is inside."
"You told me he was dying. Didn't you?"
"He is, your honor. But you never know with these people. They are dying today and
tomorrow they are walking about the house. I came here a week ago. He told me a few days
before that he was to die very soon. Next day he walked for over three hours in the rain. You
never know with this kind of people."
Tit disappeared in the hut, and I waited for him outside, for the weather was gradually
beginning to clear up. The rain had stopped; but the wind was increasing. Somber clouds
rushed madly from the western sky, and were torn to pieces before they reached the opposite
horizon. The sun was trying hard to shine through and it was getting warmer. Vapor rose
from the humid earth and was swept away by the wind. I sat on the cart and stared at
endless fields that stretched to the horizon. The village street, empty of all but pigs and
chickens, had only a few ramshackle huts on either side. It was a picture of despair and
poverty, and yet the little hut I was waiting near had something attractive about it - romantic,
tragic, comic? I could not tell what it was. I waited with impatience for Tit to come back, but it
was ten minutes or so before he appeared at the threshold.
"Kosma Vassilyevich will see you," he said, climbing again on the cart.
Before I could reach the hut door Tit had started to drive away, without as much as a
wave of the hand to me. I threw him a rouble and let him go. It was only four more miles to
the house of General Petrunkevich.
Tit turned and thanked me for the coin, then whipped his horse, which had gone to
sleep standing in a pool of muddy water. Apparently my weight too, had made some
difference, for Tit drove almost swiftly up-street.
I knocked at the door. A voice from inside called to me. I entered a dark passage
through which I had to grope my way, stumbling but finding myself at last in a fairly large
room, with two windows towards the west. There was not much furniture: in the middle a
large table; on one side the stove, on the other some home-made odds and ends. In the left
corner, facing the windows, sat Kosma Vassilyevich in a primitive-looking chair with a few
pillows around him. A big dog lay quietly at his feet.
The old man's hair and long, long beard were snow-white; yet, strangely enough, his
face had not one single wrinkle, and his eyes - they were wonderful eyes that I will never
forget - full of youth and fire and knowledge.
"Good evening to you, Kosma Vassilyevich," I said. "Having heard of you lately I have
come to pay you my respects. I am on my way to visit my relatives, the Petrunkevich family."
"Tell them that Kosma Vassilyevich greets them!"
He looked straight into my eyes and smiled in a way that made me feel ashamed of my

curiosity. I had expected to find a feeble, deaf, and probably half-blind peasant, reputed to
have reached a hundred and thirty years; and I had been told he was dying. But the old man
did not show the slightest trace of the approach of death. I did not know what to say to him.
"Tit brought you?" he said suddenly. "Tit told you how old my body is. My soul is as
young as yours and his."
I could not stand there staring without saying something, so I asked him:
"Kosma Vassilyevich, how long have you lived in this place?"
"Twenty-five years, I believe."
"Then it is not your native village? Where were you born?"
"Yonder where the sun rises, beyond the mountains."
"In the Ural?"
"Beyond. I came from Siberia."
"Why did you settle here?"
"It is peaceful. It is quiet. I like these fields and this river behind them."
He gazed out through the window and I watched him carefully. His eyes gleamed in
the semi-darkness of the hut. His quiet face was impressive. I had never seen a peasant like
him.
Suddenly he put his hand out, touching mine and said:
"Listen, my son: When you return to the capital of Holy Russia tell the Tsar that Kosma
Vassilyevich is dead. Tell him that night is coming. But the morning follows night, and again
the sun shines. Tell him Kosma Vassilyevich sent him that message. Tell him that."
"Kosma Vassilyevich," I said in surprise, "how can I see the Tsar and tell him anything?
I am only a student at the University. They will not let me approach the Tsar."
"Oh yes, if you say you come from Kosma Vassilyevich. They know me. They all know
me, and the Tsar himself has seen me here, in this little hut of mine. You think I lie? I speak
the truth!"
I stared at him and tried to hide the incredulity I felt, thinking that perhaps his mind was
wandering in that valley of the shadow that is said to precede death. But his eye and voice
were clear, and he smiled as he recognised the doubt that I had not managed to conceal.
"Our Little Father the Tsar," he went on - "it is a short story. There is not much to it. I
will tell it."
I sat down on a rude log stool beside him, saying nothing, and for a minute or two he
stared into vacancy.
I did not interrupt his thought, and at last he spoke:
"I was not as old as I am now, but I was already an old man. The Tsar was young. He
had only just begun to rule our country. I lived in the great forest of Belovezh, in a little hut
like this one, alone with two dogs, like the one I have here." He petted the old animal that lay
still at his side.
"Our Little Father the Tsar came to hunt bears, for which the Belovezh forest was
famous. There are many animals in the Belovezh forest."
"And you all alone?" I asked him. "Didn't you fear the animals?"
"Fear them? Why? They didn't hurt me. The bears knew me, and I knew them. We
were old friends - I and all the animals. I didn't eat meat - they could smell that and we un derstood each other. That's the secret of it. To understand each other is to like each other.
What is there to be afraid of?
"But the Tsar came to hunt in the forest. He had been told there was only one man,
Kosma Vassilyevich, living in the forest of Belovezh, and they came to me, the Tsar and his
attendants. They asked me to serve as their guide through the forest. I didn't mind. I said
yes. They wished to plunge into the heart of Belovezh and find the biggest bear. I knew such

a bear. He was Mitka the Awkward - a name I gave to him. A huge beast. If they come on
Mitka where he dwells, there will be trouble, I thought to myself. For it was very different for
me, who never killed any beast of God, to come on Mitka, from what it would be for them to
do it. But I knew it was my duty to help our Little Father the Tsar, whatever he might intend to
do, and so I led them all, a dozen people, into the thickest part of Belovezh.
"The snow was deep. The air was crisp, the sky was blue, and the footprints of the
animals were easy to see. Very soon we came on several bear-tracks, and we followed one, I
leading and our Little Father the Tsar behind me. But somehow the party got divided because
some of them followed another track, so that before they knew it, they had lost sight of the
Tsar and had to return a long way on their own tracks to pick up his, because the undergrowth
was much too dense for them to make short cuts from one point to another. But I did not
trouble about them, I had to take care of our Little Father the Tsar, and he smiled, saying he
was glad to be alone for once. He didn't like to be always attended by so many people, but
he didn't mind me, because I didn't talk and didn't suggest he should do this when he had
made up his own mind to do that. I walked behind him now, but I didn't let him out of my sight
for a moment.
The silence of the forest under all that snow was beautiful. Not a sound, not a hush,
except far away the cries of the rest of the party, who had lost their Little Father and were
looking for him. I could see him shake his back with chuckling whenever a cry reached us.
He was having a great time all by himself and I don't doubt he was enjoying the thought of
how they would excuse themselves for having lost him.
"But suddenly I heard the noise that a bear makes when he is disturbed, and the Tsar
stood still. Then he slowly approached a clump of oaks, his gun in hand, ready. The bear
had smelled him. He came out from behind the oak-clump, crashing through the undergrowth
- indignant. I knew it was Mitka. He snorted and grunted and then I could see it was Mitka.
The Tsar stood still. I thought to myself: 'Now assuredly he is going to shoot my Mitka'; and I
was sorry. But no, our Little Father watched and did not move. But the bear did. Mitka the
Awkward could be very sudden when he wished, although he used to be clumsy when he
played in the sunshine and rolled on the snow near my hut. And I thought, It's not going to be
so easy for the Little Father to kill Mitka, who won't let himself be handled as easily as that.
And I was right. My Mitka moved again into the undergrowth and began to move towards our
Little Father, swaying his hips from side to side, and growling. Then the Little Father shot at
him. I heard the gun fire, one, two, three.... and then I saw Mitka very swiftly running off again
behind the oaks. He wasn't hurt. Our Little Father the Tsar had missed him. But Mitka was
angry! And I thought: 'If our Little Father has no more bullets he will be likely to need help.'
So I drew nearer, and our Little Father walked straight towards the oak tree, behind which
Mitka had hid himself. He was stooping forward to aim, so I knew he had bullets and I waited.
Suddenly Mitka came out from behind the tree, and stood up on his hind legs. Do you know,
my son, the noise a bear makes when he is angry and means to show what he can do with all
that mighty weight of his? It is terrible. I saw our Little Father tremble at it.
"The Tsar fired his gun as the bear was turning around, and, as swiftly as he could,
threw himself on his back into the brush. I understood it right away; I was used to the
methods of our huntsmen. I knew also the habits of our bears. They have poor sight, very
poor. I knew that the Tsar had fired all he had and did not know what to do. So he apparently
thought that by throwing himself into the brush the bear would not see him. True enough,
Mitka did not seem to have seen the Tsar that time. He charged at the oak saplings. Not
finding anything there, he rose once more on his hind legs. I could see him pretty well from
where I stood. But I didn't want to interfere yet. I would have done it if it were necessary. I
resolved to wait a moment. 'Poor beast,' I thought, 'they want to have you killed. And why?

You didn't do anything bad to them. Hunting - sport - amusement - that's all.' I guess the Tsar
didn't feel very much like hunting at that moment.
"Well, the bear snuffled around, caught the wind of the Tsar in the other direction and
suddenly came back in a rush. His head was sunk low, as he charged at the thicket where
lay the Tsar. Some thirty feet separated them. Here I darted from behind the trees. The bear
seeing me approach, thought I was another enemy. He lessened his speed. I called him by
his name. 'Mitka,' I said, 'what are you doing there? That's our Tsar lying in the brush. You
won't kill him. Will you?'
"But I must tell you that Mitka the Awkward was an old friend of mine. Not only did he
play in the sunshine before my hut, but he had often eaten from my hands, and had known
me well for several years. He seemed to recognise me at once. He stopped short looking at
me with surprise, and casting glances on the thicket in front of him.
"'Mitka,' I said once more, approaching him quite close that time, 'is that you charging
at our Little Father the Tsar? You are a fool, as I see it. Stop that game now. Get out of here
and be quick!'"
"His eyes changed gradually. From ferocious he became gentle. I made another few
steps towards him and laid my hand on his shoulder. His eyes lost all their angry look, and he
quietly sat down. But I didn't like to have him so near to the Tsar, who had disturbed him. So
I told Mitka to regain his thicket of oak saplings. And so Mitka turned after a while and
grumbling something to himself, went his way into the forest, looking askance on the brush
where lay the Tsar. I watched him for a few minutes until he had disappeared from sight.
Then I turned to our Little Father the Tsar and said to him:
"Well, Father Tsar, what's the use of your gun? It's good only to make those bears
angry and violent. He wasn't bad, after all, Mitka!'
"But the Tsar did not reply. He came out of his retreat, and looked at me, as if I had
dropped from the moon. He could not believe his eyes. Poor Tsar, he had been told that
bears were wild beasts good only for hunting, and here was one which let himself be petted
and caressed."
"But how could you do that, Kosma Vassilyevich," I asked the old man. "How could
you have tamed the bear as quick as that?"
"I didn't tame him," replied Kosma Vassilyevich, "he was the same as before. You see
the beasts of the forest know more than we do sometimes. That bear knew me well. He was
an old citizen of Belovezh. When man likes Nature and works with her, Nature responds and
is friendly. And so with the bear. He knew perfectly well that I would not hurt him. He felt I
was pitying him in my heart, though my duty was to help the Tsar in hunting. When he saw
me approaching he understood there was nothing to fear any more. And so he went his way.
You see yourself, when we feel our kinship to all and love all things, every creature is friendly
to us and understands us. There is the secret of it."
"And the Tsar?" I asked.
"The Tsar? Oh, our Little Father," and Kosma Vassilyevich smiled with benevolence. "I
looked at him and he looked at me, and didn't know what to think of it all. I said to him: 'Well,
Father, your life was spared that time, wasn't it?' And he said: 'Yes, Kosma Vassilyevich, he
was pretty close, the bear.' 'You see,' I said to him, 'that bear, who could have killed you, let
you go. How many, whom you might have killed, have you let go?' But the poor Tsar bent his
head and said to me: 'Old man, I am not so fortunate as you are. I am a Tsar, and I have
duties.'
"Yes," I said, "you have duties, but are they really duties - or other people's habits? If I
were the Tsar I would try at least one day a year to do my duty in another way. Just like that
bear here, who changed his habits on this occasion. What do you think of it, Little Father?"

"But the poor Tsar did not reply. He had enough of the hunt. He never hunted bears
any more. He would not touch them after that. Nobody has seen him kill a bear after that
hunt of his in our forest."
"I should say not," I said looking at old Kosma Vassilyevich. "It must have been a
memorable day for the Tsar. And you say it was quite a number of years ago?"
"Yes, long ago. So long that I do not remember now. Yet I do not know why but the
date stuck in my memory somehow or other. I remember it was on the twentieth of January."
"On the twentieth?" I exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes, on the twentieth of January," repeated the old man. "They say that the Tsar
remembers well that date, and never leaves his palace on the twentieth of every month but
sits home and quietly thinks about the bear and the old man who had taught him a lesson. I
do not know, however, whether this is true."
"It certainly is," I exclaimed and forthwith recounted to Kosma Vassilyevich what the
guard Ossip had told me when I left the capital. The words of my friend Nekludoff came also
to my mind. "They never sentence a man to death on the twentieth," said Nekludoff when I
met him on the street while walking towards the station.
Kosma Vassilyevich appeared to be pleased when he heard about it. A quiet smile
illumined his face. He probably was glad to know that the Tsar had remained grateful to him,
although he never claimed to have saved his life.
"Now," he said, when I had finished telling him about Ossip, "now that you know the
story about the Tsar and the bear-hunt, you see I have not deceived you. You will be admitted
to the palace if you mention my name."
"Yes," I said, "I will go there, and I'll deliver your message to the Tsar. I have no more
doubts that I'll be admitted to his presence."
There was a moment of silence in the little hut. One could hear the wind howling
outside and the noise of a cricket somewhere in the wall of the house. The old Kosma
Vassilyevich seemed tired after telling his story. He looked over the brightening sky and the
fields stretching on the other side of the village street. He was at peace with life and with
everything it contained. He was at peace with death and seemed to have within himself
everything he needed. A world apart to give and to enjoy himself in.
I stood up. I said I was going to leave and continue my journey to General
Petrunkevich.
"Yes," said the old man, "go now and when you return to the capital be sure and deliver
my message to the Tsar. It is important. Don't forget it. When you'll be on the way, think of
me. The day is near when the light will dawn for all of us and a new sun will shine over
Russia. God help you!"
As Kosma Vassilyevich said these words, a sudden beam of sunshine came into the
room from amidst the dark clouds rushing in the evening sky. I looked instinctively through
the window. I saw the red pageant of the setting orb between masses of storm-buffeted
clouds and rainbows on the northern horizon. The ray illumined the quiet face of Kosma
Vassilyevich and threw a glow of rose over the small table that stood in front of him. The face
of the old man shone like some distant fire. There was a peculiar radiance around it, as if
some inward light added its luminous effulgence to the glare of the evening sun.
I left the room, looking at Kosma Vassilyevich with astonishment and affection. When I
stepped into the street, I paused for a moment and admired the splendor of the setting sun.
Dark clouds were swiftly receding towards the east. The sky was lit with a wonderful light of
pink and gold and purple. And from the depths of the gleaming sunset, a calm voice, borne
on the wings of wind, seemed to say:
"When once you forget yourself, life is a friend and nature a true companion."

