Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
But I can imagine the astonishment of the Poles; just listen! When Bismarck expelled a few thousand Polish families from Prussia, he received the highest papal order; yes, the Order of Christ is very beautiful, and also very valuable. Now further! Hardly had the news of the insane murders subsided, which the Russians, with the approval of the Russian government, committed on the Polish Uniates in Kroze—by the way, murders that repeat themselves every day in Lithuania—when the Pope issues an encyclical to the bishops of Poland, in which he praises the great benevolence of the Tsardom with much praise—yes, please very much, it expressly states there, the Tsar is filled with the most intimate benevolence toward the Poles, he wants only their best.
No, Reverend Father, don’t take it amiss, but I didn’t like it at all when in your last sermon you tried to prove that the Pope once again let his paternal heart for the oppressed shine in unheard-of splendor.
That is superficial estimation; the matter hangs together quite differently. The Pope is determined by the French, with whom he sympathizes very much; yes, he is prompted by French policy to continually flirt with the Russians. In the whole encyclical, which I read very attentively, I find no paternal heart, on the contrary quite crude Vatican interests. And since I belong to the Catholic parish, it pains me deeply that church policy is so unbeautiful, yes—I want to express myself reservedly—unbeautiful, hypocritical, and uses cloaks of faith, hope, love for very earthly interests.
All those present looked at each other. They didn’t know what to say to it. That was really unheard-of bold, spoken in the presence of the monastery pastor. All eyes turned alternately to Falk and the pastor.
Marit had listened with pounding heart; mouth half-open, breath catching, she sat there and awaited the explosion.
The pastor was completely pale.
“You know, young man: You are much too young to solve the most important church questions with your intellect, infected by the heresy of foreign lands, and even less are you entitled to mock about it.”
Falk didn’t lose his composure for a moment.
“Yes, Reverend Father, what you say is very beautiful. In the end, it doesn’t concern me at all what you or the Pope or the German government do; that’s completely indifferent to me. But I permit myself to doubt whether the Church has really taken out a lease on all worldly wisdom from Providence. I actually permit myself to doubt that most excellently. It has recently immortalized itself in the question of Darwinism or rather in the dispute over the evolutionary principle.”
“And then, yes: can you tell me at which council the infallibility of the Pope in matters of politics was proclaimed?
Yes, yes; I know very well that according to tradition this kind of infallibility also exists, but I think that the papal nepotism in the Middle Ages is hardly the best recommendation for this kind of infallibility.
By the way, this is a topic that could lead to heated discussions, and that I want to prevent at all costs; one understands each other or one doesn’t, and I don’t feel called to force any suggestions on the company.”
It grew quiet; only the editor of the *Kreisblatt*, who had a reputation for social-democratic ideas, seemed very pleased.
He absolutely wanted to push Falk further: the man took no leaf before his mouth; he spoke as the beak grew.
“Yes, tell me, Herr Falk, you are an ultra-revolutionary, as I see. You now live in a monarchical state. Naturally you are not satisfied with such a condition. What do you say to a monarchical state constitution?”
The editor was already delighted to find his ideas confirmed before the reactionary elements.
“Hm; you know, Herr Editor, you pose a tricky question there. I was once in Helsingborg, and indeed with a friend who is an anarchist, but at the same time also a great artist. We stood on the ferry and looked at a splendid, ancient castle that Shakespeare already mentions in *Hamlet*.
Do you know what my friend, the anarchist, said? Yes, he said that what he would now say would certainly very much surprise me, but he had to admit that such splendid works were only possible under monarchical rule. Yes, absolutely; just look at the rule of the Bourbons in France, and compare it with the rule of the first republic. Look at the second empire and the infinitely rich artistic traditions that arose in it and that can only thrive in the splendor, extravagance, and lust of a royal court. Now you have here in Prussia a Frederick William IV, in Bavaria a Maximilian and a Ludwig. Take in hand the history of art, yes the
history of refinement of taste, of ennoblement of the human race, and you will decide for yourself.
No, I don’t want democracy; it flattens and vulgarizes humanity, makes it crude and directs it into narrow interest economics. Then the shopkeepers come to power, the tailors, tanners, and peasants, who hate everything beautiful, everything high. No, I don’t want the plebeian instincts unleashed against everything higher-bred.
The whole society seemed suddenly reconciled with Falk. But now came the backlash.
He sympathized nevertheless with all revolutionary ideas. Yes, he really did. He himself was not active; life interested him too little for that. He only watched and followed the development, somewhat like an astronomer in the eyepiece of his telescope follows the orbit of a star.
Yes, he really sympathized with the Social Democrats. For he had a faith that rested on the following premises. The postulated economic equality must by no means be confused with an equality of intelligences. He was now convinced that in a future association of humanity an oligarchy of intelligences would form, which would gradually have to come to power. Then of course the course of things would begin anew; but he hoped that such a rule would be a better beginning than that of the present cultural epoch, which had begun with wild barbarism.
The ruling class was impoverished, degenerated through inbreeding and excessive refinement. The danger of a crude, disgusting parvenu rule, the rule of money-bling and unclean hands, loomed. No, a thousand times no: that he didn’t want to live to see. Better to overthrow! He would gladly join.
The editor recovered; he seemed satisfied.
“Just one more question… What does Falk think of the current government?”
“The current government is the Kaiser, and for the Kaiser he had much sympathy. Yes, really; he pleased him extraordinarily. He had recently suddenly appointed the captain of the fire brigade to chief fire marshal. And why? Because he had excellently cordoned off the palace square during a parade. The appointment had not followed
bureaucratic principles; but therein lay precisely the beauty, the arbitrariness, the great soul. In short, everything so immensely to be appreciated: No, he really had very much sympathy for the Kaiser, and he drinks to the health of the German Kaiser!”
Those present looked at each other dumbfounded. But all rose and joined the toast.
The social-democratically tinged editor thought he would fall under the table; but he contented himself with a meaningless grin.