When I returned through the little village on my way back, Kosma Vassilyevich had
passed away.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 38, no. 6)
--------------The Temple
A Mystic Experience (1923)
- Ernest O. Kramer
At a certain place there stood an ancient circular temple, built of white stone. The
elements of its architecture were Truth, Sincerity, and Beauty, and the unity and completeness
of its design satisfied all desire.
The stones of its construction were all perfectly fitted together, and each stone had a
meaning. Together, forming the beautiful whole, they told the wisdom of the ages; so that for
those who loved and could understand, the Temple was ever a source of Truth, Wisdom, and
Inspiration.
The lower part of the Temple was a crypt, its floor level with the outside earth; and it
had no windows, but only one small low door which opened inward. Without the Temple was
an open space, and beyond that a road.
And there were those who served in the Temple and round about it, to care for it and
guard it and what pertained to it. They were garmented in white robes, and as they entered
or left the Temple, or were anywhere employed in its service, they studied its construction and
meanings, ever perceiving new beauties of Truth and Wisdom.
But they were a small company, for in those days there were dire troubles and
calamities throughout the land, and the love of Truth, Wisdom, and Virtue seemed gone from
the earth. Had it not been for the very few, the Temple would have been utterly neglected and
perhaps even destroyed.
Of this company I was a humble member, and often I looked upon the Temple, always
with increasing reverence and admiration.
And it came to pass that upon a day I stood in the open space before the Temple, and
gazed upon it with affection, and as I looked I understood somewhat of its meaning and
history, somewhat of things that were, and of things to come.
Since the earliest times, when all paid reverence to the Temple of Truth and loved
Wisdom and Light, the struggle for supremacy between the constructive and destructive
forces of nature had become more and more accentuated, until now was come a time when
the destructive forces seemed dominant. There were earthquakes, tidal waves, devastating
storms and conflagrations, and epidemics of disease.
In the affairs of men, religious, governmental, political, and social, a corresponding
destructive power was also dominant. Through long periods of slowly but surely acquired
control, the agents of evil had reached a position of material power which none could
successfully oppose. Filled with the assurance that all was now theirs, they cast aside all
disguise and stepped boldly forth to accomplish their evil purposes. In human affairs their
wishes gradually became laws binding on all, from the highest to the lowest, until finally there
was no place in the land for any who opposed them, nor any place free from their
machinations for control. Like conquerors they could now say, "The world is ours." The
lovers of Truth and Liberty were hunted down wherever found.
And the agents of evil knew of the beautiful Temple and its meaning. They knew that it

was the repository of the Truth that should one day regenerate humanity, and even from of old
they had ever sought its destruction. But when the time was propitious and they came nigh
unto destroying it behold! they could find it not.
Thus had they been always defeated, and each time when their effort ceased, there it
stood forth again in all its beauty.
And now the Temple was the last and only remaining center of Truth and Light, and the
only thing that yet opposed their complete victory. And as time went on and all other
obstacles were removed from their path, their attacks upon it were renewed with ever
increasing animosity until the whole land seemed to be engaged with them in their evil work.
The number of those who loved the Temple and who cared for it and guarded it grew
smaller and smaller, and on those now remaining the responsibility became very great.
Those who knew, those who had shaped its stones and built the Temple, saw that the
ascendancy of evil would continue for long years. They saw that troubles and disasters would
increase until destruction would be destroyed by destruction, and that after this it would be
necessary to plant the seeds of Truth anew throughout the earth, to grow and bear fruit for the
healing of the nations, at the coming of a New Time.
Therefore were these Great Ones resolved to save the Temple and those who should
be of it, so that neither it nor they should be lacking when the time of need should come.
And I stood again in the open space before the Temple, somewhat afar off, and I
looked upon it with affection. I knew within me that the powers of evil would never desecrate
its beauty, and that the time for the saving of the Temple was at hand.
The door of the crypt opened, and I saw a soft light within, and the keeper of the door,
in white robes, looked forth upon the road and the open space.
And those who belonged to the Temple came along the road one by one. All were
dressed in white robes, and when they came to the open space, stood still; and the keeper of
the door opened it and looked upon them intently, and if he gave them not the sign, they
passed on, but if he gave them the sign then they turned toward the door of the crypt and
were admitted.
And I knew that of these who served the Temple and its purpose - certain ones, up to a
certain number - would receive the sign to enter: to be in and of the Temple and saved with it
through the space of the terrible years to come, after which they would step forth to plant the
seeds of Truth throughout the world.
Slowly the number of those who entered the crypt increased, and those who came and
received not the sign passed sorrowfully on.
And of the number to be chosen there remained now only three, now only two, and
now only one. I looked forth along the road to see who would come next but could see no
one. I waited and looked forth again, and then looked round about, knowing that another
must come, but no one could I see. But as I turned my eyes again toward the door of the
crypt, I saw the keeper of the door looking intently upon me, as I stood quite afar, and I was
dismayed; and lo! all unexpectedly, he made me the sign.
And now I walked to the door and was admitted in silence, though the eyes of the
keeper of the door seemed to read my very heart. And he closed the door behind me, and
locked it, and I knew that none could tell when it would be opened again.
And I saw that, like the exterior of the Temple, so the interior of the crypt was all of
white stone with low vaulted ceiling. And the stones of the floor were laid in circles one within
the other around the round stone, in the middle of which was The Center; and there was no
furniture or adornment of any kind.
Though the crypt had no windows, yet was the whole everywhere equally light with a
beautiful soft glow, the source of which was not to be seen.

And I saw that those who had entered the crypt lay upon their backs upon the white
floor with their white robes straitly laid over their bodies; and all their feet pointed exactly to
the middle of the center round stone of the floor. They lay like the spokes of a great wheel,
and to complete the circle there were only two more needed - the last comer and the keeper
of the door.
And I perceived that all were asleep, though none breathed and no heart beat; it was
as if they were dead and yet at the same time were only asleep, and I knew that so all would
remain until the appointed time.
At the head of each sleeper was a candle, and at his feet a cube of lead, and I was
given these things also.
And I lay me down in my place in the circle, and placed the candle at my head and the
cube of lead at my feet, and the keeper of the door was to do likewise and to occupy the last
space, forming the full circle.
And our hearts were joyful, for we knew that after the circle of the Custodians was
complete, and we were all asleep, no harm could come to the Temple during the time that
was upon us, for no enemy, either of nature or of man, would be able to reach its safely
hidden retreat. It would be within the hands of the gods. It would be saved as seed is saved
by the sower for future harvests bridging the winter of storm and frost when nought can be
grown, or even planted. The forces of evil would fail in their purpose. Then, when the evil
time was past, would the Temple again stand forth in all its beauty and grandeur, to inspire all
who beheld it with love of Truth, Wisdom and Virtue.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 39, no. 1, Jan., 1931)
--------------On the 'Hill of the Thrushes'
- F. H. Alehouse, M.A.
I - The Opal
There is a part of King William's Glen, near Drogheda, called the 'Hill of the Thrushes,'
for there they sing all through the year and robins with them. It is a place where a little stream
flows laughing down a valley. The country people say "You couldn't be sad there," and they
say that there grows there an herb which can heal the broken-hearted.
It has its memories, has the 'Hill of the Thrushes'; it has known one of the great
contests between Angus Oge and Balor Beman: Angus Ever Young, the Lord of life and love,
and Balor-of-the-mighty-Blows - the king of death.
In the far-off days of long ago there lived a woodcutter who worked for King Concuber.
It was on the 'Hill of the Thrushes' that he dwelt. He was a widower and he had two young
daughters, Finula the fair and Oona the dark. Both were wonderfully pretty girls, and as good
as they were beautiful. If you saw Finula with her dark blue eyes and hair like ripe corn, you
would think you had seen the greatest beauty of all the girls of Eire. You would go on think ing
that till you saw Oona, and then you would think it was she who was the greatest beauty, with
her hair as black as the glorious sky at night and her dark eyes full of mystery as the stars.
But if you saw them both together it is speechless you would be, and as you kept glancing
from one to the other your thoughts would alter with every look. Indeed, each was perfect in
her own way, and Angus Oge in his Dun at Brugh-on-Boyne had great plans for them both.
He rejoiced that his human children were so merry and so fair.
One day Oona the dark went down to the Boyne and had a swim in it and Finula was

with her. Finula went home to get her father's dinner ready, and more slowly Oona followed,
and she was as sweet and shapely to look upon as a water-lily in the river.
Now as Oona was going up into the Glen she met a solitary horseman. He was a very
knightly man; he rode on a white horse and wore chain armor. A hood was drawn down upon
his forehead, but under the hood Oona could see the glint of gold. There was only one
strange thing about him - instead of a hawk he carried a raven on his wrist, and the dog that
ran behind his horse was not a wolf dog (such as followed the heroes of the Red Branch). It
was a monstrous black dog, ugly as sin, black as destruction, and as fierce as a demon.
It grinned when it saw Oona but a slight movement of its master's fingers instantly
made it quiet and the Red Branch Knight (for so he seemed) spoke to Oona. Deep bass was
his voice, and he spoke like a king.
"Greeting, pretty maiden," he said, "it is a pleasure to the eyes to see so fair a face as
yours."
Oona would have given some laughing answer to any stranger who spoke to her so,
an answer that would have won a laugh in reply and sent the man peaceably on his way. But
now she felt a chill of fear run through her and with the fear, a repulsion to the speaker; yet
with the repulsion an odd sense of reverence.
She sensed the Knight to be a very great person, greater than anyone she had ever
known. So she curtsied low and said: "The blessings of the gods be on you, Sir," (the Knight
winced slightly). "I am only a poor woodcutter's daughter, but can I show the road or get you
anything?"
"Nothing, nothing, pretty maiden," the Knight answered, and he did not give a blessing
back. "You talk of gods! May I ask who is the chief divinity hereabout?" and there was a
sneer on his dark face that made poor Oona tremble.
She answered in a shaking voice, "Oh, oh, don't you know, sir? The glorious Angus
Ever Young, the Lord of Love. In his green mount at Brugh-on-Boyne he dwells magnificent;
he is the deliverer from all ills, even death itself."
"Indeed," said the dark rider, "how interesting! What a very potent god he must be!
But have you never heard of a greater one than he, Balor Beman?" and he laughed a deep,
harsh laugh.
"Oh, sir, you frighten me; please let me go, and do not blaspheme the great, bright
god," the frightened girl replied.
"I have been told, not only by you, my pretty maiden, but by others that the Playboy of
Brugh is a very great divinity. Now I am going to gather a flower out of his garden, and I
challenge him to prevent me, or recover it!" cried the Knight, and he threw back the hood that
had concealed his features. He was at once dark and livid, his face was calm like Destiny,
but on his thin, white lips was a cruel leer.
Oona saw beneath the crown of domination on his forehead, a third eye. She tried, but
failed, to scream or pray. It was the dread King of Death who had invaded the very garden of
Angus Oge.
Slowly the eyelids opened and from the 'eye of blasting' a dark ray fell on Oona. The
stones on the road were powdered by its force and where a beautiful girl had been was only a
little heap of white ashes.
Balor got down and raked the ashes with his fingers. In a moment he had found what
he sought; a black opal full of changing lights was in his hand. He placed the opal on his
crown and it became one of the many jewels there.
"Ah, Angus Ever Young," laughed Balor, "I have gathered a flower in your own especial
garden, and that flower is a jewel in my crown. All the more beautiful, Angus, because it loved
and hoped in you; loved to no purpose and hoped in vain. Come Angus, the Illdana is at the

furthest corner of his universe. He cannot save you now, He wills to create a new star (as sad
as this will it be). Come, recover your jewel, Angus Playboy."
But there was no answer, nor any that regarded, and none came; for Angus Oge was
sleeping. Then Balor with his pale horse and his hell-hound rode into nothingness.
There was nothing there but some white ashes which the wind played with and
scattered far and near.
II - The Sapphire
The loss of Oona was still as a throb of burning pain in the hearts of Finula and her
father, but the music of Nature still played on its song of hope and love. The little stream
laughed, the bird-chorus sang, the wind played its many tunes on the branches of the trees,
the fire sang its 'divine song' on the hearth.
"All things are happy; the whole glen is full of peace, but we do not know it," said the
woodcutter. "Is Angus only the gardener of Balor, and is Balor the Master of Destiny?"
Finula did not reply. She only said, "Let us trust that the light is greater than darkness,
father. Lord Angus may yet hear and help us." The woodman sighed and went out to his
work.
That morning a knock came to the door and when Finula opened it a white horse was
tied to a tree, and a tall, kingly rider asked to be allowed to rest himself. Finula curtsied and
showed him to a seat beside the fire.
He sat warming his hands and as they were silent, a chorus of birds could be heard
about the house, all singing of hope and love.
The dark Knight spoke, saying, "What a disturbing noise those creatures are making!
Silence is beautiful; all else is distracting and unpleasing."
"They are greeting the Spring, Sir," Finula said, "it is sweet to me for I love the time of
blossoms, but perhaps you have some grief or some anxiety: then indeed everything is a
discord."
"You remind me of what I came for, fair maiden," the Knight said. "I like blossoms too,
but the ones I value are unchanging ones. They do not wax or wane, bud or fade. I gathered
such a one in this place last year."
He threw back a hood which he had kept about his face and Finula saw a crown about
his head studded with most precious stones. One great black opal in front seemed to flash at
her its inner fires.
"You are admiring my crown" the Knight inquired.
"Surely, Sir, I am, but perhaps I should say Your Majesty. You must be a King who for
some reason is dressed like a knight."
"No ceremony, pretty maiden," the Knight answered. "I am a King. I am visiting a part
of my Kingdom where a pretender called Angus is for the moment in possession. I tolerate
that, for though he is only a petty godling, he is, I must admit, a most successful gardener. All
his flowers come to me, pretty maiden, and I keep some of them in this form." He placed his
finger on the gems in his crown. "I want just one more, for which there is room, and I believe I
shall get as beautiful an ornament as I got here before in this black opal. But you had best
know who I am," and he bowed slightly.
"My name is Balor Beman, Lord of Eternity." As he spoke he opened his third eye on
Finula, but before the fate of Oona was hers, she cried in her despair:
"Angus Ever Young, hear and save!" ....
Balor held in his hand a most marvelous sapphire. "It is equal to the opal," he said and
he placed it in his crown. But as he left the house to mount his horse, his raven croaked

loudly and his hound bared its teeth and growled, while three birds, one white, one golden,
and one green, flew crying and calling across the glade.
"The bird of laughter, the bird of dreams, the bird of love," said Balor. "O birds, where
is your Master? Asleep again, hey? He will lose all his flowers if he is not more wakeful. Ah,
my Lord Angus, so you are awake this time? Well Playboy, are you looking for another flower
you have lost? It is in my crown, dear dreamer, and there it will remain."
Angus drew near his foe and laying his hand upon his golden sword, said: "Enemy of
life and happiness, destroyer who creates nothing, robber of the beauty I make! defend
yourself! An Dan (Destiny) will not intervene between us now. You have a sword. On guard!"
But Balor did not draw. "My boy," he said, "a scuffle between gods is undignified. As
you rightly say, Lu Illdana (the Supreme, God of the Sun) will not interfere now. So I intend to
settle this little affair in my own way. I am quite sorry to reduce you to ashes. You have had
your uses in making nice things for me, but as you appear to want to be unpleasant, this is
the only way." And Balor opened the 'eye of blasting' full on Angus.
The death-ray hissed like an adder as it fell full on Angus Oge. As it did so a hand of
light above the young god's head appeared to pluck the silver moon out of the sky, for it held
a perfect argent mirror, disc-shaped and marvelous, between the face of the Ever Young and
the baleful beam.
Back upon Balor was reflected the black flame of destruction: right into his third orb
went its own fire. Where Balor had stood was but a column of black dust which whirled and
settled down slowly to the ground. In the dissolving dust shone two bright objects, his manyjeweled crown and a huge carbuncle full of burning glow that had once been the 'eye of
blasting.'
Angus Oge fell on his face before a form of sunlight. Illdana Himself stood before him.
"I was not far away, my child," said the Great, Good God. "I was in your heart and
always am I there. What might Balor possesses was mine also. I am the Light and the
Darkness."
"O my Lord," cried Angus, "you have destroyed Destruction. You have slain black
Death."
"I have subdued him somewhat. I have taken the venom from his weapon, the proud
tyranny from his heart," answered the Illdana, "but neither gods nor men die, for they exist in
my life. Henceforth Death shall be a Deliverer not a Despot."
The Illdana spoke, and every wind sang in exultation. They made the leaves dance
and the flowers; the dust danced on the road; the very ashes of Balor danced in exultation at
the words of deliverance. Every bird sang as if its throat would burst; all the World was filled
with unclouded Joy.
That is why from then to now all the music of Nature is full of divine hope and joy. The
great composers have but copied in their melodies the song of water and wind, bird, flame of
fire, all crying in exultation the name of the Illdana, who transmutes terror into delight, sorrow
into ecstasy.
As to Angus, he called forth the spirits of Oona and Finula from the precious stones in
which they dwelt; he gave them back their beautiful girlhood again - and yet the stones
remained still shining in the crown of vanquished Balor, now diadem of the God of Love.
"These stones of beauty were your past, my children, make new gems by your future
lives," said the Ever Young.
And Balor was reborn as Tiernmas, the gentle Giver of Sleep to the weary, the old, and
the suffering. And none who know of how the Illdana gave succor to Angus Oge fear
Tiernmas, the kindly servant of the Great, Good God, of whom it is said, "he cures all ills,
reunites all friends, gives the Great Peace to all who suffer."