The table was cleared.
Falk instinctively felt two burning eyes fixed on him. He looked to the side and met Marit’s gaze hanging admiringly on him.
She lowered her eyes.
Falk went to her. They were very close; they were pushed forward by the many people crowding out of the dining room and pressed tightly against each other.
A warm stream flowed over Falk.
“Erik, you are splendid… a great man…” A dark flood wave colored her face.
Falk looked at her hotly. A glow of pride and love transfigured her features. “You are a real devil!” Herr Kauer came up. “That’s what I call speaking like a man! One of us would also like to say this and that sometimes, but we don’t dare. Just don’t spoil the girl for me; you mustn’t speak so revolutionarily to her.” Falk wanted to object.
“Now, now,” Herr Kauer soothed, “I have unconditional trust in you; you wear your heart on your tongue. Live well for me. In a week I’m back. You mustn’t leave on me, understand?”
Herr Kauer went.
“Oh, how splendidly you spoke… You can’t believe…” Marit looked at Falk full of admiration.
“Oh no, Fräulein Marit, that wasn’t spoken splendidly at all; against every one of these sentences a thousand objections could be made. But that may well be good for the gentlemen who draw their wisdom from the *Kreisblatt* and at most from some conservative newspaper that only has God and the Kaiser in its mouth. By the way, you also found what I said about the Pope well spoken?”
Marit hurried to answer.
“Yes certainly; she had now thought a lot, very much about all these things, and she had to give him complete right. Yes, he was right in most things, that she now saw.”
Falk looked at her astonished. He hadn’t expected that. That was really a strange metamorphosis.
“Why didn’t you come these whole two days? I expected you continuously and tormented myself unheard-of. Yes, I tormented myself very much, I must tell you openly.”
“Dear, good, gracious Fräulein, you probably know that best. I simply didn’t want to disturb the peace of your conscience. Yes, and then, you know, I am very nervous and mustn’t give myself too much to the sweet torment, otherwise the string might snap.”
Falk smiled.
Meanwhile, the editor joined them. He couldn’t digest the toast to the German Kaiser and now wanted to lead Falk onto thin ice.
“He would like to know how Herr Falk stood toward the anarchist murder acts. He was surely a soul-knower, a psychologist; how would he explain them?”
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 25
“Shall I take the coffee set with the rose pattern?” Frau Professor Fechner asked, opening the door to her husband’s study, where he seemed to shiver in a woolen vest and fur cap despite the sun-warmed room.
“Yes, take the rose pattern!” her husband replied softly over his shoulder. The door closed, but it opened again, and the professor’s wife asked once more, “Or perhaps the forget-me-not one?”
“You can take the forget-me-nots too,” Fechner answered.
The door closed, but Fechner had only time to let out a small sigh of resignation before it opened again: “But the rose pattern is prettier!”
“That’s what happens,” the Professor smiled patiently, “when you have two coffee sets. By the way, Freiherr von Reichenbach is coming from Vienna, where they have the best coffee in the world, but he’s not coming to drink our Leipzig flower coffee, but for his Od.”
“What does he want from you?”
“What does he want?” Fechner pushed the green-tinted glasses he wore for his eye condition up onto his forehead. “He’s coming to me because I’m his last hope. The others have all abandoned him. Now he clings to me, hoping I’ll save him.”
“He wants to hitch his wagon to your reputation.”
The Professor’s wife was a diligent and ambitious housewife, yet she sometimes had a sharp understanding of her husband’s standing and influence. Her words carried a hint of concern for Fechner’s scientific reputation.
“Exactly,” Fechner confirmed. “It’s a questionable matter, this Od. Dangerous to get involved and oppose the general disbelief. But if it’s the truth, I’ll have to bear witness to it. And then they’ll call me as much a fantasist as this Reichenbach.”
“Very unpleasant!” said the Professor’s wife. She had little taste for scientific martyrdom; she preferred successes. Why should her husband risk his achievements for such a dubious cause? “He’s bombarded me with letters,” Fechner continued, “he’s berated me because I found a flaw in his research in my Moon Book. But since I’m the only one among his opponents who leaves room for understanding, he’s latched onto me. I declined his visit, was rude to the point of coarseness. But he’s unstoppable; he’s coming anyway.”
“I’ll take the forget-me-not pattern after all,” the Professor’s wife decided after a moment’s thought, and with that, she had settled the matter of Od as far as she was concerned.
But even the forget-me-not pattern wasn’t used. The Freiherr declined coffee, claiming he’d just had some, but the real reason was his agitation, too great to waste time on trivialities. He was eager to get to the heart of the matter and learn whether Fechner could be convinced. Everything seemed to hinge on this man; the fate of his entire doctrine rested on him. Never had the Freiherr been so wrought up. Fechner, this quiet man with a wise, refined face etched with patiently borne suffering, stood before him as the appointed judge, more authoritative than all the pompous, self-important scholars before who dispensed superior science.
“I turned to you,” he said, gripping Fechner’s hand tightly, unwittingly digging into his palm with trembling fingers, “because you defend the day-view of universal ensoulment against the night-view of soullessness that dominates science.”
“Yes, yes,” Fechner deflected, “it’s the idea that matters, but it can’t wander the world without proof. Even fully provable ideas require the strength to push them through. Think of poor Semmelweis…”
“What?” Reichenbach asked, cupping his ear.
Fechner realized he needed to speak louder and raised his voice. “Semmelweis! Lucky he didn’t have to endure the full misery of the asylum. Strange that he died of blood poisoning. It’s as if the demon he fought his whole life took revenge. The doctor who sought to stop infection in maternity wards cuts his finger during an operation and dies from it.” He had intended to bring up Semmelweis, not without the purpose of a cautionary comparison.
“Indeed,” said Reichenbach, “but the finest part of your letters is where you say you’re as cautious in belief as in disbelief. That’s the true impartiality of an honest and upright man of science. But most colleagues—”
“I would have liked,” Fechner interrupted, “to assemble a commission, but the colleagues refused to engage with a matter considered settled.”
“It’s already in my book: The Sensitive Human and Its Relation to Od,” Reichenbach said, speaking almost past Fechner. “Much depends on the sensitives. I’ve brought my best sensitive—my housekeeper, Fräulein Ruf, the daughter of a dear friend.”
Only now did Fechner turn his attention to the woman who had entered with Reichenbach and lingered by the door. She gave a shy, beaten impression, as if emphasizing her subservient role before the two men through her humble demeanor, though Reichenbach’s words were like outstretched hands, striving to draw her forward and place her as an equal beside him.
Yes, the Freiherr had showered Friederike with kindness and radiant warmth at home. He granted her days of rest and recovery, refraining from urging her to travel to Leipzig immediately, though he was eager to make the trip and force a decision. He spared her experiments—not a single one—knowing her gift wasn’t a skill to be trained like physical strength but a talent always present, ready for use. She should rest, gather herself, regain her self-assurance. Reichenbach could imagine the horrors she’d endured, ghastly, helplessly subjected to that monstrous will. His compassionate understanding was so great that he didn’t even ask—not even how she was ultimately saved. He respected her silence. Once, he said his eyes had only now opened to the vile old hag who held power over him, as if offering his own humiliation as comfort for hers. That he did, and he took her to the city to outfit her anew, as befitted the daughter of his dearest friend.
Yes, he had revealed this strange truth to her, perhaps to shock her back to herself, to help her regain a sense of her own worth.
All that had happened, but it couldn’t change that she still felt crushed, defiled, and unworthy of any love or kindness. At times, she suddenly couldn’t comprehend why she had returned to the Freiherr; she hadn’t accounted for it, and now it sometimes felt as if she should run away. Perhaps it would have been better to stay on the road—in a hayloft, a ditch, perishing somewhere in the dark.
So empty was she, drained, incapable of higher feeling, filled only with a bottomless fear of what was to come.
Professor Fechner understood the warm introduction from Reichenbach; he had before him a young lady, not a mere servant, and kindly invited her to sit. But then he thought it time to get to the point.
“We’ve corresponded about the basic experiments to start with,” he said. “We can move to others later. First, the simple facts. Everything is prepared as agreed. Here’s the horseshoe magnet, on the table with only the poles exposed, the rest covered with a cloth. The poles are unmarked, save for a small, invisible mark I’ve made for myself on one arm. You’re to use your left hand to distinguish the cooler North Pole from the other.”
He asked the Freiherr to stand farther away by the window—not out of mistrust, of course, just a precaution to rule out unintentional influence. “When you’re ready, we’ll begin.”
Friederike stood before the magnet. She raised her left hand and brought it near the two ends. There was no sensation in her hand—neither cool nor warm; just a piece of iron, with no living currents flowing into her. She lowered her hand and fixed a pleading gaze on Reichenbach. His face was tense and agitated; she had never seen the Freiherr like this. She knew everything for him now hung in the balance. Almost dazed, she raised her hand and pointed at one pole at random.
Fechner lifted the cloth, checked, and without comment, noted something in his notebook. Then he turned the magnet several times, placed it back, and covered it again. Friederike had tried to peek over his shoulder; no mark was visible. She was so confused she would have been ready to cheat.
“Please,” said Fechner.
He repeated the experiment seven times, then reviewed his notes and said with an awkward cough, “I’m sorry I can’t report a better result. Out of seven tries, the Fräulein identified the North Pole correctly only three times. By the principles of probability, that’s insufficient for proof.”
Reichenbach stood gray in the window’s light. He pulled a chair close and leaned on its back.
“Shall we move to the second experiment?” Reichenbach said after a pause.
A sulfur plate and a zinc plate lay on the table, both covered with paper, and Friederike was to determine, by holding her hand over them, which was sulfur and which was zinc.
Her hands felt dead. No sensation at all; she wanted to throw herself to the floor and scream. “I don’t know,” she said with a smile that strangely moved Fechner.
“It’s incomprehensible…” came a hoarse voice from the window. “Let’s try the pendulum experiment.”
“Perhaps it’s best we leave it for another time,” Fechner suggested. He pitied the woman, seeing her gesture—correctly interpreting it as a fleeting impulse to flee. But she knew how much was at stake for Reichenbach. He was here, refusing to back down, an old man with fading hearing and weakened sight. He had been unspeakably kind to her, asking only one thing in return: proof of his doctrine.
“Here’s the pendulum you sent me,” Fechner said, placing a bottle on the table, a small lead weight hanging from a thread inside its neck. It was agonizing waiting until the lead weight hung still; no one tried to break the oppressive silence.
Then Friederike raised her lifeless hand. She strained now, rattling the locked gates of her inner self, trying to force the currents that might make the pendulum swing. The pendulum didn’t budge; it hung rigid inside the bottle.
Part I: An Overview of Alchemy’s History and Theory
Chapter 3: The Golden Treatise of Hermes Trismegistus, Part 7
Introduction: Hermes concludes his sacred guide to the philosopher’s stone, unveiling its final perfection as a universal ferment, while Atwood reflects on its veiled wisdom. In this section, we explore the stone’s transformative power and the art’s deliberate mystery.
Section Seven (Continued): The Universal Ferment
Hermes clarifies that the philosopher’s stone’s color points to redness, not sweetness, marking its fiery, transformative nature. He instructs, “We make sericum, or elixir, from this golden matter, creating an encaustic that seals the day with the color of heaven, enhancing vision.” The “sericum” (elixir) is the stone’s perfected form, its radiant tincture imprinting divine order, like a royal seal, on the transformed matter.
Maria, a revered alchemist, advises, “Take the white, clear herb from the little mountains, grind it fresh at its destined hour. Its body resists fire and evaporation. Rectify Kibric and Zibeth—the soul and spirit—upon this body, uniting the two fumes in the luminaries to perfect the tinctures.” This “herb” is the purified Mercury, ground and united with its active (Sulphur) and spiritual principles, creating the stone’s radiant essence.