(Theosophical Path, vol. 39, no. 5)


--------------The Pathway to the Name of Names
- Reata V.H. Pedersen
One there was who had been called to learn of Those whose Place is a lofty land and
there to serve Those who serve the Lords of Holiness. And this one who was called was
given overmuch to dwelling in thought, so that his work was viewed with sightless eyes; and
he was given also to the asking of questions that his thought might frame the answers.
The Master whom he served knew that in time he would learn that the question holds
within its compass the answer - but the time was not come. This Holy One from whom his
lessons came was called the Master of Symbols, and he whom he taught was called Naman
which means only a name - so that it appears that he had not yet found his work. For when
we have become one with the work we are to do, then have we a name from which we can
never be separate.
Now Naman came from his bare and clean room at the hour when warm darkness
receives the first cold pure ray of the light and by it is dissipated. And as he set his foot
across the threshold he felt a slight obstruction in his path which, as his bare foot touched it,
gave forth a murmur. Stooping, peering, he found a leaf of that tree which grows in that lofty
land and in no other place in all the manifested world. Taking it in his hands Naman
examined it as closely as the faint light permitted but, finding it only a leaf, he replaced it
whence he had taken it and walking carefully around it went his way. For Naman had learned
one lesson and it was, that no thing is without purpose in the Universe of Beautiful Order.
A second day in the early light Naman, having crossed the threshold of his doorway,
came again to an obstruction and, finding it a leaf, he said unto himself, "Since I know that
naught is without purpose in this Universe of Holy Purpose and that which Soul has learned
Soul is no longer concerned with, there must be a lesson in this leaf, for me." So Naman took
it gently in his hands to trace its seven and three veinings which he had been told held the
secret of the Higher and the Lower, and he determined to seek for another such leaf.
Having opened his eyes. Naman found; and when in the evening he returned to the
Holy One by whom he was taught, he bore to him the two leaves saying: "See, Master, I have
learned the lesson and it is, that of all only Truth is the same." But as the Master spoke not,
Naman asked: "Is not that the lesson, Holy One?" - showing that since he knew it not for the
answer, the lesson was not yet learned.
A third day Naman found before his door a bough of many leaves from the tree which
grows in that lofty land and in no other place in the manifested world, and his senses having
been awakened he sought the Master, saying: "I recognise that which Thou wouldst teach,
for I have learned that All Truth springs from One Truth." He awaited the word of agreement
from the Master of Symbol but the Holy One spoke not, so that Naman turned away in doubt,
but without making of his doubt a question.
On still another day, very early in the morning, Naman coming from his room found his
way obstructed by a seedling of the tree which grows but in the land of the Holy Ones, and
this he planted in the ground a little to the right of the path, for he thought, humbly: "There
may be some, even as I, who being not ready for all the truth will find it an obstruction, but to
them, and to me, it will offer All Wisdom when we have been taught to drink the sap of its
Knowledge by those who serve the Lords of Holiness and in whose hand is the cup that

runneth over." Thinking thus he went in eagerness to the Master of Symbols telling him of
that which he had done, nor did he question if his act were right. Yet the Master spoke not
and Naman was low in his spirit that nothing he did found favor with the Holy One.
But Naman tended the seedling, and it grew, and from its flourishing he learned many
lessons; one, that the tree held no more of Truth than his own being; a second, that its sap
sprang from the same life as all Being.
Having learned, Naman was more humble still, and he smiled not at his own
righteousness nor yet did he sorrow at his own imperfection, but accepted them as weight
and weight and measure and measure alike of each other. So accepting them, he made way
to the Holy One and to him he said: "I should like to return to that Place where dwell those
who are blind even as I. To them I would speak of this Most High Place where grows the Tree
of Truth that is kept alive by the Sap of Knowledge, for though I am imperfect and fail to see
much that is an open secret of happiness yet that of which I have knowledge I would share,
and the path I followed when I sought thy presence, O Holy One - to that Path I would point
my brothers."
Then the Master of Symbols raised his hands and with them he made the sign above
Naman which is the Symbol of Service to Humanity, and he opened his mouth, and words like
none that Naman had ever heard issued from His lips, yet were they without sound. And
around Naman there was the color of mighty music, and over him was the fire which burned
not, and about him there was placed the vesture that would allow of his return to the world of
manifestation, and into his ear was pronounced the name by which those who would know
him for what he was, would call him. And Naman, who had learned that meditation is not all,
and Naman who had learned that question and answer are one, and Naman who had dwelt
with the Masters and served them even as they served the Lords of Holiness, and who had
tended Truth and had drunk of the Cup of Knowledge and whose breathing was tranquil
whether he looked upon that which called to him or that which he rejected, returned to the
world of manifested life.
And those brothers of Naman who had all these things to learn which Naman had
known before he had been called to that Most High Place, sought him. On their lips was the
name that brought them close to Naman as he had been close to the Holy Ones, and that
which they called him with their lips they first knew in their hearts.
'Teacher' they called him and 'Theirs' they named him, and it was a true name and it
confirmed a holy bond, and it fell sweetly on the ears of the one to whom they came. And
with loving heart he served them.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 40, no. 3)
---------------The Blue Rose
A Memory of a Persian Legend
- Reata V. H. Pedersen
He had conquered her people, had the King of Persia, and many of the women of her
family were his slaves and her noble father and her uncle were held in the castle dungeons yet Morgia the Arabian loved Tyrus, her Lord.
Now, in Persia there is a day of feasting. It is the day at the year's beginning and it is a
time of entertainment. On this day the King and the Princes make merry with their courts, and
from among the conquered there are invited those of high rank to witness the many wonders

and to partake of food with the King; they have their freedom for one day only and their
prisons know them not until the sun has set and the stars have jeweled the blue heavens.
To the court from the states of neighboring rulers there come those who have wonders
to perform. There are some who come with horses, having neither life nor breath but with the
power to rise into the air. And some bring magic flutes, to the tune of which even the saddest
at the court cannot but dance. And once a Hindu appeared and he plucked a rose from the
air before the astonished eyes of the King and his court.
It was the King's habit to order the one upon whom his glance might rest to duplicate or
surpass, if he could, the magic shown by the visitor; and should that one be able to do this,
all was well, but should he fail, then death was in store for him. And the humor of the King
was such that his eye was brought to bear upon one from among the ranks of the conquered
and never upon his courtiers unless, perchance, he had given reason for jealousy.
Morgia, the Arabian, served in humble capacity the King whom she loved, and her
duties bringing her to his chamber when an official of the court chanced to be there, she
heard the name of her father, as one who was to be bidden to the feasting.
That night Morgia slept little, for although she knew her father to be clever she also
knew that the years he had spent in the dungeon might well have taken toll of his wit, as it
had of his eyesight. "Surely he will fail if he be called upon to duplicate the magic of a visitor,
and failing, will meet death, and my chance to work upon the heart of the King that my father
be given his freedom and reunited with our family, be gone forever. Oh, that I might please
the great Tyrus, this day of the festival, so please him that he will grant that which I ask!"
Such was the prayer of Morgia.
But that which she feared came to pass and when a Hindu plucked not one but many
roses from the air - enough that the folds of a great silk shawl of Cashmere could not contain
them - it was the father of Morgia who was called upon by the King.
Bowed and blind and slow of foot, the rags of his dungeon still upon him, the
conquered noble of Arabia stood before Tyrus the King of Persia.
"Great King," he cried. "What do I know of roses, who have been held in a dungeon
these many years! I had forgotten the sun and I remember not the pure breath of a garden.
How then shall I pluck roses from the air? I can show you the ghost of a man and a rat from
his dungeon - but naught else."
The King's voice held anger. "Roses - roses, I said. Obey - or die!"
Before the voice of the King had ceased there came the swift patter of small white feet,
the sound of ankle bells, and Morgia the Arabian sped to the side of her father. She lifted her
voice to the King: "Dear Lord, give permission that I take the place of my father; allow that I
attempt to surpass or at least duplicate the feat of the Hindu."
And Tyrus the King was pleased to grant her request for he had looked upon Morgia
with favor because of her devotion to him and because hers was a love that but asked to
serve and had hitherto demanded naught from him. So not only did he hear her with favor,
but he then and there decided that should she succeed in the attempt, her father should be
given his freedom and Morgia and her family be allowed to accompany him back to their own
land.
But the heart of Morgia was saddened by the last words of the King for she wanted not
to leave him and her heart was hurt that he could so willingly let her go. Yet her love for her
father demanded a duty of her and without more thought of her own sorrow, but with all her
heart in her voice, she spoke to the King in these words:
"Dear Lord, Morgia has no magic but that your kingly nature can bestow. The rose that
she would hold before your eyes is the Rose of Heaven and it is the beauty of a kind and
kingly deed. This day, that is one of feasting and rejoicing - make it live in the memory of

many as that day when a great heart lived greatly. Free those you have conquered, reunite
families, open to the sunlight your dungeon doors. Do that, my Beloved and Lord, which
satisfies the heart of the woman who loves you; act greatly - live nobly - let no heart but be
glad that you are Lord. Be merciful and tender - even to those who offend. Strive to see that
these hearts are held within the hollow of your hand. Crush them not!"
And in the voice of Morgia was her belief in the greatness of the King, of Tyrus - her
Lord.
The great King of Persia, the conqueror of strong men, was himself conquered by the
faith in his greatness which was in the heart of Morgia, and he called her to him and gave her
his word that the dungeons would be opened and that his deeds would thereafter be ever
kingly; and as he spoke, behold! the air was filled with roses of a hue never before seen - nor
since, except in Persia where blows that fairest flower - the Rose of Heaven and it is - blue.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 40, no. 5, Nov., 1931)
----------------The Toy-Maker of the Cross-Roads
(A Christmas Story for Grown-ups)
- Reata V.H. Pedersen
The big car skidding around the corner, coming to an abrupt stop with a lurch of its
shining body and a screech of holding brakes, was not the first from which a beautiful woman,
beautifully dressed, had descended to enter the rambling building which housed the tools and
materials of the toy-maker's art.
Myrna Leslie was not the first woman to be surprised at the answer given her by the
gentle-faced man, with hair that was a silver glory, when, after a hasty glance at her
memorandum book, she asked: "How soon could you send to the Children's Home at
Westlake 20 dolls, 15 sets of soldiers, 10 Noah's Arks, 1 dozen clowns - the Jack-in-the-box
kind - and a number, say fifty, of those clever wooden horses with riders that I saw in the large
window?" For many women and men too with similar query on their lips had entered the shop
whose master signed each toy with the name Nadir, which signature also appeared on a few
small but precious landscape canvases so avidly sought by collectors, but to be told regarding
the time necessary for delivery: "Only as long as it will take you to learn to make one of each
of the toys you order."
"Learn to make them! I - ? Why should I make them?" Mrs. Leslie's surprise was
great. Not waiting for Nadir to speak she added yet another question. "How could I make
them?" was its form.
"You could stop here in the village, or here with me, and by beginning work at a
reasonably early hour each day, well-covered by an apron I would furnish you, banishing from
your mind all thought of stained fingers, you would soon gain skill with the scroll-saw and with
paint-brushes and enamel, which are all the material things needed to turn bits of wood into
'clever wooden horses with riders,' as you described the toys in the large window," Nadir told
her.
"Yes - but why should I?" his visitor inquired in such a puzzled tone that Nadir's mouth
trembled into a whimsical smile, although he replied in all seriousness: "So that something of
the giver may go with the gift," adding in a deeper voice, that held the note of a temple gong,
"for your soul's sake."
Myrna Leslie actually looked shocked and she glanced down at her form in such a

manner that Nadir's whimsy found expression in, "Surely you didn't leave your soul out there
in the car - ?"
The woman stammered, "I think - think you must - be - "
"Crazy" Nadir finished the sentence. "There are many who would agree with you.
Without doubt I am a little queer," he conceded.
His smile was very gentle, as was his direct glance into her wide eyes, as she passed
from the shop through the door, the mechanism of which produced a voice which said elfishly,
entreatingly even, "Come again, my dear!" as it opened and closed under her urging hands.
But the woman heard it not.
The man who was Mrs. Leslie's companion in the car whistled in surprise. "So that's
where he keeps himself nowadays. If it is the same - the landscape artist - how astonishing
that he should take to making toys! I've seen the man in Egypt and in China, heard of him in
India, where it was said he spent some time with the Grand Lama of Lhassa, and other men
have told me that he was known in Yucatan some sixty years ago - ."
"He doesn't look more than fifty now," Mrs. Leslie protested. "Besides, his toys are
famous and I have known of them for about twelve years. It was when - Jeddie - when Jeddie
was so ill from the accident, that someone sent him a most ridiculous clown that could do all
sorts of funny tricks but which was hand-made and perfect in detail - . It had the name of
Nadir on it. Jeddie - Jeddie wouldn't give it up. His little cold fingers held it - when - when - ."
Her voice faltered and for a moment there was silence before she continued in steadier tones,
"The Children's Home at Westlake received some two years ago - that's how I happened to
think of sending some there as we passed. I saw his sign and - "
"And made Hubert stop so suddenly with your impulsive use of the signal," Langdon
Taylor interjected, "that we surely must have taken much of the new surface off our tires,
bought, you may remember, so that the happiness of our journey might not be marred by the
chance bursting of an old one. You needn't look so serious about it," he laughed. "One
doesn't count the cost of a fair lady's whim and, really, Myrna, I'm only talking for the sake of
your reply. It is easy to see that something happened in that shop to disturb you."
"He said - he said such a queer thing," Mrs. Leslie mused, as if her companion's words
had not been heard. "Don't touch me Langdon," she ordered as he placed his hand over
hers, "I must think - "
"That old fool has upset you, Myrna. You were just getting to the point where my plan
for you - for us, seemed the best one, and now you are back in that foolish state where you
are willing to go on forever, tied to poor Leslie whose condition has robbed him even of the
memory of a wife. My word! Anyone would think us still living in the Victorian age where
sense of duty hid right of the individual under a weight of such magnitude that women came
to death without ever having known life. Leslie has nurses a-plenty," he continued more
quietly. "Why should you serve him in that capacity for the rest of your life just for the sake of
that old bromide 'for better or for worse' which crept into the marriage ceremony where with
the one 'I promise to obey,' - it doesn't belong. You, a modern woman," Langdon Taylor
chided humorously "to abide by archaic laws! You, to allow the words of a wandering artist or
toy-maker, whichever he may be, to trouble you! He's probably as crazy as poor old Leslie."
Unheeding, hand outstretched to the signal which would communicate her wishes to
the driver, Myrna Leslie exclaimed: "He said it would be for my soul's sake! Oh Langdon,
how did he know I needed very much to do something for my soul's sake? How did he know
that since Jeddie's death I have just drifted, doing little for that poor creature to whom I am
married but keep his name for my own. My soul - my soul! - I had forgotten that I have one.
Take me back to him, Langdon! Perhaps if I worked there, with the toys, the soul of Jeddie's

mother would come back to her."


Her fingers closed upon the signal; she spoke through the tube: "Go back, Hubert.
Drive back to the house of the toy-maker."
It was the garden of Nadir that Mrs. Leslie was first to know. The days of her stay as
his guest were but few, as yet, and the hours at the workbench few, too, for the toy-maker had
said that she must first feel friendly to her work or toys would remain just bits of wood. "I told
you that paint and brush and scroll-saw were the material needs of the toy-maker's art, but it
is necessary to see the child for whom the toy is being made if it is to be the 'just as real as
life' kind that will serve the demand."
"Just as real as life," Nadir repeated his own words, "so you can see that the toy has
first to be beautiful, for only beauty is real."
Myrna Leslie protested. "Not real, all the sorrow and hurt? Not real, my boy's death?
Not real, all these long years of horror as the wife of a drug fiend?"
"Oh yes, they were real," she assured herself. "Anything so horrible could be nothing
else. There couldn't be anything as unreal as their ugliness!"
"Real only if realized as beauty," Nadir said. "Let me quote your words in part: 'All the
sorrow and hurt of death.' Yet realization of death as sleep where neither sorrow nor hurt can
be, gives it the beauty of peace. Surely you do not think of the place beyond, to which death
serves as a door, as a place of suffering. 'These long years of horror as the wife of a drug
fiend' - my dear, that we have time to serve others through the cycle we call a year - ; is not
that a beautiful thought? Think if we were snatched from the possibility of serving, of
satisfying a need within ourselves to serve; think, if the year were but a moment, how little
you could have done for him, your husband whom you call a drug fiend. Think of how short
your time, if years were not and only moments came to us, think of how short your time with
your boy. As for ugliness: how but unreal can it be since first there must have been beauty
for comparison, as there first must have been Truth before there could be not-Truth, as there
first was harmony before not-harmony and beautiful reality before ugly unrealness."
"There first must have been that rose," Nadir continued, "before your idle fingers could
have destroyed it. There was a time when there was not man to perceive beauty, but never a
time when beauty was not! Formless Void - but not without Beauty!"
Myrna
Leslie's
eyes
filled
with
tears.
She
said
passionately:
"I love flowers.
I did not mean to destroy the rose.
I did not think."
"You need to think for your soul's sake. Come, my child, to the path of true thought,
follow it and learn to give of yourself. Let us seat ourselves at the workbench, the young
woman and the old Nadir, and let us take thought that beauty may grow beneath our fingers.
Here we have a chevalier astride a horse that is now dun color but which we will make into
one with a shining chestnut coat. This brush for the paint and that for the enamel, but the
brush of the mind and the color of thought for others - these last we must find within ourselves
if it is to be a happy rider who gallops into the nursery on Christmas morning."
The horse and rider came to life under Myrna's slender fingers. As she worked there
came to her, insensibly at first and then at last consciously, the desire to put that into the
figures which a child would want to find there. She smiled as she chose for bridle and saddle
the shining black enamel. Gold wouldn't have done, she knew that, for gold would not have
been real enough. The toy would have then belonged to the fairy-world and the rider in the
saddle would have needed a plumed hat. The rider which Mrs. Leslie clothed in correct attire
was a gentleman out for a morning run, one who enjoyed riding and loved his animal. See
how he leans forward to pat the neck of the chestnut; see how shining are his boots? A bit
too shining for good form, Myrna decided as she rubbed the gloss down with a bit of emery.
Nadir, who had come up to the workbench, nodded agreeingly. He pursed his lips and

stood off, looking with half closed eyes at the toy, for all the world, the woman thought, as if he
were looking at some wonderful painting.
"Tell me, Master," she begged, not knowing that she called him thus, so natural
seemed that mode of address. "Tell me, Master, why do you not paint more of your wonderful
landscapes? How came you to this place, making toys for children, since the world would
willingly claim you for its own - one of its great masters of painting?"
And Nadir, quoting, answered:
This simple consummation is the best.
I close not my eyes, stop not my ears, nor torment my body.
But every path I then traverse becomes a path of pilgrimage,
Whatever work I engage in becomes service.
He passed from the bench in the garden toward the great room where many worked.
For the making of toys went on day in and day out, month in year in - so greatly were served
the children who dwelt in the nurseries of the rich, in bare room of the poor; for a Great Heart
beats in the Universe for children and few are missed at Christmas-time however long they
are forgot between times. Many were drawn to Nadir's workshop who were impulsed by that
heart.
The weeks passed by and as Myrna worked she came to knowledge of her fellowworkers. "What brought you here?" she asked one day a man opposite her and pondered his
answer, - "I have need to serve childhood for a former dis-service." Myrna knew him not for a
rich mill-owner of a Southern state who once had employed tiny children; bowing their forms,
dulling their intellects, taking their very lives that he might be rich.
It was the day before Christmas when she asked a like question of a woman near her.
From her she received a written reply: "I am dumb, but my heart can sing through my
fingers."
"Why are you here?" Myrna Leslie had asked such a question of herself, again and
again, but on Christmas morning there came to her the answer, which was: "That I may
continue to be a mother."
"Master, Teacher, Friend," she sobbed as she caught at the hand of Nadir. "My boy's
death did not make me less a mother. His birth gave me realization of motherhood, but his
death cannot release me from the duties of that divine attainment. There must be more that I
can do, save work at this bench with toys. There is more - I know there is more - !"
Nadir said: "It is given me to know that you will one day serve childhood very greatly.
You will realize and bring to others realization that the spiritual parenthood of the Universe is
served, is indeed maintained through the channel of physical parenthood. Before you now,
however, there lies a doing of the duty nearest you. Can you name that duty, child?"
And from the teaching she had received from Nadir, Myrna Leslie answered: "It is to
care for that soul who, through my Karman and his own, was drawn to me by marriage. To
give fully and without stint of myself. To give fully - ah, Nadir, how different from the way I
have given all these years? I have seen myself a martyr as I waited upon my husband. I
have built 'round myself a wall of grudging service instead of a garden of beautiful giving. But
now I return to him, to my home, with the glorious privilege of giving on this beautiful
Christmas day the gift of myself."
As Mrs. Leslie passed through the door of the shop, which under her urging fingers
opened swiftly, the voice that had called to her on the first day of her coming to the toy-maker
at the cross-roads, a voice which though produced mechanically was elfish, was even
entreating, called to her once more: "Come again, my dear!" - and this time the woman