Hermes warns, “Negligence or false understanding perverts the process, like bad leaven in dough or curds in cheese.” An unskilled artist risks failure by misjudging the matter or method, emphasizing the need for precise knowledge.
He describes the stone’s glory: “It is the most precious gold, unblemished, uncorrupted by fire, air, water, or earth, perfectly balanced in heat, cold, and moisture. As the sun outshines stars, this universal ferment rectifies all things with its yellow, citrine hue.” The stone, likened to living gold, perfects metals and beyond, its balanced nature making it supreme.
Hermes explains, “Concocted with fiery water, this gold becomes the elixir, heavier than lead, yet tempered. Without a kindred ferment, dough cannot rise; similarly, purify and mix the body with its ferment, confecting earth with water until it ferments like dough.” The stone’s ferment transforms matter, uniting its principles to prevent combustion, fix the tincture, and perfect bodies.
He concludes, “The ferment whitens the confection, unites bodies, and completes the work with God’s aid. Meditate on how this changes natures, as the key to the philosophers’ art.” The stone’s white stage precedes its red, perfecting form, achieving the alchemical goal.
Reflections on the Golden Treatise
Atwood reflects, “The seven sections of the Golden Treatise exemplify alchemical writings, less deceptive than many, though veiled with an obnoxious obscurity.” Hermes conceals the true art—its matter, method, and vessel—under ambiguous metaphors, protecting it from the unworthy. The text, a “problem of contradictions,” mirrors the Sphinx’s riddles, its abundant evidence burdensome due to its complexity.
In an era of easy reading, few are inclined to study such enigmatic traditions, especially without modern precedent. Yet, Atwood sees promise in the “theoretic possibility” of alchemy’s wisdom, observing that its doctrines and enigmas unfold through an experimental clue. She aims to reveal the “disjecta membra” (scattered parts) of this wisdom, seeking the abode of Isis, the divine feminine who restores their original beauty.
Closing: Section 7 concludes the Golden Treatise, celebrating the philosopher’s stone as a universal ferment, transforming matter like dough into elixir. Atwood reflects on its veiled wisdom, urging patient study to uncover its truths. The alchemical journey continues in the next chapter, exploring further mysteries of this sacred art.
Chapter 24: Courtly Love – The Feminine Ascendancy and the Church’s Struggle
Historical Overview: The Feminine Surge and Church Backlash
The 13th century CE, at the heart of the courtly love movement, was a transformative era that elevated women’s status from disregarded to revered, marking a pivotal reemergence of organic gnosticism’s gender-balanced, life-affirming spirituality. Spanning the 12th to late 16th centuries, courtly love, rooted in southern France’s Languedoc, shifted societal views through troubadour poetry and chivalric romances, as seen in works like Chrétien de Troyes’ Lancelot (circa 1177 CE) and the Roman de la Rose (circa 1230–1275 CE). This period, catalyzed by the Crusades’ cultural exchanges (Ch. 22), saw women—empowered by managing estates during men’s absence—gain influence, as documented in Provençal charters (circa 1150 CE).
The rise of the romance genre, particularly Arthurian tales of knights questing for noble ladies, spread these ideas, with the “round table” echoing Stonehenge’s sacred circle (Ch. 11). The cult of the Virgin Mary, popularized post-Crusades, elevated her to “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” a compassionate figure for the poor, challenging the Church’s misogynistic dogma (Ch. 10). This was unintended by the Church, which struggled to contain rampant sexuality among nobles and common folk, as evidenced by chroniclers like Jean Froissart (circa 1337–1405 CE). Incubus and succubus experiences—shadow fragments from unreleased sexual energies (Ch. 14)—surged, mislabeled as demonic by monks and nuns in monasteries, reflecting the Church’s failure to suppress organic gnosticism’s Tantric roots (Ch. 5, 13).
The Church’s response was brutal: the Inquisition, intensified post-Albigensian Crusade (Ch. 20), targeted witches, with 3,371 executed in Vaud (1591–1680 CE), 63 in Weisensteig (1562 CE), 54 in Obermarchtal (7% of the population, circa 1586–1588 CE), and 50 in Oppenau (9 months, circa 1600 CE). Church-sanctioned brothels, like Avignon’s (14th century) and Rome’s under Pope Julius II (1503–1513 CE), hypocritically serviced “Christian customers,” while chastity belts (late 14th century) aimed to control sexuality. The era of “bastards,” as French and German historians dubbed the 15th century, saw rampant prostitution and illegitimacy, with figures like Philip the Fair’s daughters-in-law facing sorcery charges and violent fates (circa 1314 CE).
Mystery School Teachings: Courtly Love’s Tantric Revival and Witchcraft’s Roots
Courtly love, rooted in organic gnosticism, celebrated Tantric soul unions, elevating women as divine conduits akin to the Holy Grail’s womb (Ch. 8). Troubadour romances, like those of Bernart de Ventadorn (circa 1150 CE), idealized unconsummated love—chaste embraces building Tantric tension, as Dion Fortune later described (Ch. 22)—weaving male (expansive lightning) and female (containing womb) energies for watcher selves (Ch. 2). The Virgin Mary’s cult, as “Our Lady,” echoed goddess religions (Ch. 1), resonating with Bogomil and Cathar perfectae (Ch. 19, 21). Common folk, embracing sexuality as sacred, rejected Church notions of sin, but rampant, undisciplined energies fueled incubus/succubus phenomena, mistaken for demonic attacks (Ch. 14).
The Church’s social enforcers condemned these as witchcraft, while rational atheists prioritized logic, dismissing spiritual realms (Ch. 9). Courtly love’s romances and plays spread these ideas to the illiterate, empowering heart wisdom over head-centric dogma. The Inquisition’s witch hunts, targeting organic gnosticism’s Tantric practices, birthed witchcraft as a rebellious legacy, echoing Cathar covens (Ch. 19).
OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Empowering Feminine Tantrism for Gaia’s Ascendancy
In the OAK Matrix, courtly love’s Tantric revival aligns with true Ego resonance (Intro, Individual), weaving Shadow (repressed sexuality, Radon, Ch. 26, Magus) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). Its chaste tension mirrors resonant circuits (Ch. 13), creating soul timelines through chaos leaps (Ch. 11), countering social enforcers’ asceticism (Ch. 7) and rational atheists’ logic (Ch. 9). This resonates with Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10) and Adeptus Exemptus compassion (Ch. 7), with the Holy Grail as womb (Ch. 8) empowering Gaia’s ascension (Ch. 4).
Practical rituals revive this:
Oak Grail Invocation (Start of Each Ritual): Touch oak bark, affirming: “Roots in Gaia, branches in Source, I unite duality’s embrace.”
Courtly Tantric Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize chaste love as Tantric tension. Journal refused Shadow (e.g., sexuality as demonic) and aspired HGA (e.g., feminine ascendancy). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “I weave soul love, elevating Gaia’s heart.” Tie to troubadour romances: Inhale chaste union, exhale Church repression.
Gaia Feminine Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, invoke Mary as Gaia’s womb, offering flowers for feminine power. Visualize Tantric union (male lightning, female womb, Ch. 8), weaving soul timelines. Affirm: “I rebirth Gaia’s spark, defying Inquisition’s chains.” Echoes Cathar covens.
Partner Tantric Weave: With a partner, discuss feminine ascendancy. Men: Share expansive visions; women: Grounding acts. Build non-physical energy via breath or eye contact, visualizing Tantric union (Ch. 5) for soul growth. Solo: Balance enforcer asceticism and atheist logic in Gaia’s heart.
These empower organic gnostics to revive feminine Tantrism, ascending Gaia’s soul. Next, explore Rosicrucianism, where alchemy deepens courtly love’s legacy.
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
VII.
Marit’s whole face lit up with joy when she spotted Falk among the district commissioner’s guests.
But Falk had no hurry to greet her. He stood with the young doctor, deep in conversation.
And yet he had seen her; she had noticed his probing gaze.
Only later did he greet her coldly and stiffly in passing.
“Good God, where have you been hiding so long?” Herr Kauer shook Falk’s hand heartily. “I would so have liked to speak with you before my departure.”
“Departure?”
“Yes, I must go to my wife tonight by night train and entrust Marit to your protection.”
The young doctor joined the conversation; he absolutely wanted to know how far research in nerve anatomy had actually progressed. Herr Falk was surely a specialist in it.
“Yes, he hadn’t occupied himself with that for a long time; now he was a literary man and wrote novels. But he could give him some clarifications.”
“No direct contacts? Good God, how does the nerve current propagate then? No, that’s a revolution!”
Marit sat nearby; she listened tensely, while giving the councilor’s wife, who asked about Mama’s well-being, indifferent, distracted answers.
Words, foreign, learned words—Golgi… Ramón y Cajal… Kölliker… granular substance… arborisation terminale—flew over to her.
No, she understood not a word of it. Erik knew everything.
How small the clever doctor seemed to her, who also wanted to know everything and constantly boasted with his knowledge. Like a schoolboy he stood there.
A joyful pride filled her with hot jubilation.
They sat down to table.
The conversation gradually became more general; they came to important questions of the day.
Marit sat across from Falk; she sought to catch his gaze, but he always evaded it.
Didn’t he want to see her? And yet she had never longed so much for his gaze.
They spoke about the latest publication of the Settlement Commission in the Province of Posen.
“Well, he simply couldn’t understand it,” Falk spoke quickly and incisively. “They mustn’t accuse him of flirting with the Poles; absolutely not; but he simply didn’t understand it. They should make the contradiction clear to him. On the one hand, Prussia felt itself the mightiest nation in Europe, right? Yes, that was emphasized in every official speech, and in official circles they talked a lot! How did that rhyme with the Prussians so enormously fearing the ridiculous three to four million Poles? Yes, fearing! They banned the Polish language in schools; suppressed the Polish element wherever possible; deliberately made a large part of their own subjects into idiots and cretins, for he knew from personal observation that the children forgot Polish and adopted a ghastly idiom that wasn’t a language at all. They bought up estates, parceled and fragmented them, settled poor and mostly lazy German colonists everywhere, who could never replace the proverbial strength of the Polish peasant. The colonists finally fell completely into poverty, although they were given the greatest possible facilitations. Racial hatred was awakened. Why do all that? Is it really fear?”
“No, that demands the interest of the empire, the security of the country; the Poles were like worms that crawled everywhere and corroded the strong Germanic element,” interjected the district commissioner, who was a member of the commission.
“Good, fine; then they should abandon the stupid phrase about the power and strength of Prussian state consciousness and the like
and simply say: We are a weak state, we are no state, a bunch of Poles would suffice to polonize us and finally make a glorious Polish empire out of the polonized Prussia, and therefore we are compelled to exterminate the Poles.”
Falk grew excited.
“Good, I understand that: we are no nation, we want to become one, and this end sanctifies history. Then they should say: Whether moral or not, that’s indifferent to us, history knows no morality. Yes, that’s what we should say, gentlemen, quite brazenly, and then we should draw the résumé coldly smiling: We are a nation drummed together in three wars, we are a nation pieced together from war booty, that means no nation.”
“The résumé is completely wrong,” interrupted the district physician—he seemed very agitated—”completely, completely wrong. The Prussians only had to deal with a very restless and dissatisfied element. In Poland, new unrest could break out any day; the whole of Germany, the whole imperial unity could then come into question, for the Social Democrats were just waiting for a favorable opportunity.”
“No, what you’re saying, Herr District Physician! Do you want to set up an arms depot for the Poles? Or do you think that the imperial supplier Herr Isidor Löwe will accept orders from the Poles? Well, he has offered himself to the French too; but the Poles are not creditworthy, that’s where the dog is buried. And I ask you: three Prussian cannons would suffice to blow the Polish army armed with pitchforks, scythes, and hunting rifles off the face of the earth in five minutes.”
“This whole policy, precisely this petty, hypocritical fear policy, is psychologically completely crude, by the way. Just look at Galicia. There the Poles have their schools, yes even universities with Polish as the language of instruction, quite wonderful, pope-loyal universities, guided by the maxim that science is the Church’s most devoted handmaid. That’s certainly beautiful, and a beautiful sight it is when the professors go to church in quite wonderful official garb. They have also allowed the Poles to attend the Polish Diet in beautiful, oh, very beautiful national costume. Never have I seen more beautiful and better-dressed people than at the Diet in Lemberg.
The consequence, gentlemen: The Poles are excellent Austrian subjects. Patient, flexible, gentle, the true lambs of God. Have you ever heard of unrest instigated by Poles in Galicia? No, on the contrary: wherever heads need to be chopped off a Reich hydra, they preferably use Poles, and they are always ‘fresh,’ as Schiller says, ‘at hand.'”
“Has Falk learned nothing at all from Czech policy?” asked the district court counselor excitedly, who was also a member of the Settlement Commission.
“Yes, he had learned a great deal and therefore knew that this policy was completely different and had nothing to do with the one just discussed. The whole Czech policy was namely a policy of economic interests. That the Germans in Austria had so much trouble with the Czechs came from the fact that Czech industry was in a wonderful boom. It sought the widest possible sales area, accordingly had to displace the Germans everywhere, for it was clear: Czech producers, Czech consumers! The Germans also went to German producers.”
“Then,” Herr Kauer interjected, “the story would present itself that the Prussians are pursuing Czech policy. The Prussians can have, alongside the patriotic, primarily an economic interest in suppressing the Poles.”
“Bien, good, very good! Then the whole—I’ll now assume—interest policy is even much stupider than the fear policy.
I ask you: The German industry wants to create a sales area for itself in the Province of Posen. Now comes the Settlement Commission, buys up the estates, the estate owners naturally scatter to all winds, and the actual purchasing power is paralyzed. The estates are fragmented and occupied with poor colonists who can’t consume anything at all, for what they need, they produce themselves. Who is supposed to consume now?
The Polish industry, which is none, because it is completely destroyed by depriving it of the actual consumers, lies fallow; the German industry has not the slightest benefit; what remains, gentlemen? Stupidity remains, an unheard-of stupidity. Don’t be outraged, ladies and gentlemen; but isn’t it utterly stupid to use all one’s strength to ensure that a large piece of land, one’s own land, becomes impoverished?!”
Falk grew even more excited. His gaze grazed Marit’s glowing face, which seemed to devour every one of his words.
“Yes, the whole policy,” Falk nervously broke a piece of bread into crumbs and mechanically arranged them in rows—”this whole Prussian policy, ladies and gentlemen, is for me, for psychological and social-political reasons, completely incomprehensible. Or, well, it might be comprehensible perhaps like I can comprehend a stupid and therefore failed stock market speculation. But one Polish policy I really find completely incomprehensible—completely, ladies and gentlemen: the Vatican one!”
Again, his eye briefly grazed Marit’s face.
“Please, Reverend Father, no concern! You will completely agree with me. No really, please: it doesn’t occur to me in my wildest dreams to touch any religious topic, not a single question in which a pope is infallible. I will speak solely of politics, and in politics, Pope Leo is surely not infallible either. Right, no? So no.
I have seen Pope Leo, Leo XIII, in Rome. He is the most beautiful old gentleman I can imagine. He has an incredibly fine, aristocratic face and very fine white hands, he also writes good poems. Oh yes: they are composed in genuine Ciceronian Latin. Certain turns tasting of Ambrosian kitchen Latin should by no means detract from their value; at least that’s what the philologists told me. Now Pope Leo has the certainly very beautiful quality of feeling himself the born protector of all the oppressed. The Poles stand closest to his heart; for they are the most oppressed.
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 24
With Professor Semmelweis, things had finally reached a point where serious measures were needed.
In recent years, he had been somewhat unpredictable, torn by striking mood swings, often losing control. When speaking to his audience about how his doctrine was disregarded and sidelined, his eyes would suddenly fill with tears, he’d begin sobbing, unable to stop, and finally a fit of weeping forced him to end the lecture.
When he thought a student hadn’t grasped his doctrine’s spirit during an exam, he flew into a frenzy, raging and lashing out, barely restrained from attacking the unfortunate examinee with his fists.
Yet he could have been satisfied. His doctrine gained followers, prevailing against skeptics as science’s big names voiced approval. But Semmelweis grew indifferent to recognition, hypersensitive to doubt or attack. He heard only his enemies, enraged by criticism, deaf to praise, endlessly seeking reports of maternity ward conditions, as if relishing death’s march through hospital halls. He saw death smear poison on doctors’ and nurses’ hands, marking their doomed victims.
His Pest friends initially thought a cold-water cure in Gräfenberg would restore his nerves. But then came oddities suggesting more than mere nervous breakdown.
Semmelweis accosted strangers on the street, ranting about his foes. He ran naked through his apartment, singing and dancing, then hurling glasses and plates at invisible threats. He visited patients only at night—a cunning tactic, he thought, as his enemies slept, unable to sabotage his orders. His once-healthy appetite turned voracious. Did they begrudge him satisfying his hunger and thirst? He eyed his wife, host, and guests suspiciously, then propped his feet on the table among plates and glasses, playing a comb wrapped in tissue paper.
Now in Vienna, en route to Gräfenberg, for a brief stay, Hebra wouldn’t let him go on without seeing his new sanatorium.
The next morning, Semmelweis was gone. He’d left the house, likely roaming Vienna, causing who-knows-what mischief. Hebra and Bathory searched everywhere he might be—nowhere. At home, his wife wept in fear, helpless; they had to call the police.