heard.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 40, no. 6)
--------------A Guatemalan Legend *
- P. W. Jones
(President, T.S. Lodge, Fallbrook, Calif.)
(* The writer of the curious and highly mystical Indian legend which follows spent some
time in Guatemala a few years ago in work which brought him into sympathetic contact with
members of some of the native Indian tribes. The legend is authentic, and is related as told
by Srta. Eufemia de Salazar of Retalhuleu, Guatemala, to her brother, Mr. Jones listening and
transcribing. It is a tale that only a student of things occult, or the esoteric philosophy, could
interpret, and it obviously touches upon what H.P. Blavatsky and her Successor term "the
night-side of Nature." The story of the demon- or were-horse, whose wounds were
mysteriously duplicated on the body of Juanito's demon-master, ranks this tale with the story
of the demon-horse Kesin who was slain by Krishna in a battle so mighty that the great
Narada himself came forth to watch it; and equally with the were-wolf and similar legends
that have come down the centuries since medieval days, and, we might add, have never been
successfully disproved.
This tale has a unique interest in the fact that it has never before been written down,
and except for the business-interests that 'by chance' took the transcriber to Guatemala,
undoubtedly would have gone the way of so many others now vainly mourned as lost. Unlike
some, however, it is obviously ethical, and follows the old familiar sequence: covetousness
opening the door to delusion, delusion to loss of discrimination, and, as it runs in the
Bhagavad-Gita, "from loss of discrimination, loss of all"; thence, on the upward arc, from
sympathy and pity to reunion with the Self and its power. - Ed.)
It was many years ago; you must know it was, for it was before men had learned how
to write, and all teaching was spoken, and must be remembered, and was given in the form of
legend. Therefore this of which we are speaking came down to us in this way from the
Ancients of our Sister Republic of Guatemala. Her children even today tell such legends in
their poetical Spanish language from one to another.
Juanito (little Juan), the hero of our legend, though small in stature and young in years
sold his mother's tamales in town and of the proceeds of the sale bought corn and other
ingredients to make more tamales. And the family ate all that Juanito couldn't sell, so none
starved. And the children listened intently and tried to remember what their mother would tell
them of the legends of Giants and Heroes and of the mighty deeds done in days of old.
But often wondered and would ask himself; Why are there no giants and heroes
nowadays? Why don't I see some mighty rulers, or princes and lords of the realm? Am I to
spend my life selling tamales and never meet the nobility? - for you must know that to Juanito
the days seemed long. Even so long ago as that, children got tired from long walking and
imagined everything to be commonplace, and Juanito, even though he was a hero, didn't
know it. So he trudged forth on this eventful day, little dreaming of the events to come which
would finally change his whole life. We should mention here that Juanito was always singing
or whistling. This served two purposes: it kept him cheerful and light-hearted and also

notified prospective customers where he might be found. He was for that reason known to
some who did not even know his name, as El Canaria (The Canary).
He was whistling cheerfully on his way home, carrying the maize that he had bought,
when a strange man approached, very regally dressed, tall, lithe, graceful, and handsomely
dark. Juanito thought, Indeed, here is nobility! If not the King Guatemoc or Quetzalcoatl, he
is at least a prince or lord. He doffed his gorra, bowed to the ground, and inquired in what
way he might serve His Lordship. The man replied that he was not of the nobility but was a
common citizen of El Pais de Oro (The Land of Gold) and he would require some tamales.
Also that the boots and spurs which he wore denoted that he was a caballero, and that he
rode great distances on horseback. Tuanito, while wondering about the horse, tremblingly
served him of his best tamales, and the stranger, dropping a coin in Juanito's palm, strode on.
Poor little Juanito was so startled that some time elapsed before he looked at the coin
in his palm. When he did so he was surprised to see that in place of the dull gray of a nickel,
it was yellow, heavy, and large, and he was quite convinced that the stranger had made a
grievous mistake. So, forgetting all else, he unhesitatingly ran to catch the stranger; but
although he was a swift runner, - for you must know that in those days all men took delight in
running, and would cover great distances with messages in a short time - he could not
overtake him, try as he might, so he hailed him. The stranger stopped as though annoyed at
being hailed, and asked rather abruptly if he could not go peacefully about his duty without
being bothered.
"Yes, kind sir," said Juanito, "but you made a grievous mistake, Sir, you dropped a gold
coin in my palm, which is for all I know, the value of a kingdom, and instead of the nickel
usually given." "It is well," said the stranger. "It was but to test your honor, I have plenty of
them in my Land of Gold. You may keep the coin; and furthermore, as I have occasion to
pass this way, I shall require tamales; and for the excellence with which they are made and
for the sterling merit of your character, I shall be pleased to leave one of the coins, of so little
value to me and so precious to you, each time I buy tamales - provided you set aside an old
building standing outside your home as a storehouse, and put them aside for the use of the
family only. But not a penny for yourself, nor shall you ever covet any of the wealth until the
building is full of gold for others and none for you. Will you do this?"
Juanito replied, "Yes, gladly and faithfully."
"So be it," replied the stranger and strode on.
Juan was puzzled. How could the stranger walk so fast? Where was El Pais de Oro?
Certainly he had not been told of it, nor had ever imagined that there might be such a place.
And how did the stranger know that there was an old building standing outside of his home?
Certainly the Giants and Heroes would have known of such enormous wealth - the mighty
ones of the Popol Vuh, Huneman and Kabala Kan, Guatemoc, the invincible! Surely his
education in that quarter had been neglected, and as he slowly retraced his steps to recover
his maize and the remainder of the tamales, he resolved to ask his mother about the Land of
Gold, and what class of mortals lived in that land. If one were so careless of a king's ransom
in gold as this handsome stranger, it must be a land of plenty, and surely his mother would
like to move there with his brothers and sisters, and all would be happy if there were no lack
of food and clothing.
He continued to wonder how the stranger could walk so fast, knowing as yet nothing of
'nine-league boots.' But of that further on.
The stranger passed often through the land of the Quiches, which as you know was
once ruled by the mighty king Maya; and many mighty deeds of heroism and valor were told
of the valiant warriors of the days before men forgot that they were mighty, and kin to the
gods. Little indeed was then to be known of intrigue and dishonor, except of course when

occasionally one forgot the mighty precepts and fell behind his brothers in the struggle to gain
freedom for all. And I must tell you here, if you don't know, that the Quiches once had a
temple. Round was its form, very much, so they say, like our own Temple of Peace, and its
great dome was of solid gold. And even today these mighty Quiches are waiting the return of
their king Maya. And these same Quiches have a language - not merely a dialect - and it may
be written and spoken like any other language; and if today you went to San Tomas, Chiche
Castenago, Departamento de Quiche, you could see sculptured, or rather molded in clay, a
reclining statue of King Maya; and if you ask no questions, remaining discreetly silent and
friendly, you will surely be told that the gold dome of that temple is now hidden, buried. Or
maybe the whole temple, for that matter, for there are many deep canyons and likely spots
among the lofty mountains of lovely Guatemala where such a temple could easily be hidden,
there to wait the coming of Maya to lead his people onward.
Juanita often met the stranger, but always on some lonely spot on his way home.
Each time he sold him tamales, and each time received a golden quetzal. He was surprised
to see the hoard of gold grow, for as he stored it only for others it seemed to multiply of itself
and soon the building was nearly full. Juanito was now quite a large boy, and he held
frequent conversations with the stranger, who, at first quiet and dignified, grew friendly and
conversational, and told Juan that his high-topped nine-league boots aided him greatly to
cover great distances and also in crossing large rivers; that really he could cover nine
leagues at one step, and could step across quite a large river. This ability to walk great
distances in a day in these boots caused them to be called 'nine-league boots.' Furthermore,
they did not hinder him in riding horseback, and Juan believed him, for he once saw him
mounted on a wonderful, really superb stallion, a dappled gray, which was equally at home in
water and on land. He could swim the length of Lake Atitlan, which I would have you know, is
no less than seven leagues or twenty miles across, and hundreds of feet deep. But its depth
makes no difference to the horse, as he swims along only on the surface. The lake is so clear
that you could see the bottom if there was one, but they say that it has never been found in
some places, maybe because people got tired trying to find it. I will tell you some day how
there came to be a lake on the top of this high mountain, but that legend is of even more
ancient days, the telling of which would probably appear to lead us within the realms of fiction.
Juan, emboldened by his acquaintance and friendship with the stranger, asked him
where lay this Land of Gold, and if he, Juan, might not go there and if there were difficulties to
be encountered on the way. The stranger replied, "Trace the path of the sun in its northern
course to its turning-point, the summer solstice. Directly beneath lies El Pais de Oro. The
greatest difficulty is to cross the 'River of Blood.'" To conquer other difficulties, those of
intrigue, he should learn to know the false from the true. Impatience is another difficulty hard
to overcome.
There came a time when the building was nearly full of the golden coins, and it seemed
ages since Juan had seen the stranger. He fell to dreaming of nine-league boots, and how, if
he could buy a pair, he could also cover leagues of distance in a few strides. To make
matters worse, if worse they could be, the laces of Juan's sandals chafed his feet, and they
became sore; so he would limp about his duties and pity himself, complaining that he, an
acquaintance and friend of a Mighty One from the Land of Gold, should go limping over the
long miles each day, when with nine-league boots he could cover the distance in a few
strides. Moreover, he reasoned that he was quite grown, therefore he should accomplish
more each day, and by all means should have nine-league boots. Although he had pledged
his honor not to use a penny of the hoard, and even not to covet it, yet surely it was no harm,
he thought, to indulge a fancy for nine-league boots. And anyway, as he passed through the
streets, he could look into the doors and windows of the stores and see if there were any

nine-league boots for sale. Surely there would be none, for none of his friends knew of them,
nor in fact had he ever seen any except those worn by the stranger. All the more reason,
thought Juan, to see if any were to be found.
Now if Juanito was lacking in patience in some ways, he was patience personified in
his search for nine-league boots, so much so, indeed, that he for a time neglected his duties
to extend his search - as he thought, to prove to himself that they did not exist, outside the
Land of Gold. Meanwhile this extra walking caused his old sandals to chafe worse, until the
misery seemed unbearable.
At last long search and diligence brought its reward, for behold, in a store where the
day before no boots had been - or at least he had seen none - for had he not been searching
diligently? - he saw the exact duplicate of those worn by the stranger, even to the carved
protector for the knee-cap and the well-turned heel. The discovery excited Juan so much that
most of that day was spent comparing these with the boots worn by the stranger, and to the
best of his memory they seemed identical to the least detail. He wished, however, that he
had studied more carefully those worn by the stranger as to a few details. Though they
seemed the same, were they really nine-league boots - or just ordinary boots? Then he
remembered the charge given to him by the stranger, to learn to separate the false from the
true, and he wondered to himself - How? This he wondered all the way home: How should
he know whether they were nine-league boots or not? Surely if he had a pair of his own and
knew them well he should know immediately the false from the true. But who, oh, who, could
tell him but the stranger? So absorbed was he, that had he met the stranger then it is
doubtful if he would have seen him. Yet he longed to be sure that he had found the nineleague boots.
For days Juan continued thus absorbed until one day he met the stranger again, and
joyfully served him tamales and received the gold coin. But he was somewhat reluctant and
ashamed to ask about the boots, though all the while comparing them closely with the
stranger's nine-league boots and ever-present spurs, and wondering why, either riding or
walking, the spurs were in place. In fact, why there were spurs at all, for such a willing steed
who seemed to obey even the stranger's thought - why should he need spurs?
And, Juanito pondered, should he need spurs along with the nine-league boots to
journey afoot to the Land of Gold? For he had partly determined to go there, that is, if he
could honorably do so. It seemed each day more clear that he could, in fact, had he not
already found the nine-league boots? Indeed, if he was not destined to go, why had he found
them at all? Forgetting, of course, that he had devoted his whole energy to finding them.
As the hoard of gold grew the old building seemed to be bursting, and Juan could see
from the outside through a crack here and there, a golden gleam. But he was more puzzled
about the spurs than about the boots for he had never before in his life seen a single pair of
spurs other than the stranger's. And why did the stranger tell him to hoard up such a store of
gold for the family and not a cent for himself but for a single object, namely, that he, Juanito,
could go to the Land of Gold? Surely it was simple enough.
Meanwhile, he found that the price of the boots was only one quetzal - only one of the
countless gold pieces of the hoard. And Juanito thought of the many gold pieces it took to fill
the large room - a thousand at least, or maybe a thousand thousand. He had tried to count
on the fingers of each hand, laying a pebble in a pile the size of a quetzal each time till it grew
to be the size of the building, but then he would have to count the pebbles, and he got wofully
mixed up in his mathematics, further neglecting his duty, which was to sell tamales.
All that now delayed his journey to the Land of Gold was to find a pair of silver inlaid
spurs of bluish iron whose rowels scintillated like distant stars. Juanito had decided that it
was boots and spurs even though he went afoot, but spurs could not be found. He had begun

to argue also, that out of the many thousands of quetzals, the stranger in all probability would
not miss one - the price of the boots. (You have no doubt wondered why this hoard was not
molested, but that, you remember, was long, long ago.)
One day, as Juanito was passing the hoard, he saw a yellow gleam on the ground, and
upon approaching he saw that one of the gold pieces had fallen through a crack in the old
building. His first thought was immediately to restore it. Then apparently a second voice
said: No, Juanito, that is to buy your boots, you have not removed it from the hoard. It has
fallen out of its own accord. Of all the thousands of them why, otherwise, should this one
alone have fallen - just sufficient, and not a penny left, to buy the boots.
So he hastened to the merchant and bought the boots and requested that he hold
them a few days, knowing that if he took them home it would cause many questions. He did
not care for it to be known until he was entirely ready to go to the Land of Gold. Moreover, he
had never inquired if there was a road, except as the sun went, which would take a long time
and many spirals, even with nine-league boots. He thought there should be a shorter, even if
rougher way. But he found there was a road - if you would call it a road - which led from
summit to summit of mountains, ever northward.
You know that roads in beautiful Guatemala are rarely what we would call roads here,
wide and paved. They are mostly trails and they range as though when first laid out one had
cruised from summit to summit of lofty peaks and mountains, ever looking toward one's goal.
One gets a glimpse of the road only on a lofty peak ahead, and the valleys are traversed only
to ascend the next peak on the way. Thus is the lofty land of Guatemoc and Quetzalcoatl
traversed. And so at times does one see, hours before arriving, the town ahead, and the trails
are often spoken of and considered as roads. Such was the way confronting our Juanito ever
onward ever northward till he should reach the River of Blood, and when he reaches that (if
he ever does) we will tell you why it was called the River of Blood which it was not always
called, nor will it continue to be in time to come.
Poor Juanito, in his eagerness to be off for the Land of Gold, finally decided to go
without the spurs, and so one day he brought home the shiny new pair of boots and prepared
to set forth. On the eve of his departure he took his mother to the building and showed her
the hoard of gold for the family and told her he was going on a long journey and she should
prepare his food as follows: tamales for the first day, tortillas for the second, and suaco, a
hard thin well-baked bread, for the rest of the journey. She agreed also that there was gold
enough for the family, and prepared the food accordingly so that he would not go hungry.
Late in the evening, our hero tried on the nine-league boots which to his dismay he found
much too large for him, the knee-protectors coming nearer to the waist than the knee. He
decided that by wrapping the feet well to keep them on, they would do, but in comparing them
with the rest of his clothes he was startled with the contrast. He had to make the best of it, for
go he would.
The following morning he set out northward, hopes running high, his courage elevated:
and the birds never sang more sweetly. Of course there was a tinge of sadness in parting
with his loved ones, but he put all this aside thinking of his lofty aim and the attainment when
he had reached the Land of Gold. Anyway he would soon return on a dappled gray stallion,
for there must be plenty of them in the Land of Gold, and then he could distribute among his
friends gold quetzals instead of tamales. Meanwhile some other and more humble could feed
the hungry while he brought priceless treasure from distant lands, to distribute in lofty manner
from gorged saddle-bags. Thus could he at once relieve the want and maybe many would
not need to work so hard.
Our hero did not get far on his journey till he found that the weight of his nine-league
boots tired him, so he took them off and carried them. But having no sandals, for he had left