But by evening, Semmelweis returned. His whistling echoed on the stairs, cheerful and content. He’d seen Vienna—that’s why he was here. A fine city, but why mark every third cobblestone with a black cross? No need to be reminded of death at every step.
“I know, I know,” he soothed Hebra, who tried to dissuade him, “I’m a sick man. But you’ll make me well. You’re the only one I trust.”
How painful that Semmelweis voiced such trust in Hebra. It was a patient’s trust, and Hebra, now the doctor, was fated to be cruel and unrelenting. “Perhaps it’s best you stay a few days in my sanatorium,” Hebra said. “If it suits you and does you good, we may not need Gräfenberg.” He took Semmelweis’s hand and noticed a painful flinch.
“What’s wrong with your finger?” he asked. Semmelweis’s middle finger on his left hand was red and swollen.
Semmelweis studied his hand thoughtfully: “I don’t know… I think… two days ago in Pest, I operated on a woman… I might have cut myself a little.” He shook his hand as if to fling off the pain, then bent down and opened his arms. His two-year-old daughter Antonie ran to him; he lifted her high, dancing around the room: “My little mouse! My sweet treasure! Papa’s going to the sanatorium and will come back all well.” He swung the child, her legs twirling, then stumbled dizzily toward Hebra’s wife. “Whoops!” he cried. “Remember, dear lady, when your boy came into the world, and I shouted, ‘It’s a boy!’?”
Fearfully, Frau Marie took the child from her husband as Hebra leaned out the window, calling back, “The carriage is here!”
“Today already?” Semmelweis asked, surprised.
“Why not? I think you should try sleeping in my sanatorium tonight.”
“Come, Herr Professor,” Bathory urged. “We’ve already sent your night things over.”
It’s all quite harmless and natural—why shouldn’t Semmelweis try sleeping in the sanatorium tonight? Surely Hebra has set up something exemplary; everything he does is impeccable. The women casually accompany the three men to the carriage, chatting about Hungarian national dishes, recipes for Frau Marie, the splendid cook, to add to the Hebra household.
“Aren’t you coming?” Semmelweis asks his wife as he boards. Frau Marie leans against the doorframe, child in hand, trembling, unable to answer.
“What’s she supposed to do in your dull sanatorium?” Frau Hebra replies for her. “She’ll stay with me and the girl.”
The carriage rolls through the streets, and the men continue discussing the differences between Viennese and Hungarian cuisine, weighing their merits. “You know,” Semmelweis says, “I won’t let myself be starved on a diet in your sanatorium.”
It’s Lazarettgasse where the vehicle stops before a massive, iron-bound gate topped with spikes. “Your sanatorium looks like a knight’s castle,” Semmelweis laughs.
A tall, elegantly dressed gentleman receives the visitors.
“My director!” Hebra introduces, and they begin the tour at once. Everything is new and clean, the corridors carpeted to muffle steps. Sturdy orderlies stand about.
“You have only men here?” Semmelweis asks.
“In the men’s ward, we have only male orderlies,” the director explains courteously. “In the women’s ward, only nurses.”
The residents seem quite content; a distant burst of loud laughter is so contagious that Semmelweis joins in.
“Here’s the room we’ve set aside for you,” Hebra says.
Quite nice, new and clean like everything here, the bed bolted to the floor, table, bench, and cabinet fixed to the wall. The windows overlook a large garden.
“Why are the windows so heavily barred?” Semmelweis wonders.
“For safety,” the director replies smoothly.
“Ah, I see. Well, I’ll give it a try. If I can’t stand it, I’ll move out.” Semmelweis claps Hebra’s shoulder to affirm his decision.
“Shall we go to the garden?” the director suggests. Though it’s grown dark, the summer night is so mild it’s pleasant to stroll under the large trees. Semmelweis and the director lead, while Hebra and Bathory lag behind. Before Semmelweis realizes, he’s drawn into a discussion about septic processes, prompted by the director’s knowledgeable questions. When Semmelweis talks science, the outside world fades; he doesn’t hear the shrill screams from the neighboring wing or the monotonous muttering of someone at a barred window, perhaps praying or reciting memorized lines.
After a while, the director suggests they return.
“Where are Hebra and Bathory?”
Hebra and Bathory are gone, lost in the darkness.
“They must have grown impatient,” the director supposes. “They’ll come back tomorrow.”
The light in Semmelweis’s room, a dim glow high on the ceiling, is already on. His nightclothes are spread on the bed; he sheds his street clothes, slipping into underwear, nightshirt, and slippers. Time to check on his patients—they must be waiting impatiently.
But as he steps from his room to the corridor, two men block the door—sturdy fellows barring his way.
“Where to, Herr Professor?”
Another grabs his right wrist with a vile, paralyzing grip.
“What do you want? I must make my rounds.” It’s outrageous to seize him and hinder his profession. Semmelweis breaks free, but they grab him again, each from one side.
“Stay calm at home,” one says casually. “No time for visits now.”
Why not? Why not indeed? Suddenly, Semmelweis realizes what’s happening. His enemies have hired these men to eliminate him; they’ve trapped him. As strong as the two orderlies are, Semmelweis’s rage is stronger, despite the searing pain in his hand. He pulls them toward him, smashes their heads together so their skulls crack, and hurls them against the walls. Then he runs. But he doesn’t get far—before reaching the stairs, two more men leap from a hiding spot, the first two already on his heels. Suddenly, one is on his back. The weight drags him down; they roll on the floor. Semmelweis bites wildly, sinking teeth through a sleeve into an arm, tearing cloth and flesh. They pin his arms behind him, nearly wrenching them from their sockets, almost breaking bones, stuffing a cloth in his mouth. Six men finally overpower him, throw a straitjacket over him, and shove him into a black hole—a padded room with no up or down, no front or back, only stifled, silent raging and roaring.