them behind as being now useless, he journeyed on barefoot, and many a bruise and cut on
his bare feet proved the proverb "never entirely off with the old until fully on with the new."
Of the long, long journey northward it would take too long to tell of the pain and
hardship almost past human endurance. From peak to peak, ever northward, through each
canyon deep and sultry but to ascend a more lofty peak where the cold would be intense and
bitter, and our hero's bare feet would ache. It seemed an age of ever up and down - no
friendly sheltering house, no human voice, until even the animals that he met seemed to
speak. He met a tortoise slowly passing by, of whom he stopped to inquire: "Is there a house
on this lonely road, Sir Tortoise?" and the tortoise replied, "I am not interested in houses. I
have a very good one of my own, sufficient for my needs. I never go looking for anything
beyond my needs except, of course, a city. I have never seen a city but I have heard from an
eagle that one lies due south of here. Not being able to go without my house I am taking it
along."
One morning, on climbing a peak and looking steadily northward across successions of
gradually diminishing peaks and deep canyons, there appeared in the blue haze tinged with
golden sunlight, a wonderful land, beyond a doubt. Joy swelled in our hero's bosom, for
there, even though many days' journey away, was the land of his goal, the land of his dreams,
if they were dreams - the Land of Gold. His waning strength took on new life and he
journeyed on strong with certainty, where before had dwelt only hope; for now his eyes had
seen, as the thirsty traveler has often done on desert parched and shifting sands, a mirage,
which his inexperience had accepted as a reality. True enough there was the river, and after
days of weary toil he arrived at its banks, and could see plainly where the road entered, and
on its distant shore where it emerged.
Now for a test of the nine-league boots. Would they carry him across? It didn't seem
so far, so he put them on and waded in. But each step touched the bottom and finally water
ran into the tops, filling the boots, our hero barely escaping with his life though he was a
strong swimmer. Fortunately, struggling loose, letting the boots go, he swam ashore.
Wandering up and down the banks seeking a means to get across, he presently saw
some birds having a bath higher up the stream and he approached them. Recognising them
as the Quetzal Bird, which as every Guatemalan child knows is the national bird and was, so
they say, even before the land was called Guatemala, he asked the foremost one in the
Quiche tongue if there was a way to cross the river. The birds seemed to understand him but
he could not understand their reply, so presently two birds left the throng, and Juanito
understood that they were messengers and so he waited. Presently they returned, bringing
with them a parrot who could speak, and who also seemed exceedingly wise.
The parrot addressed him thus: "Rash boy, return to whence you came. You are
indeed a hero at heart, but not in stature nor understanding. I can't say more except that this
river is tinged with blood, the blood of brothers slaying brothers in war and strife. You can do
well in your native land. Why should you seek gold? The yellow peril of the human race - not
the metal, which is good, but that which possession of the metal will bring in its wake, greed,
pride, vanity and a thousand evils which turn back all but those with nine-league boots, who
alone may cross unscathed. All others crossing here must first add to this polluted stream,
which will continue to flow till men once more become heroes.
"Look! What you apparently see on the other shore is what wiser minds call 'mirage.'
See yon dot on yonder shore? Now move, see! It moves. It is but a reflection of yourself
apparently already on yonder shore. Turn back before worse befall! You know not, you
dream not the intrigue and treacheries on yonder shore, for indeed
either win or you lose ignominiously. There you find no half-way ground. Once beyond this
mist and possessing neither nine-league-boots nor spurs, you are lost to family and friends.

You know the way back, which seems only back to you, for it is forward also, but you know
not the way northward from here."
So Juanito decided to return, albeit sadly, provided only that he could not find the
beneficent stranger. He longed intensely that he would come, and lo! down the road which he
had come or through the mist composing the mirage he saw in full stride - sure enough - nineleague boots! He could see them long before he was sure that they even had an owner, and
so engrossed was he in contemplation of the coarse and worn boots and rusty spurs, thinking
of the enormous distance that the beneficent stranger must have traveled to have worn them
thus, that he scarcely glanced at the face of the stranger who addressed him rather gruffly:
"I have waited long to bear you over. I need a servant to do my slavish chores, for
which I have no time. If you wish gold and gold alone, and the pleasures that it will bring,
come! I have no time to spend here waiting. You come a willing slave or you come not at all.
Go back a coward creeping into your hovel, a menial slave to your family and your friends, or
wear a crown and purple robes, be a prince among my vassals. But know first that you must
obey my smallest wish. I am not used to waiting. In my country I am well known as the
Ancient of the Ages, and El Viejo, the Aged One."
Poor Juanito! This did not resemble the speech of the beneficent stranger, but he
could not mistake the nine-league boots which, after looking closer, did not seem so worn.
They even looked quite presentable beside his sore bare feet and tattered garments. Raising
his eyes to meet those of this stranger, Juan thought him at first quite repellent. While
somewhat sarcastic and imperative, still he had a fairly regal aspect, in fact, quite a close
resemblance to, if indeed he really were not, his benefactor. He was not quite sure, but
glancing again at the nine-league boots and spurs, by now looking quite presentable, he
exclaimed, "Oh! Yes, 'tis he!" And visions of long years of poverty contrasted with implied
wealth and ease soon helped finish the deception, for deception it was. Juanito raised his
eyes all the way from heel and spur of boots, noting the costume of regal mien, to compare
the feature and eye of this stranger, whom yet in his heart he doubted, when before his eyes
floated the hungry faces of patrons at home; then those of his beloved mother, brother, and
sisters; then his hoard of gold; then bright visions of more gold that he might have and use.
Precious gems seemed to sparkle even now on his wan hands, and without further hesitation
he said with faltering voice, "I will."
The stranger lifted Juanito to his strong shoulder, faced backwards towards the way
whence he had come, and strode into the mist - if mist it was - and Juanito, faint, weary, and
hungry, immediately fell asleep, so he could never remember which way he had come, nor
knew he north from south, nor could he see even the river. When he awoke he was a servant
in the home of a patron whose name we have told before, El Viejo, or Anciano, the Aged;
with his wife La Vieja and daughter La Chiquita, at times called La Pajarita, for she at times
appeared as a bird. Then she would perch on the wall under the rafters and sing so
mournfully that Juanito would imagine the dissolution of all the worlds and feel pity for the
bird, not knowing that it was really an appearance, and was the sorrow in the young girl's
heart.
Always when he felt this pity, he was immediately called by El Viejo and put at some
menial task, until he wished he could not feel pity any more.
Part of Juanito's duties was to feed and water three horses named Manuel, Manuela,
and Manuelita. Now Manuel was always cross and many times would kick and bite at Juanito
so that he had great trouble to lead him to water, and he ate only the coarsest and vilest of
weeds grown specially for him, one of which, the marejuana, a very noxious drug, he was
especially fond of.
Soon after Juanito began his services, or slavery you might call it, he was watering the

horses as usual when old Manuel seemed in a rage because he was watered last. He tried to
step on Juanito's feet and bite him, so that the poor child, to protect himself, hit the old horse
a resounding blow on the jaw with a stick, and then he led him to the water. But he would not
drink and tried to push Juanito into the pond which was very deep. So Juanito returned him
to the stable which was directly under the house, but upon going upstairs he saw El Viejo with
his head bandaged and suffering terrible pain in his jaw. Juanito asked what was the trouble
but received no answer and went to his room without any supper, which he often did; and the
bird perched under the rafter and sang more pitifully than ever and Juanito wondered how any
living creature could be so lonely as this poor bird, and he felt desolate himself.
He asked the bird if he could do something, but the bird ceased singing and went
away, and every time he approached or tried to help the bird it would disappear. Then he
would somehow know that the girl was in distress, but why he could not tell. He never saw
her except with the old folks and whenever he would ask her if she was contented she would
nod her head and reply simply, "Quite so." Few words, in fact, were spoken, and Juanito
busied himself with his chores so that he would not get lonesome and sad. Yet he felt a
growing sorrow and sympathy for the poor bird, but as his sympathies for the bird grew his
tasks grew harder also and El Viejo was more abusive.
One day Juanito could see that El Viejo was preparing for a journey, and soon he
drove away with a four-mule team and a strong wagon - though the mule's hoofs did not
clatter, nor did the wagon make any noise and no tracks could be seen where the wheels of
the wagon had gone. For Juanito was living in a land of enchantment. Even the trees,
though tall, and heavy of bough and leaf, yet cast no shade.
Being curious as to this mysterious journey, Juanito decided to watch for El Viejo's
return and selected a large tree, easy to climb, near some boulders some distance from the
house. The boulders were larger than any house he had ever seen and he would climb that
tree tomorrow and wait.
That evening the bird did not sing but he could hear the maiden singing in the same
sad strain. Juan listened to catch the words and they were about a youth and a maiden who,
being sad and lonely and detained by a sorcerer, planned to escape while the sorcerer was
away. She sang of the means they used, saying that neither could escape alone, but that
they each could help the other; and as Juan listened his heart grew more cheerful. He felt
that he could help the poor singer to get free and resolved to do so, thereafter doing all his
work more cheerfully, watching constantly for the return of El Viejo. The next night the girl
sang of the escape of the youth and the maiden, how they rode the colt, which was gentle;
how the boy rode before, the girl seated behind carrying the metal forks, plates, and spoons,
made of pure iron wrapped in a linen table-cloth, all on a very large platter of staunch corkwood.
The girl had learned all of the sorcerer's tricks; many things she had learned besides;
alone she could not use them, but with two it would be different. She begged the youth to
hasten before the return of El Viejo.
Juan while anxious to act yet hesitated to do anything rash, such as preparing a
journey further northward, which the singer had said was the only direction of escape. The
song ended by saying that they sailed ever northward. This Juan could not understand at all,
as he had never seen a boat, so he decided that if the song had any significance for them he
had missed part of it. He wanted first a look to the northward so he decided to climb the tree
with leafy branches which he had selected to watch for El Viejo and from there have a look to
the northward for signs of life and human activity. So early in the morning he climbed the tree
to its loftiest bough and looked far northward where he saw an immense city. Who knows? It
may have been Palenque. The air seemed very clear and from his lofty perch he could see

an immense distance. He was quite sure it would take many days to reach there on
horseback, much longer still, afoot.
Juan was so intensely occupied in this speculation that he failed to note the return of El
Viejo who came very silently until he was quite near, in fact, nearly beneath Juan's perch.
Almost beneath, also, was one of the very large boulders, the largest one in fact, which
waited the approach of El Viejo with his four-mule team and wagon, loaded now to the brim
with gold. When the foremost mule's nose touched the boulder, it opened wide from top to
bottom like some huge monster opening its mouth, and as El Viejo, mules, and wagon
disappeared within, Juan could look directly down and within it, and there he saw other
immense stacks of gold, whereupon the enormous mouth or shell closed again, disclosing not
a crack or seam at the place of opening.
Juan was alarmed as to how to get down and back to the house without disclosing that
he had been a witness to the enormous hoard of gold, thus exposing himself to the further
wrath and consequent abuse of El Viejo. He ardently wished that he was a bird and could fly
from his perch to the house, for he expected any moment to see El Viejo emerge from the
boulder and demand his presence for some menial task. If so, what would he do? So he
decided to hide where he was as best he could, and remain till the shades came, and in their
friendly covering seek his quarters, letting El Viejo think, if so he should believe, that Juanito
had wandered off to play, forgetting his duties.
He had not long to wait before the Old Man called him from the house, and then Juan
knew that there was a means of reaching the treasure-store from the house as well as from
outside. He did not answer the call and was looked for in all likely places except the tree in
which he had hidden, for which he felt quite thankful. But he suffered from thirst and hunger,
having to struggle constantly to keep awake and not fall from the tree until the darkness of the
shades crept over the earth so that he could creep back to his room. He had not been long
within when he was summoned by the old man to feed and water the horses. He was
scolded for his absence but not questioned as to where he had been, for which Juanito was
very grateful and he hastened to the horses.
As he approached, old Manuelo who was in a raging fury succeeded in stamping his
hoof on Juanito's foot. The poor boy, almost wild with pain, could in no way get loose. He
implored for relief and help, but no one came. The Old Man would not, the Old Woman and
daughter dared not. He could reach no stick nor club so in desperation he struck the old
horse on the foreleg with a knife. To his surprise it caused a complete change in the attitude
of the old horse and he went gently, almost meekly to water, after which Juan watered the
others and fed them. Then he went upstairs to find the Old Man with arm bandaged and
suffering great pain, but to his surprise quite mild and almost friendly.
Juan now decided to fit some words to the sad music of the bird and maiden, which by
now had been engraved on his memory, and to sing them and to observe their effect upon the
maiden; but with the first attempt to sing them, the bird appeared beneath the rafters and
sang so loud and shrill as to drown his words, and even the music, completely. By now the
boy had become accustomed to strange things and he decided to sing no more until the Old
Man should go again on a journey, but to make ready as much as possible to act. He had not
long to wait, for the Old Man's greed for gold seemed insatiable.
Meanwhile Juan made better friends with the colt Manuelita, giving her the choicest
sweet clover, which was her feed, and finding the cleanest, clearest water for her to drink,
grooming her coat until it shone like burnished copper. He fashioned also a crude saddle out
of an old one at hand and rode the colt each day to water. His kindness was returned, and
they grew great friends.
Juan was fast growing to be a good horseman, and from hard toil he was growing tall

and strong, for you must understand that this brief legend covers not days, but years, and
Juan from a small boy had grown to be nearly a man and had changed from thinking of nineleague boots to duties once more, and how he could best serve, do his duty, and do it well.
He would also learn his song better until his time to sing and be sure above all things that he
made no mistake. He could see that before long another journey was in progress. He
seemed not to know, seemed still less to care. If cunning was displayed, more cunning was
he. He'd bide his time wisely nor chafe at delay, for once they had started, the journey begun,
there'd be no turning back till full freedom was won.
Soon the Old Man started on another silent journey, fully equipped with mules and
wagon, and that night the youth Juan sang his song: how the young colt stood now ready all
groomed and content for a very long journey, his canto meant. A very good saddle,
composed of the old, would serve at the dawning, the two riders bold.
At the close of this the maiden sang, in more cheerful tone, that the portmanteau was
packed, to be carried in front while she riding behind carrying dishes as mentioned before.
Plates, spoons, knives, forks, and cups of pure iron; a large cork-wood platter wrapped in a
large linen table-cloth; that all would be too heavy for one colt to carry; that a carrier should
be made with a pole on each side as shafts of a volante, the large ends dragging behind. A
seat placed between the two, on which the woman rides, that she having a wider vision, could
watch for pursuit, as Juan rode the colt due northward.
Juan sang a plaint: Why carry all the iron which was so heavy? Why not leave it
behind? But she sang that she might need it, also she wished to remove it and other things
from the Old Man.
So that night Juan made an arrastra and on it he placed for a seat a strong dry bull's
hide well bounded each side with thorns, and at daybreak, both set forth.
But the Old Woman in some way told the Old Man that they had gone, and when well
into the desert, the maiden saw him following, mounted on old Manuelo, long before Juanito
could see him; and he wondered what to do, for old Manuelo, only carrying one, was gaining
rapidly on their poor colt with a load of two, a grip, and all the iron dishes; but the girl seemed
not alarmed.
When the Old Man came in sight of Juan, she twirled one of the iron plates which
sailed and soared far behind, finally landing on its bottom and becoming a lake between them
and the Old Man. The lake growing ever wider and wider, they soon needed a boat, so the
large cork-wood platter served as a base which, with the two poles as masts and the large
linen tablecloth as a sail, they all got aboard and sailed along, and the boat grew larger as
they went.
However, the Old Man was not to be so easily outdone. For some logs which had
been floated drifting by, he caught them and soon had a raft, and followed. But he had no sail
and the wind carried him far to the East. Yet he seemed to gain on them and in order to get
clear away, the maiden threw an iron three-pronged fork, which converted that part of the lake
into three prongs or rivers, and left the Old Man beyond the east prong in a river alone, while
the young couple were in the river between, and they sailed due northward forever towards
the Sun.
So ends a legend probably never considered worthy of placing on paper before, as told
by Senorita Eufemia de Salazar of Retalhuleu, Guatemala, to her brother Manuel.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 41, no. 1)
-----------------

The Jewel of Atlantis


- Paul Landor
[This short story was apparently later expanded into a short novel by L. L. Wright. dig. ed.]
How like an insensible somnambulist is puny man, hovering, all unconscious, above
what horrors of the psychic abyss! The thought passed like a dark refrain through the mind of
Thor Inglesant as he sensed the cumulative despair of his friend's narrative.
The two men were sitting before a cheerful wood-fire in the living-room of Inglesant's
New York apartment. The great explorer, a man still in the thirties, very tall, and handsome in
a spare, rugged fashion, had just returned from a protracted trip into the hinterland of South
America. And almost his first experience at home was this visit from his beloved young friend
the novelist, Julian Vaughan, who had rushed in this evening in a state of nervous excitement
very disquieting in one with his usual sanity of temperament.
Now, after an hour of confidential talk that had been mellowed by Inglesant's wise
sympathy as well as the heartening influence of rare Brazilian mocha and cigars, the explorer
said:
"You are right in thinking the situation very serious, Julian. Still, I believe we can cope
with it. I shall certainly make it my one aim in life to scotch this thing - believe me! So comfort
yourself, old fellow. But first there are a number of things I must be quite clear about. Where
did you pick up this trinket?"
"In Lima, just after we separated there last year. In a dingy little shop near the
Cathedral."
"Describe it for me again, but very accurately, please."
The palely alert face of the young novelist settled into yet grimmer lines.
"Well," he began, "it is flat and thick; about an inch and a half square, and carved from
some transparent emerald-green mineral. It has an extraordinary vitality of feel and color.
The first time I picked it up from the battered tray where it had been tossed with a lot of cheap
trash I noticed after a moment the almost electric warmth it seemed to give off to my hand. It
has been cut to a sort of portrait in relief, the head and chest of a singular being. I use the
word 'being,' Thor, because it is too strange to be called a man, and too strangely human
somehow to be regarded as a mere bit of mythological symbolism. And it is intensely
individual for all its strangeness. The face is narrow and oblong, and although all the features
but the deep-sunken eyes and the flaring nostrils have been worn away, there still lingers a
look of specific power and intelligence. It was this quality that gave the jewel its peculiar
interest and I believe decided me to buy it."
"Was there anything carved on it - any symbol or design?" asked Inglesant anxiously.
"Yes, on the back a geometrical figure can still be faintly seen, a circle within a square;
and at the center of this the ansated cross is deeply engraved. The head is crowned with
what looks like a circlet of flames. Here a small opening appears and through this I ran a
platinum chain set with tiny emeralds."
"But wasn't it a strange gift for your sister? I've never met her of course, but I think you
told me once that she is considerably younger than you are."
"Yes, she's just twenty. But Dariel is an uncommon girl. For instance, she is keenly
interested in the new chemistry and dabbles in that, besides taking a vivid interest in psychic
research, and a number of other things that most girls of today would regard as ridiculous.
And she has a power of discriminating intelligence that is remarkable in such a young person.

Another girl might have preferred a gift of something conventionally artistic or precious, but
not Dariel. The gift immediately had a curious fascination for her. Here is a pocket-miniature
she had painted for my last birthday."
Inglesant looked long and with a heavy heart at the miniature of the beautiful girl primitively beautiful, like an archaic goddess, he thought, strayed into the modern world.
Thick tresses lay close about her classic head as if carven of massy gold. Long violet eyes
with curling lashes, and features full-molded yet chiselled delicately - all these gave her a look
of still, golden power, very simple and pure.
Inglesant returned the painting to his friend with a sigh.
"And you say," he went on with his questioning, "that from the time she began to wear
this jewel curious changes began to develop in her character? If you don't mind going into
these a little more in detail it will help me to check up in a way I will explain later."
The younger man appeared to brace himself for an ordeal while Inglesant gazed with
impersonal aloofness at the delicate blue spirals from his cigar.
"Just at first," Julian began finally, "they weren't so noticeable. Then, gradually, from
being rather shy and retiring and fond of studious pursuits as I told you, she developed a
craze for the gayest of the younger set. And she became terribly selfish. Of course Dariel
has always had the natural wilfulness of youth, but she was always easily enough guided by
anyone she loved. But now there seemed no end to her extravagant demands. Our
stepmother Helene adores her. Helene is enormously wealthy and very generous, but even
she was put to it to keep pace with Dariel's extravagant parties and her wild escapades. It
was all so out of character. Helene and I were utterly bewilderd by this sudden,
unaccountable change."
"I see. And what was her attitude towards you through all this? Did that alter?"
"Yes, that was one of the strangest symptoms. Dariel and I have always been very
close, on account of being orphans I suppose. No brother and sister were ever better
companions or more congenial than we had always been. But she suddenly turned a cold
shoulder to me and seemed to drop me out of her life entirely. And then one day something
terribly queer happened - it was the first thing that made me really suspect something
abnormal. I caught her furtively looking at me. It was just a glance but it froze me with a
dreadful fright. I can't get away from it, Thor."
Inglesant leaned forward, his face tense and suddenly a little pale.
"Describe that look to me - be as accurate as a camera!" he demanded.
"Oh, I don't know," and Julian shuddered slightly. "Something dark, fierce, incredibly
ancient and menacing! Why, you know, Thor, it was just as if the face on the jewel had come
to life and looked at me, secretly, out of Dariel's eyes." And he suddenly hid his face in his
hands.
The explorer had dropped back in his chair and now nodded to himself while a line of
stark satisfaction tightened his lips. Then he reached over and laid a firm hand on Julian's
knee.
"Who was the Hebrew king, do you remember, who said to Elijah: 'Hast thou found
me, O mine enemy?' And the prophet replied: 'I have found thee, because thou hast sold
thyself to work evil.' Julian, I have heard about this jewel! - how and when must be for later.
But now tell me the rest so that I may begin to lay plans that will not fail."
Julian stirred restlessly in his chair as perforce he resumed his narrative.
"A little while later came another change, and it was the evidence of this that made me
thank the gods when I saw by the headline in the paper this morning that you had returned to
New York."
"This last change, I take it, was more in the nature of a physical alteration," suggested

Inglesant.
"Why yes, but how did you guess? It was exactly that. Her voice altered. It has
always had a very warm musical quality, soft and full. But now it became coarse and heavy
and occasionally her words seem to run together, so that I can hardly understand her."
"Anything else?" as Julian hesitated.
"Indeed yes - the worst of all. For her very body is transforming. It has become thick
and gross. Sanna even tells me that horrible dark patches, like the skin of an African negress
have appeared about her waist. O, good God, Thor! what in Heaven's name - "
"Steady on, old man! It's going to be clear sailing after just a little while. And
everything now depends upon your keeping a firm hold over yourself and the situation. So
buck up! And now tell me, who is Sanna?"
"She is our old colored nurse, practically all the mother that poor Dariel has known."
Inglesant leaned forward eagerly.
"That's strange!" he ejaculated. "What type of negress is she? - out of the ordinary in
any way?"
"Yes, she is, Thor. She's a fine and faithful creature, perhaps because she is the direct
descendant of African kings. We have among our family papers an attested document from
the slaver who first offered her grandparents for sale. And in her character and bearing she
has every mark of a true aristocrat."
"This is certainly the hand of destiny, Julian. It is all exactly as it should be. Tell me,
how has Sanna reacted to all this?"
"Oh, if I had only taken her advice in the very beginning, Thor! She burst in on me
while I was shaving the morning after I had given the jewel to Dariel. She raved at me for
giving it her - called it a 'devil-face' and demanded that I drown it in the sea or I'd regret it to
the last day of my life. If only I had not been such a blind fool I would have saved all this
misery and horror!"
"No!" snapped Inglesant. "No! It is the best kind of luck that you didn't do that. It
wouldn't have helped in the long run. For this is no ordinary fetish. There's probably never
been anything quite like it on earth since the unholiest days of Atlantis."
"But Thor, for God's sake, what is it - "
"I won't - I can't tell you the story till later. Let's get ahead - the only thing that counts
now is time. So listen to me carefully, Julian, and get every one of my directions absolutely
straight and clear. We are dealing with something - something, old man, so wily and powerful
that if you don't follow me to the letter I don't believe it will be possible to save your sister."
II.
The June day had been perfect, a flawless drop spilled from the chalice of midsummer.
Dariel and Julian with their guest, the famous traveler Thor Inglesant, sat at dinner in a sort of
belvedere of white marble built out from Mrs. Vaughan's Long Island palace to overhang the
Sound. A lingering sunset glow suffused sky and water with tints of Paradise and their airy
pavilion shimmered like a chamber of pearl.
Julian managed to carry off his part of genial and care-free host with admirable selfcomposure. For had not all his invisible and secret arrangements been successful, even to
bringing about the absence of his matter-of-fact stepmother for a few days? And the dinner
so far had gone well. Dariel had kept the conversational ball glittering in the air by her
insatiable and ruthless curiosity as to Inglesant's travels and the many adventures in the
realms of the occult which the newspapers ascribed to him.

Just before the last course Inglesant had remarked casually upon the curious gem
which Miss Vaughan was wearing. Without a word Julian leaned over, snapped open the
clasp that secured the chain, and before Dariel could speak the jewel lay in Inglesant's hand.
There followed a pause in which she displayed an almost uncontrollable uneasiness
and even made as if she would snatch it from him. But Inglesant prevented this by closing
the jewel lightly in his hand to get, as he said, "the feel of it." Then he continued, still holding
it close:
"I wonder if you know that this jewel is unique? - a hoary relic from prehistoric times. It
is a tradition among some of the remoter South American tribes. I happened to run across its
story - perhaps you would like to hear it?"
At this point Caesar, the colored butler, appeared with a salver on which three tiny
goblets holding a ruby liquid winked rosily. It exhaled a delightful fragrance as of some
celestial attar.
"This," said Julian turning to Dariel, "is Thor's contribution to our party. It is a rare
cordial, the secret of which he learned from a peculiar tribe in the Andes. It comes quite
easily under the Volstead act, Dariel," he laughingly added, "so we can drink to our deeper
friendship with a clear conscience."
To the intense relief of the two anxious conspirators Dariel sipped the rosy liquid with
delight, and even took her brother's share which he had been warned not to more than touch
with his lips. Its effect upon her soon became apparent. Her intense restlessness gradually
abated. The boisterous animation which had given her talk a racy and repellent brilliance
died down. Julian, as he watched her secretly, noted with joy the slow, beautiful change that
came over her features. Her natural golden serenity and sweetness began to emerge, like
the writing on an exquisite palimpsest, as the dark lineaments of the nameless evil slowly
broke, and melted, and all but vanished. She sighed deeply and leaned back in her chair.
Then Inglesant told his story.
"I may not tell you very much about the Indians themselves because, while my
discovery of them appeared to be accidental, my stay with them was under the strictest
pledges of secrecy about all their own concerns. It was the Chief Priest who told me about
this fetish, which is known as 'The Jewel of Atlantis.' It seems that in the immemorial days of
the Sorcerer-kings of Atlantis, one of the last and wickedest of them - a black magician who
well knew that his days of power were numbered, and that as a lost soul he must in the
ordinary course of death descend into eternal darkness - this ancient sorcerer fashioned with
diabolical wizardry this jewel. At the heart of it he sealed a minute phial within which he had
fixed a speck of the liquor vitae of which Paracelsus speaks, his own individual, nervous
essence. Not only that, but this gem cannot be destroyed except in one very peculiar
manner."
Dariel was listening with dilated eyes. Inglesant, leaning towards her, offered his own
glass of cordial.
"Drink it all," he said persuasively, as she raised it to her lips.
"This drop of liquor vitae," he went on, "made a link which has connected, all down the
ages, the magician of Atlantis with this earth-life. By means of it he was able to keep intact
his wicked, psychological eidolon, or astral form, which otherwise would long ago have
perished, wiped out by the processes of beneficent Nature. As soon as someone wore the
jewel he could obtain possession of the personality of that hapless victim, and so live by proxy
and satisfy his powerful and evil propensities."
Inglesant had been secretly watching Dariel who seemed strangely to listen with some
inner sense while her body relaxed more and more.
"The High Priest," continued the narrator, "told me that his tribe has inherited the job of

destroying this jewel and so cutting off all connection between the sorcerer of Atlantis and any
more living victims. This tribe of Indians, whose origins stretch back into the dawn of time,
has been trying for ages to get hold of and destroy this baleful gem, which is a deadly
menace to the souls of all over whom the still living astral-magician has obtained dominance.
It is, I understand, not so much that the magic which protects it is of the most secret and
powerful kind, for the wise men of the tribe have been intensively trained for the purpose of
coping with that. The difficulty has been that those who have worn it heretofore have always
been so evil themselves that to free them from its influence and destroy it has been
impossible. But now for the first time it has fallen into the hands of purity and virtue - "
He turned towards Dariel and, calling her name in a low voice, fixed his eyes with a
deep impersonal benignity upon hers.
"Will you consent that I draw this influence from out your being, dear child, and break
its power forever?"
Suddenly, as he asked the question, a strange green twilight like the shadow that
sometimes goes before a tropical storm, enveloped the group. As it swelled over them Dariel
struggled wildly to her feet.
"Yes - Yes! Yes! she shrieked in anguished extremity. "Save me from it! - save me - "
Thor caught her gently as life itself seemed to desert her sinking form.
III.
It was close upon midnight when Inglesant summoned his two helpers. A wide corridor
ran across one end of the spacious solarium above Dariel's living-rooms. The trio now stood
near the door of this apartment in a final, almost a 'mouth to ear,' consultation.
"You are absolutely certain," just breathed Inglesant, "that there isn't a servant in the
house to spy upon us?"
"Nary a one," whispered old Sanna. "Like I tole yo', dey is all clean gone on a weekend vacation, dem niggahs. An' ole but'l Caes' Tomlinson he on de watch outside de locked
do' down stairs. We safe's we can be, nohow."
"Fine! Now I want you both to bear in mind two things. First, I will save Dariel if
nothing in this world opposes me. Second, you had both better know that I was given a
mission to break this evil power - not only to save Dariel, but so to wipe out the psychic link by
which this deadly creature fastens itself upon its victims that never again can it work its fatal
will upon a human soul. Do you both get me?.... All right. Now, having said this, have I your
absolute trust?"
Both his hearers nodded emphatically.
"Good again! Now I must demand silence. At every moment we will be in danger of
our lives, or worse. No matter what happens, trust me - and keep an unbroken silence. Do
not speak - do not utter a sound! Do you understand? And are you certain you will obey
me?"
Julian noded again.
"So help me Gawd!" whispered Sanna.
Inglesant glanced at her and a ripple of uncertainty disturbed his expression.
"But come," he then said, "we haven't a moment to spare. Let's get to work," and
opening the door, he entered the solarium and his companions followed him into the wide
square room.
In a far corner a standard-lamp burned dimly beside an empty couch. Close to the
center of the room, where a thick woolen blanket had been spread on the floor, Dariel's still

form lay like a recumbent statue. What feeble light there was seemed gathered into that
prone loveliness of ivory and gold. Encircling her there had been traced on the marble floor a
wide geometrical figure repeating the design on the back of the jewel, a circle within a square.
At the exact center of the floor and close beside Dariel's head had been painted in some
phosphorescent green material a large ansated cross, which glimmered uncannily in the
dimness. A small tripod above a spirit-lamp stood at the junction of the circle with the cross,
and on the tripod rested a bronze bowl. Standing near was a large flower-pot filled with damp
earth.
Inglesant motioned them within the figure. Then, taking what looked like a large pencil
of yellow chalk from his pocket he traced around the outside of the square a six-pointed star,
leaving one point unfinished. From this line traced by the stick there now rose a star-shaped
veil of misty radiance like the gleam of light from dull virgin gold, broken only at one place,
where the point of the star had been left open.
Sanna seated herself at Dariel's feet and Julian stood on the other side of her tranced
form. From an inner pocket Inglesant drew the jewel and detaching it from its chain laid it in
the bronze bowl. Then he sat down close to Dariel's head and fixed his eyes upon her.
A pall of silence fell over the watchers.
Two pairs of eyes fixed unwaveringly upon Inglesant saw that his lips moved and
Julian divined that he repeated over and over again, with an ever-deepening fixity of will,
some mantram or magic formula.
Minutes passed and nothing happened. Then, slowly, whisperingly, like the sibilance of
a jungle-hidden python uncoiling from sleep, a bodiless presence drew out of the invisible
cavities of the air. Julian sickened at the core of him with its icy menace; Sanna shook like a
withered leaf, but neither moved a muscle.
Inglesant stirred, arousing Julian by a swift, pre-arranged gesture. After a second or
two Julian forced his nerves to obedience. He stooped, and lifting Dariel in his arms bore her
quickly out of the star-figure at the point where it had been left unfinished. At his heels came
Inglesant who, instantly, when Julian had cleared the diagram, completed the sixth point of
the star with his yellow stick, while Julian laid Dariel on the couch and seated himself before
it.
There was now a complete six-pointed barrier of golden light shutting out Dariel and
Julian, shutting Sanna and Inglesant into the magic figure. And there between them brooded
a bodiless will, invisible, watchful, malignant.
Inglesant now beckoned to Sanna. She wavered to him and held her bony arm above
the bronze bowl on the tripod. Inglesant with a tinder-spark set alight a violet flame
underneath. Afterward with quick, skilful movements he drew from the faithful creature just
enough blood to cover the jewel lying at the bottom of the bowl. This done, he quickly cared
for the wound and helped Sanna to the blanket where Dariel had lain. Before turning away he
gave her a phial which held a quantity of the ruby cordial. Sanna had just raised it to her lips
when a shattering howl, bestial and desolate, tore the silence. The hot, thick air rocked and
shuddered. Gradually, out of this monstrous travail, something of sinister portent came into
dark visibility. From the bronze bowl there ascended a sickly vapor and the purr of boiling
liquid, while above it hung a loathsome horror that writhed and palpitated.
Behind Inglesant, whose whole attention was concentrated upon this menace, Sanna
half rose from the floor and stared with insane terror at the mortal throes of her enemy.
Suddenly all movement ceased, as if with one desperate effort the Evil ingathered its waning
energies. An instant, and it made a dark rush toward the point of the star beyond which Dariel
lay. Sanna gave a smothered shriek and sprang to throw herself into its path, upsetting the
tripod. The bronze bowl rolled over and from it there oozed a few drops of pale viscous fluid

upon the marble floor.


Inglesant remained like a rock, eyes and will set upon the straining spectre beyond.
Julian could see him there above the lambent glow, erect, pale, powerful, like an avenging
archangel. This horrid shape, chained by his will from the center and checked by the
boundaries of its mystic prison, shuddered slowly, slowly downward and melted at last into the
surrounding night.
Inglesant now turned to Sanna and kneeling beside her put his ear against her heart.
Finally he gathered the poor shrunken form into his arms and replaced it reverently on the
blanket. After that he threw the earth from the flower-pot over the stain on the floor, and
rubbing the two substances well together, he scraped the floor, washed it, and put everything
connected with the ceremonial - tripod, bowl, and water - into the big flower-pot, working them
into the muddy soil.
And now the misty gold of the six-pointed star sank and died out. Inglesant spoke to
Julian: "Better carry your sister down to her own room now and make her comfortable. She
may sleep till evening. Then come back here."
Julian obeyed, and while he was gone Inglesant took the flowerpot down by an outside
stairway into the garden. It was still dark but he knew exactly where to go. In a sort of dingle
he found a deep hole prepared and here he buried the flower-pot with its contents and, filling
the hole, stamped the immemorial Evil into oblivion.
When he re-entered the sun-room he found Julian bent above Sanna's form.
"Thor!" he cried, "she's dead. I thought she had only fainted."
"Yes, Julian. You remember I warned you both to be silent? A few moments sooner
and the whole thing would have failed. I would never have brought Sanna into it, but her
negro blood and her love and close psychic sympathy with Dariel were the nearest I could
come to the only conditions under which this fetish could have been destroyed. I had
arranged with her to take a good dose of the cordial and thus put her out of danger, but she
took fright and spilled it. Even so, if she had only sprung at It nothing like this need have
happened. But she cried out and through that It recognised her physical presence - see!"
He pointed to a spot on Sanna's neck as he said: "Don't grieve, dear boy - you may be
sure that Sanna herself is satisfied. Greater love hath no man than this - grand old Sanna!"
Julian saw, through his tears, on the skin just below her ear a curious mark, like a
brand. As he bent nearer he recognised it for a tiny, distinctly imprinted, ansated cross.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 41, no. 2)
-----------------The Fairest of the Fair
or Angus and Sorrow
- Rev. F. H. Aldhouse, M.A.
Only by contrast, is Supreme Love known,
Love that gives all, and will not ask its own,
But in the brightest light or darkest gloom,
In life triumphant or the silent tomb,
Love still shall win the Quest; though far away
Is the fruition in the realms of Day.

I.
The Heaven of Angus Oge is beautiful beyond words. The hills are aspiring dreams;
the woods are visions of loveliness. O'er beds of many-colored wild flowers, in which
blossoms of every season in the world below bloom simultaneously, the golden bees hum
their drowsy tune, birds sing, the waters croon their eternal song. It is like the world, in all that
is perfect there, but no shadow of grief or death or parting has ever fallen upon it. Moy Elga is
the abode of happiness, the Land of Heart's Desire.
On a bank of violets sat Angus-Ever-Young, a god of eighteen years of age, fit Lord of
such a Paradise. But ever and anon Moy Elga faded and Brugh-on-Boyne, with its temple
covered by green turf and built of grey stone, appeared and then disappeared again. For Moy
Elga interpreted and overhung Brugh. Indeed, Moy Elga was Brugh, transfigured but without
its temple. For the god needed none in his domain; but that day of days he was constantly
casting aside the ideal world for what men call the real. He was listening to the chanting of
his Druids a little impatiently; he was awaiting
an event O Angus, joy of every heart,
Beauty that can its charm impart,
We worship and adore.
Love that can never cease or wane,
Victor o'er time, and change and pain.
We worship and adore.
Gleam of the light, the sweet flowers' breath,
Trampling beneath Thy feet black death,
We worship, and.... ah!
The Druid choir ceased in horror, and a cracked but piercing voice rather hissed than
sung Gardener of flowers for Balor's joy,
Fool whose poor toys He shall destroy,
I laugh your works to scorn!
Angus seized his sword of sunlight and Moy Elga faded about him. He was in the
world of men, furiously looking for the mocker of his divinity. Angus looked up and down and
round, and then at last, standing on a hillock, he saw a jester dressed in black. A man with
two faces. Daluan Two-face, Clown of Death.
"Ah, Lord Angus," he mocked, "so you are awaiting the birth of the golden girl, the
beautiful thing that shall show that you are the perfect artist! Well, my master Balor-of-theMighty-Blows is just as interested, and quite as eager as your lordship. All you create is his,
and this pearl of great price must fall into his hands; and let me tell you, Ever Young, she will
bring quite a bevy of young men with her when His Divine Majesty King Balor gathers her. So
I congratulate you, the toy-maker, and my master the toy-taker and breaker. Hail and
Farewell, Lord Angus!"
Before the Ever Young could grasp or smite him, Daluan sank into the ground, the
cock's comb on his hood vanishing as Angus, with hand raised to strike, lit upon the hillock.
Angus, his eyes sparkling with indignation, shouted "You miserable thing of shreds and
patches, you grinning shadow of a shade! Balor shall not touch my masterpiece! Go tell him

so, fool ape of nothingness!"


A faint titter from the ground beneath his feet was all his answer. A moment later the
Druid choir began again:
Luminous loveliness that broods,
O'er gardens, cities, solitudes,
We worship and adore.
Then the light-elf, Art McArt, bowing low before his Master, announced, "O Divine
Angus, your human child, Etain (Ethawn), the 'fairest of the fair' is born in the world of men.
Rejoice, Ever Young! She is unsurpassed in beauty. Even the Fairy-race are her inferiors...."
II.
In the land of darkness and shadows, where is no light and never a smile, sat Balor
Beman on his throne of iron.
"You are quite certain, Daluan, that Etain will be all the fool Angus has devised?" he
asked his merry man.
"Certain, sure, your Divine Majesty," Daluan answered. "She will be the Fairest of the
Fair, the rarest gem of humanity. Doubtless the Young One is a fool as your Majesty says, but
he is an artist of the nicest taste and discrimination. I did make him wild! I told him, and truly,
that like all his works and devices she would be merely yours, and she would come to you
with quite a train of admirers. The Young One has a bad temper, Divine Majesty; if he could
have caught me he would have done me a mischief for certain."
"Quite," the dark king answered. "Most idiots are touchy and only an idiot would spend
his time making images of dust and water beautiful. They begin aging almost as soon as they
are completed. They are like the midges,
A baby when the day's begun,
And gray and old before it's done,
- or nearly so. And yet the Playboy goes on making them, and loses his temper when the
inevitable happens. Still it's well he is so devoid of wits, for his loss is my gain. I shall watch
that Etain of his with great interest, and when she is ripe for plucking, I will pull her. Aye! out
of his own garden in Moy Elga if needs be. In the meantime warn all the Ills and all the
Blights, and every Evil Fairy to leave her alone. I swear to have her for a diamond in my
crown. If any finger but my own touches that dainty chick, by my own right and left hands I
will crush them to pieces and plunge them, shrieking ghosts, into Phlegethon, my own Red
Hell. Tell them so, Daluan."
"Yes, Majesty," the jester answered bowing.
III.
Sixteen years had flown. Etain, 'the Fairest of the Fair,' was in the flower of her
marvelous girlhood. Protected alike by the Lords of Light and Darkness, she had never
known sorrow, nor anything but the joy of youth and beauty. That day she was playing ball
with her dog, Snatcher. She would run, and the dog would run, and she would throw the

golden ball with all her strength where she thought Snatcher would not find it. But he always
brought it back and with wagging tail and begging eyes implored her to go on. She had now
thrown the ball beyond a grove of hazel trees, and Snatcher had run to retrieve it. A series of
short, angry barks, a furious growl and a yelp, and Snatcher ran out of the grove, his tail
between his legs. He was followed by a tall, majestic knight, dressed in dark armor. His
helmet had the visor half down. The largest, blackest, and most savage-looking wolf-hound
Etain had ever seen accompanied him, and a raven perched on his shoulder. A white horse
he was leading by the bridle. He held Etain's golden ball in his hand.
"I think you have lost this toy, my dear child," he said, and his deep low voice made
Etain tremble, despite the friendly words.
"Thanks, Sir Knight," she answered, "I threw it for my dog to find. He seems very
much afraid of you. He is my guardian, and I never saw him frightened before."
"Oh, it is wrong for anyone who guards so fair a treasure to be faint-hearted," the
knight answered. "Fortunately I am here to see you safe home again. Begone, you cowardly
cur!" To Etain's amazement and horror, Snatcher, with a whimper like a child, turned tail and
fled.
"So much for him!" the knight cried. "I will see you safely to your door."
Etain walked unprotesting beside him; but for the first time in her sixteen years of life
the cold touch of terror made her limbs shudder and her heart beat fast.
"I am the ward of Angus-Ever-Young," she at last found courage to say. "He is a god,"
she added, for the knight did not seem impressed.
"Oh, that fellow!" the knight said and laughed harshly. "The Playboy? Do you think he
is a safe protector?"
"Of course," Etain replied. "Who would dare face the wrath of the Lord of the two
Eternities. The Master of Brugh is a great warrior."
"Ah, really, is he?" the knight answered. "I don't think, my dear, you know him as well
as I do, though you are his ward. He is far from being clever; he is sleepy-headed. And as to
being a warrior! Well! Well! You really make me smile. Now I know a real god who has
frequently made the brave Angus run away as fast as the brave dog, Snatcher! But I'm afraid
you don't believe me."
"Of course I don't, sir," Etain retorted. "I suppose you think you are being funny. I am
glad the Bright Lord has not heard you - he might resent your humor. Now please go away! I
can walk home myself."
"Oh, I shall accompany you, for I don't trust the Playboy. No one will interfere with you,
child, while under my guardianship. I should like you to know I am also your Protector; no ill
could get past my watchfulness. I am Balor Beman." The knight saluted with his sword. "No
doubt you have heard little truth about me," and he threw back his visor. Etain shook so with
fear that she could not move.
"Oh, sir, have pity," she pleaded, "I am only a young girl. Do not harm me! I never
offended you."
"Harm?" the dark god cried. "Not a bit of harm! I merely wished you to get acquainted
with me, my pet. I would not hurt a hair on your beautiful little head. But you are now safe at
home. Do not fear me, I love pretty things. Goodbye, but we shall meet again."
IV.
Conal Carnac, the greatest of the Irish heroes, was now an old man, but he was
accoutred for war and rode steadily westward. It had been told him, "Angus Oge is making

his last stand at Dun Angus in Arran. The fort is besieged by Fomar (demons), monsters, and
wizards. Tomorrow Balor Beman will in person head the last attack. The fort will fall and
Angus must die. There is no help for him in heaven or on earth. Die he must."
"Very well then, I go to die with him," Conal had replied. "I may still strike a few good
blows. If Love lies bleeding I will perish also." So he rode west. That night he slept at the Lis
(castle) of Etain, the Fairest of the Fair. His hostess came to see him after dinner, for his
renown as a warrior had been universal in Erinn.
"So you are going to see the end of Angus-Ever-Young, Conal," Etain said. "It will be a
thrilling sight. I should love to see it all, for Angus was a friend of mine once. I don't mind the
killing, but Balor the Mighty has sworn to thrust out his beautiful blue eyes first. Balor is so
wonderful, but just a little cruel, I think. I should hate to see him do that."
"Yes," Conal replied, "that would be an evil sight. How is it that Angus has lost all his
divine power?"
"Well, you see, he gave me the ring of godliness," and Etain held up her hand, on the
third finger of which was a ring thin as a gossamer, studded with four precious stones at
intervals, a diamond, an emerald, a pearl, and a ruby.
"These stones have power over the four seasons. Angus made me as beautiful as
heaven, but only a few people were interested in me then. Balor made me as beautiful as
hell, and now everyone worships me." (She tossed her head.) "I asked Angus to lend me the
ring - I wanted to feel like a real goddess. He did, and I kept it, and now Balor will be able to
kill him. You could never kill a god," and she laughed mirthlessly.
"Please let me look more closely at the ring," Conal Carnac begged. Etain took it off
and handed it to him. Conal Carnac placed it on his finger; at once he was young again and
felt an irresistible power surging through him.
"Give me my ring," Etain requested.
"No, I shall return it to the owner," she was answered; and Conal Carnac dashed from
the Lis....
At twelve noon the final assault on Dun Angus would be made. The sun had reached
the meridian, and all the deformed and hideous host of darkness were acclaiming their Lord.
"Balor! Balor Beman! Balor of the Mighty Blows!" they roared. "Kill your age-long
enemy, O Balor! Blind him, Lord of Darkness! Tear out his eyes, maim and torture him; he is
no god. His folly has made him mortal."
Balor, armed in the armor of Fate, grasping the quivering lightning in his hand, leisurely
approached the fort.
"Light and life are ended for you, miserable Playboy," he shouted, "Where is the wall
which you trusted?"
He hurled the thunderbolt at the fortification, and it lay in ruin at his feet. Before him
stood Angus Oge in broken armor, with a blunted sword in his hand, pale and grimed and with
the cold sweat of his last agony upon his brow.
"I shall give you no quarter," mocked Balor, and prepared to overpower his victim, for
he wished torture to be Angus's last experience.
At that moment there was a disturbance amongst the monstrous host of besiegers, and
Conal Carnac, with the ring of godhood on his finger, broke through, and springing on the
ruins, reached the side of Angus Oge.
"Here, Lord, is your ring," he said. But a moment of time passed, yet how complete
was the change! No sooner had Angus placed the ring on his finger than he seemed clothed
with the sun. The demon-host, feebly screaming, like bats surprised by daylight, began
fading away. They became transparent, they vanished; only the mighty shadow of shadows,
Balor, stood his ground. He lifted the sword of devastation which flashed like a beam of pallid

flame to the very edge of the horizon, and would have stricken his enemy at the same
moment, for he opened his third eye, 'the eye of blasting,' to reduce him to dust. Angus at
that very instant directed a sunbeam right into the eye of Balor, before its black lightning could
flash forth. The form of Balor quivered; he shuddered from head to foot, and behold, he was
but a dissolving shade, a blackness shot through with light....
In Moy Elga, amongst the songs of birds and the scent of flowers, the now once again
young, the new Conal Carnac, was talking to Angus-Ever-Young, Lord of Love.
"So you will not punish Etain, lord?" he asked.
"I will only give her her heart's desire, Conal," the god answered sadly. "I made her as
beautiful as heaven; she wished to be as beautiful as hell and Balor granted her desire. She
shall remain so till she learns, and learn she will, how bad an exchange she has made. Her
body is beautiful, but her soul is more ugly than Balor himself. He at least is all of a piece.
She has a spark of my divine life in her. It will be ages before I can bring her back to me;
many lives, many deaths await her, but the fault is not wholly hers. Love that gives only joy,
and never teaches there is also sorrow is foolish and blind. My dear child shall learn that
there are thorns in the garden of life, and tears as well as sunlight. In every step she takes
downwards and in every step she takes upwards, unseen I shall be gliding by her side. Love
has learned a new word: it is Redemption."
(Theosophical Path, vol. 41, no. 3)
------------------Per-ao Lives For Ever
- Captain Waldemar Brunke
Work, my brother, this - your day Per-ao needs your labor.
Rock may crumble into clay;
Lands may rise and wash away;
Khem may live and Khem may die Per-ao needs your labor.
When the wind of dawn strummed melodious chords on the harp of Nature on top of
Khnum-Khuf's palace on the Plain of Gizeh, young Sepes, first-born of the Pharaoh of Egypt,
threw back his cotton coverlet, and jumped from his high, lion-bodied bed down to the mosaic
floor. He ran nimbly to the spouting fountain in the center of the vast chamber. He was as
perfectly proportioned as a brown efreet of the Nile. He glowed with health as he reveled in
the cool shower. After a thorough rub-down with a rough linen towel, he anointed himself with
the seven sacred oils from the alabaster jars which stood on an engraved stone shelf against
the wall, above his cedar-wood and ivory dresser. Swiftly he donned a short blue tunic that
had the golden Suten-bity hieroglyphs of royalty embroidered across the breast. He chose a
plain broad leather belt that had sheaths attached to it. From a miscellaneous assortment of
arms and tools he took a copper dagger, a light boomerang, and a fire-making drill, but
instead of taking a bow and arrows, he chose a reed flute. Whistling softly he put a plain gold
band on his head and stepped into sandals of woven grass. He would go far this day. A long
trip might drive the restlessness from his heart, a restlessness which prevented him from
thinking clearly.

Three people saw him leave the palace and walk swiftly toward the stone pier on the
bank of the Nile, where ships and boats were moored. Neither of the three was aware of the
presence of the other two. All three hurried away, bent upon following Sepes, yet each with
an entirely different purpose in mind.
Sepes unfastened the rope of a light reed canoe, and entered it with a running start.
With a few deft strokes of his paddle he sent the tiny craft flying across the river toward the
mouth of a palm-fringed lagoon.
When he reached this inlet, he followed the shore-line just clear of the tall reeds. His
gaze was fixed on the ancient temple ruins in the distant jungle - that anyone might be
following him, never entered his mind.
When he reached the end of this lagoon of mimosa, sycamore, and willows, he
stopped to consider which way to go. He decided that it didn't matter, so long as he put the
miles behind him. In physical exhaustion he hoped to find the necessary peace of mind to
solve his problems. He paddled up a winding stream.
His father, Khnum-Khuf, had told him a week ago that it was time he found a wife and
settled down. Sepes was fifteen, which meant in Egypt that he had reached manhood. It was
the custom of the land to marry young, so that the children should grow up under the
protection of the parents. He had another choice. If he didn't want to establish a household
of his own, he could become a priest of Amen Ra. That would be the easiest way of the two!
In that case his brother would be the next Pharaoh. To become Divine Ruler of Egypt, a
prince had to pass through an initiation in the Per-ao, the Great House (one of the names of
the Great Pyramid), then be the servant of the Brotherhood of Light until he could don the
uraeus and know what was good for Egypt's two kingdoms.
He looked back to the Per-ao which loomed between the treetops. His stroke slowed
as indecision swayed him. Initiation, he had been told, was mortal hard. Many failed to pass.
And if there was no prince with a powerful enough mind to become Sekhem, then a great
commoner would take his place. On the other hand, as Heri-Aata, High Priest of Amen Ra,
one could drift pleasantly through life - be a figure-head at the festivals, while the lesser
priests bore the burden of keeping up the prestige of the temple....
Ashore, he heard the roar of an angry lion. "Let him roar!"
An adept of the Per-ao was above the level of the people. They called him 'Sekhem,'
the Shrine of Divine Power. And Master! And there was one who was never seen, the
Sekhem Ur Sekhemu.... They said he was one of those divine beings who kept the dark
powers from exterminating mankind on Earth.
That lion made altogether too much noise!
Sepes swerved the canoe into an opening in the reeds. Shortly he saw what the great
cat was roaring about: a crocodile had him by the tuft on the end of his tail and was pulling
him, inch by inch, towards the water. Sepes drove his canoe up on the mud; with a bound he
was on dry land.
Utterly devoid of fear Sepes walked toward the struggling beasts. He looked at them a
moment, then took his boomerang and tapped the crocodile lightly on the nose. "Be off to
your mud, Dragon without Wings!" he ordered; and when the crocodile meekly obeyed,
Sepes turned to the furious lion who was getting ready to spring. "Back to your jungle, Master
of the Big Head!" he said in an even voice. "You were foolish to let a crocodile catch you
napping."
The lion relaxed. He yawned. With a grumble he lay down and began to lick his
wounds.
"If you will keep quiet you can stay," Sepes told him, and seated himself on a huge
sycamore-root close to him. "This is a quiet, restful spot." He pulled the lion's mane. "Quit

bemoaning the consequences of being unwary; I want to think." The lion yawned once more,
put his head on his paws, and stared at him unblinkingly with his golden eyes.
Soundlessly the cedar skiff of Princess Nefert-Sat-Sneferu nosed through the reeds
and came to a stop beside the canoe. She watched the tableau: Sepes lost in thought,
pulling idly on the mane of the lion. Behind them, the crafty face of Ra-hotep, priest of Amen
Ra, watching through the bushes.
Princess Nefert was the most beautiful maiden of marriageable age in all Egypt, and
she knew it. The one rival she feared was her cousin, Meri-ankh. That young lady was
merely passably good-looking but she had a mind as brilliant as the noonday sun gleaming on
the white walls of Memphis. And besides Meri-ankh, Nefert was afraid of the cunning Rahotep.... Ah! If only that man in the bushes were the future Pharaoh instead of this dull young
prince who cared more for the affection of a beast, such as that lion, than for the love of a
beautiful girl like herself.... But win Sepes she must, if she wanted to realize her ambition of
becoming Queen of Egypt. She took up her lute and began to sing seductively.
"Follow your heart's desire, my beloved!
Listen to love's sweet plea on my lute - "
The lion growled and came to his feet, facing her, his tail twitching and his haunches
set to spring.
Sepes glanced up. "Didn't I tell you to be still, Rash One?" he chided the lion. As the
great beast relaxed again, Sepes turned to the girl. "What brings you here, Royal Cousin?"
he asked with grudging courtesy. "I would advise you to sing no more; the lion might object
to it, and even my power over the beasts of prey has its limits."
Princess Nefert smiled winsomely. "Is my song then so distasteful to you? Have I
taken so much pains to array myself in finest byssus and my best girdle and necklace that I
should find favor in your eyes, only to be asked, 'What brings you here?' I am a royal
princess!" She drew herself to her full height and posed like a wood-nymph. "You, Sepes,
soon must choose a wife.... Look at me, Sepes! Am I not beautiful?"
"You are," he assented in a matter-of-fact way that bordered on impatience. "So are
the dunes behind the pyramids at sunset, and the dawn reflecting the Temples of Mena and
Senti in the Nile. I heard my royal father ask my mother Ra-mert if it would be wise to build
more granaries against a famine.... What would your answer have been, Nefert?"
"What a silly question!" she replied. "What should I know about that? A woman is
expected to be a glowing jewel in her husband's house. Ask me about the new dance, the
best cosmetics, and where to buy the finest cloth, and I will answer you. What should I care
about a famine? The people will live somehow!"
"My tutor told me that brotherhood was once the supreme law in Egypt," said Sepes
thoughtfully, as if weighing her. "The Senui Hetchet, the White Brothers, were the chiefs of
the people before the heavens fell and the great waters washed the foot of the pyramids the
second time.... Your skin is beautiful Nefert, and your form as perfect as a statue of Merit,
Goddess of Love - but your heart is as cold as if you were indeed of marble. Egypt needs
hearts that burn with love like the sun!"
The lion arose, looked toward the bushes and growled. Ra-hotep, eager not to lose a
word, had come out of his hiding-place. Now that the priest saw himself discovered, he
smoothed his yellow and white tunic and strutted boldly forward, swinging the Ankh-headed
staff of his rank. The lion gave him a look of aversion, then walked majestically off and
merged with the trees.
"Well spoken, Prince Sepes!" Ra-hotep bowed before the royal pair. "Egypt needs

great hearts to spread the power of Amen-Ra far and wide, so that the people may live
bountifully in the reflection of His glory. The temple of Amen-Ra wants a new High Priest....
Why should a promising young prince like yourself bury himself for years in the gloomy
passages of the Per-ao to learn a lot of antiquated superstition? If you become the Lord of
our Temple you can have all the earthly pleasures that make life worth living."
"Superstition indeed!" Sepes frowned. "And you a priest, Ra-hotep? Would you dare
to repeat what you said before one of the Brotherhood? I wonder! To you the passages of
the Great House would surely be gloomy. You and all your companion-priests have lost the
golden thread that holds mankind to the One of Whom your new god is only one of countless
aspects.... Under your manipulations the Nameless Hidden Divinity has become a local god the means of giving you and your kind earthly wealth and power. Take care that your cupidity
does not destroy you! I am young and have much to learn - yet I know that it is well to listen
to the inner voice! Your offer finds no favor in my thoughts."
Sepes, lost in a brown study, drew two hieroglyphs in the sand - circle with three rays
streaming from it, and a tablet with a tied knot in the middle of it. The priest glanced from the
symbol to the prince, consternation on his features. He threw his arm over his eyes as if to
ward off a blow. Swiftly he backed away, then turned and ran into the jungle as if possessed.
Princess Nefert made a step toward Sepes to avail herself of the opportunity to talk
with him undisturbed, but a tall ascetic approached them leisurely. He was clad in a simple
white tunic and wore a broad gold band with a uraeus on his forehead. Princess Nefert
cowered, terror written in her eyes. She ran to her skiff and paddled hurriedly away. That
newcomer belonged to the White Brotherhood!
Sepes arose when the ascetic halted before him. "In peace, Lord Antef!" he smiled. "I
came here to be alone. It seems the place is popular. You are welcome, Sekhem of the Perao!"
"What is the meaning of your symbol, Prince Sepes?" Antef inquired, watching the
expression of the other's face.
"Khu-fu, Established Divine Power," Sepes answered, unaware that the symbol written
by his hand might have a hidden meaning. "Why did you write it in the sand?"
Sepes looked at him in astonishment. "I had nothing in mind," he replied, "But - "
"Go to your mother, Queen Ra-mert," suggested Antef. "Ask her the question that will
come to your mind. Then follow her advice." He bowed and walked on.
Sepes returned to the royal palace, pondering over what Antef had told him. When he
flung open the carved cedar door to the queen's chamber, his mother Queen Ra-inert and her
ladies were engaged in conversation with an ambassador and his retinue from the Land of
Punt. She was sitting on a dais. Sepes waited until she was at liberty, then approached her.
Queen Ra-mert studied her son with eyes of wisdom. "You look troubled, Sepes," she
remarked. "Is there anything you wish to tell me?"
"The Lord Antef suggested that I should ask you the question that would come to me,"
he replied. "While I spoke to Ra-hotep, the priest, this morning, I had a vague impression that
something is wrong with Egypt, something that is pulling it down. I wanted to ask you about
that, but the question that persists in my mind is: "Why has no king of Egypt ever called
himself Sa Asar, the Son of Osiris?"
Queen Ra-mert gazed at her son strangely, then sighed. "No king, nor commoner,
would dare," she said. "And that is the reason behind the gradual collapse of this ancient
land: it has lost contact with what Osiris stands for - the Nameless, Who embraces all
existing things in one great Brotherhood of All."
She motioned to the Lord of Ceremonies that the newly-arrived foreign visitors must
wait, and proceeded: "Look at all those hieroglyphs on the wall.... They are symbols which

tell the story of our existence on earth. It is a constant battle between the powers of Light and
Darkness - Cycles of Day and Night struggling for supremacy. Growth and Decay, Good and
Evil, are ever writing the pages of the Book of Life and Death, which records the progress of
our evolution - an eternal mill that revolves by the power of Cause and Effect.
"Because Egypt's priesthood has ventured on the path of darkness, and, because the
people hail their dogma of a personal deity with acclaim, this glorious Land of Per-ao will
degenerate. Her great souls will withdraw from Egypt to take up their work among younger
nations elsewhere.
"When the pyramids were built, not only as monuments to the Ancient Wisdom, but
also to preserve the seed of man and beast and plant when Nature should sweep the dross
from this land with a deluge, Osiris was revered as Ast-en, He Whose Throne stands supreme
of All - the enthroned That, the Nameless. Two aspects of the Nameless, Asar and Tehuti,
were then worshiped as the Divinities of Bringing into Being.
"After the deluge Egypt flourished once more for many thousands of years, but never
again did it reach the heights on which it once had stood. Tmu and Tanen replaced Asar and
Tehuti. And when another deluge wet the foot of the pyramids and brought in a new cycle of
precession of the sun, Asar became Ausares the Lord of Amenta, and Tehuti was the
Recorder of Life and Death.
Amen Ra and the Circle of Gods of Anu more and more personify the lost divinities of
Old Egypt. Only the Brethren of the Per-ao are now instructed in the Wisdom of the Ancients
and know what Asar-Osiris - once stood for.
"You may call yourself the child of Amen, but I know you will not - he is only a manmade god. You are indeed the son of Ast-en, the Nameless, but before you become so highly
evolved that you can guide the hierarchy of a star like our Earth, be content to call yourself
the Son of the Sun. The Sun is a mighty divinity but, even so, only an insignificant cog in the
great Wheel of the All. Be satisfied, therefore, with the name of Golden Horus when you
return from your initiation into the White Brotherhood. Your personal name you have already
written this morning, though you do not know it.
"I have the power to see beyond ordinary vision. I was with you on the banks of the
lagoon this morning.... It is my wish that you go to the Per-ao today and become an Initiate of
the White Brotherhood. Your father has gone on an expedition to find new building-material;
if he were present he would give assent to my request. There is the Lady Meri-ankh. Do you
wish me to give her a message, my son, before you take your departure?"
Sepes beheld Meri-ankh speaking to a foreign dignitary. She appeared to radiate
spiritual power. Beautiful she seemed to him with a beauty that came from within.
"Tell the Lady Meri-ankh that I require her assistance against the day when I shall rule
Egypt," he said. "The Princess Nefert would make a splendid ornament for a royal court, but
her vision does not penetrate outside of a circle that revolves around herself. In peace,
Mother; I go!"
The Lord Antef greeted Sepes, as the young prince climbed up the steps to the
pyramid-entrance: "Hail Sepes! What do you seek at the door of That, which is Hidden?"
"I seek Light and Truth! I seek spiritual power that I may be able to guide my people
wisely! I would ask admission to the White Brotherhood to help keep alive the Ancient
Wisdom."
Antef smiled and his eyes shone with spiritual light and kindliness. "Follow me, Great
One to Be!" he said gently. "Great One who has returned! Your spirit's flight shall show you
that which links the life-spark of an atom to the immeasurable power of the Universe of
Universes while you meet each aspect of the Nameless All. You shall see the Hierarchs of
Hierarchies, even to the star Saau where Isis governs the Flames of Being, and to Aahu the

Moon, whence you came here.... And while your spirit seeks its source, Khnum-khuf shall give
way to Khu-fu - the Source of Divine Power.... make room for Established Divine Power,
because your father's work is done for this incarnation."
Sepes was puzzled about Antef's last sentence; somehow it struck a familiar chord in
his memory which eluded him. But the time for asking questions was past. He was in the
realms of a silence that spoke to him.
Sepes followed the guiding hand of Antef through utter darkness. A tremendous weight
seemed to rest on his mind, as if the vast bulk of the Pyramid were pressing down on him. A
resonant voice demanded: "Who seeks to pass this gate?" He answered mechanically: "A
soul seeking the Throne of Light," and found himself alone in a chamber illumined by rosecolored light.
Seven chambers he passed through, opened to him one by one; three were light, four
dark. In them he gained an understanding of the different principles which made up his being.
Then he was in a dark passage again.
"Who approaches the gate of the Chamber of New Birth?" another deep voice
demanded.
"A wanderer on the Road of Past, Present, and Future, going where Time and Space
are only names," answered Sepes. "I am one who seeks the Lost Eye of Destiny. Universal
Brotherhood is my name; O Lord of Two Scepters, who doth mete out justice by the Law of
Cause and Effect."
"Pass, Wanderer of Eternity! Eternity opens its door!"
Sepes entered a good-sized chamber. It was bright as day, though he saw no lamp.
On a stairway in the center stood an empty sarcophagus. Sepes ascended the stairs. The
illumination faded. The room became dark. A voice commanded: "Enter your bed and see
yourself! Then follow your spirit to the Realms of Light and learn Wisdom from the Divine
Ones, who guided you here."
Heavy silence reigned. In the blackness Sepes saw dancing globes of light which he
knew to be phantoms of the change from light to darkness. He felt a cold chill of utter
isolation creeping into his heart. He lay down in the sarcophagus, his mind picturing to him a
fathomless abyss in which churned whirlpools of fire. He felt himself drawn into one of these
vortices. His brain whirled. A globe of light approached at tremendous speed; it came to a
stop, and became a screen of fleeting pictures.
Sepes followed these pictures from the dawn of human life on earth, to the present.
He saw ethereal giant-growths shrink with the size of the earth into less gigantic beings,
which were more material, but still boneless. Then came ape-like creatures of colossal
stature, which gradually assumed compact smaller form though still gigantic. They separated
into man and woman. Their color was red and blue. With a cataclysm of water and fire they
disappeared and golden-colored, brown and black races replaced them. These, too, and their
continent were wiped off the earth to give room to the Fifth Race, which sprang from them.
Part of this, the Aryan race, ultimately settled in Egypt and flourished there as a nation.
Hundreds and thousands of years they lived in harmony on the banks of the Nile. Then the
forces of evil gained a new foothold in the land. The reigning king was powerless to keep his
people from following the new gods. This king was his father Khnum-Khuf, who planned the
pyramids.
Then Sepes saw his own likeness as a new king. He was Khu-fu, Established Power,
the ruler who built the three pyramids and the network of passages beneath them with the
help of his two brothers, Khafra and Men-kau-ra.
Sepes watched the construction of the mighty monuments on the screen. The
enormous blocks of stone in the quarries stood on metal sheets of iridescent color. Little

winged disks that hummed lifted these stones high and a great winged disk on the place of
erection shot streamers of radiance toward them and guided them with magnetic attraction to
the bed which they were to occupy. The magnetic force used was that same twofold cosmic
energy which is at the Poles of the Earth, keeping the Earth revolving in its orbit and
suspended in the aether - the force which counteracts gravity and fosters gravity.
The work progressed with astonishing rapidity. When the three pyramids were finished
and water-tight, Khu-fu and a number of chosen men and women entered them with all their
belongings. Then raging billows closed over the scene long enough to destroy everything
outside on the land.
When the waters had receded, flat-nosed people came from the south and settled on
the banks of the Nile. They made room for a white people with long straight noses. Five
times in all a different type of people seized the reins of government. And always his father
and his three sons were there to guide them when they needed help.
A second deluge came. When it was over the present, light-brown Egyptians overran
the two lands. These were men of blood, wielding weapons of iron and bronze. They called
themselves Blacksmiths after their supreme deity, Ptah. When they attacked the White
Brotherhood of the Per-ao, they were stricken with palsy. Filled with terror they sued for
peace and made one of the Sekhems their king. They adopted some of the old WisdomReligion. But the old order of things had departed from the land. The Blacksmiths belonged
to a cycle of darkness - they reveled in bloodshed.
The scene shifted to the Upper Nile, showing Khnum-Khuf's ship stranded on a reef
and the body of the Pharaoh floating lifeless down the river. Then the screen became a
blank.
The next picture took shape. Sepes saw his father, Khnum-Khuf, appearing on the
screen. The Pharaoh spoke:
"Salutation my son, from your father who has passed on! You are now the Pharaoh
Khu-fu, the divine ruler of the Two Lands of Khem. Always Khu-fu, Established Power,
followed Khnum-Khuf, Source of Power, executing the plans made by his predecessors. I am
giving you my plans now. The casing-stones of the pyramids were crumbling away. I tore
them down. It is for you to build them up. Hearken to my counsel.
"You have seen how you once built the pyramids in the long ago. The people over
whom you will rule cannot be trusted with white magic, since the priests of the temples would
corrupt it with sorcery. Therefore it is forbidden to use magnetic energy when you give the
pyramids a new outer coating of limestone. I have invented a cradle for you to lift stone. Use
it! The work will be slow - a lesson to you in patience. Thousands of years from now, when
you follow me once more as the head of the White Brotherhood, building up what I plan, it will
be permitted to use the hidden force again, because it can do no harm.
"Build your house on Truth, my son. Remember that when you are the Per-ao, the
Great House, the people will look to you for guidance.... Begin with the impersonal love which
guides you, that you do not fall from your high estate. For a period your will is the will of the
gods. You become to a certain degree the maker of things. Remember then that the Cement
of the Universe is Love. In your right eye shines the Sun, in your left the Moon, and around
you the stars. Let the uraeus on your forehead keep you in the White Road, so that the
Immortal Three may in health progress with the four who bind you to earth.
"I go. My blessings are on you and Egypt. Release the atoms of my body with fire
according to our ancient law. Tarry not! Go hence when you awaken; you can become a
Sekhem when you awaken! There are those who would usurp your place. Farewell!"
Sepes awoke with the sun's rays shooting from mirrors into his eyes. He was in the
House of Light on the Throne of Truth. A venerable man with silvery hair stood regarding him

anxiously, with mystic eyes of the Jewels of Esoteric Wisdom begun in H. P. Blavatsky's
Secret Doctrine, the further unveiling and more general diffusion of the teachings made
possible by Fundamentals of the Esoteric Philosophy, are as much a part of this New Age as
sunrise is of morning.
(Theosophical Path, vol. 42, no. 3)
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