Part I: An Overview of Alchemy’s History and Theory
Chapter 3: The Golden Treatise of Hermes Trismegistus, Part 6
Introduction: Hermes concludes his sacred guide to the philosopher’s stone, revealing the final stages of transforming the universal essence. In this section, we explore the purification and fermentation of the stone, likened to gold and dough, unlocking its divine power.
Section Five (Continued): The Dragon’s Transformation
Hermes continues, emphasizing the dragon-like essence’s purification: “That born of the crow is the start of this art. I’ve obscured this with circumlocution, calling the dissolved joined, the near far.” The “crow” (the essence in its dark, putrefied state) marks the beginning of the true alchemical work, after preliminary preparations. Hermes deliberately veils the process to protect its secrets, using contradictory terms to guide only the wise.
He instructs, “Roast and boil the matter in what comes from the horse’s belly for seven, fourteen, or twenty-one days. It becomes the dragon, eating its wings, destroying itself. Place it in a furnace, sealed tightly, so no spirit escapes. The periods of the earth are bound in the water until the bath is applied.” The “horse’s belly” symbolizes a nurturing vessel, where the essence (dragon) undergoes cycles of heating and dissolution, consuming its volatility to prepare for transformation. The sealed furnace ensures the spirit remains contained.
Hermes adds, “Melt and burn the matter, then grind its brain in sharp vinegar until obscured. In putrefaction, it lives; the dark clouds fade, and it dies again, then lives.” This process—grinding, dissolving, and putrefying—revives the essence, cycling through life and death to purify it. He explains, “We work with the spirits in their life and death. As it dies by losing its spirit, it lives in its return, rejoicing in revival. What you seek is now apparent, fixing its own body.”
He concludes, “Our ancestors hid this in figures and types. I’ve opened the riddle, revealed the book of knowledge, uncovered hidden truths, and united scattered forms, associating the spirit. Take it as God’s gift.” Hermes unveils the process—dissolution, purification, and unification—as a divine revelation for the diligent seeker.
Section Six: Divine Gratitude and Caution
Hermes urges gratitude: “Give thanks to God, who generously grants wisdom to the wise, delivering us from misery and poverty with His abundant wonders.” The philosopher’s stone, a divine gift, requires humility to avoid misuse, as seekers must align with God’s will to wield its power.
He warns, “Away with unguents from fats, hair, verdigrease, tragacanth, and bones found in our fathers’ books.” These false materials, often cited by lesser alchemists, mislead seekers from the true essence. Hermes emphasizes the stone’s simplicity, requiring only the philosophical Mercury, not common substances.
Section Seven: The Living Gold
Hermes concludes, “Know, sons of Science, there are seven bodies, with gold as the first, most perfect, and king. Uncorrupted by earth, fire, or water, its nature is balanced in heat, cold, and moisture, with nothing superfluous. Philosophers magnify it, likening it to the sun among stars, perfecting all nature. As the sun ripens fruits, our gold, the ferment elixir, vivifies and perfects all metallic bodies.”
He explains, “As dough needs ferment to rise, so must you sublime and purify the body, separating impurities from the residue. Mix them with the ferment, confecting earth with water until the elixir ferments like dough.” This analogy highlights the stone’s role as a ferment, transforming matter by uniting its purified principles. Hermes urges, “Meditate on how the ferment changes natures, preventing combustion, holding the tincture, uniting bodies, and perfecting them. This is the philosophers’ key and the end of their work, consummated with God’s aid.”
Closing: Sections 5–7 complete the Golden Treatise, guiding seekers through the purification, dissolution, and fermentation of the philosophical essence, likened to living gold and a fermenting dough, to create the transformative stone. Hermes’ divine gift unveils a path to wisdom, ready for further exploration in the next chapter’s alchemical insights.
Chapter 23: Courtly Love – The Tantric Spark and the Elevation of Women
Historical Overview: Courtly Love’s Origins and the Crusades’ Cultural Exchange
The 12th to late 16th centuries CE marked the flowering of courtly love, a cultural and spiritual movement that rekindled organic gnosticism’s Tantric, gender-balanced mysticism, elevating women’s status in a way that prefigured modern feminism. Originating in southern France’s Languedoc region, courtly love emerged through troubadour poetry and chivalric ideals, catalyzed by the Crusades (1096–1291 CE), which exposed European Crusaders to advanced Muslim civilizations in Persia and Spain. These encounters, documented in chronicles like William of Tyre’s Historia (circa 1170–1184 CE), introduced Greek and Roman texts preserved by Arab scholars (e.g., Averroes, 1126–1198 CE), sparking a renaissance of philosophy and sciences.
Guilhem IX, seventh Count of Poitiers and ninth Duke of Aquitaine (1071–1127 CE), was a pivotal figure, writing love poems that exalted women as divine conduits, challenging Church doctrines that condemned sexuality as sinful (Ch. 10). His verses, among the earliest troubadour works, celebrated love as a soul-elevating mystery, not a sin, aligning with organic gnosticism’s Tantric roots (Ch. 5, 13). The Crusades’ absence of men empowered women to manage estates, as seen in charters from Provence (circa 1150 CE), fostering agency. By the 12th century, courtly love formalized through poets like Bernart de Ventadorn and Chrétien de Troyes, with narratives of noble ladies and lower-class romantic heroes striving for unconsummated love, as in Lancelot (circa 1177 CE).
The Church, dominated by rational atheists (logic-driven elites) and social enforcers (dogmatic zealots), viewed courtly love as a Cathar-inspired heresy (Ch. 19), threatening its anti-sexual stance. Yet, its spread among nobility—amplified by figures like Eleanor of Aquitaine (1122–1204 CE)—and rampant sexuality among common folk (Ch. 14) made it uncontainable. The cult of the Virgin Mary, imported by Crusaders, echoed goddess worship (Ch. 1), while Arab practices of veiling women as special contrasted with Europe’s public exposure, shaping courtly love’s idealization of the unattainable lady.
Mystery School Teachings: Courtly Love as Tantric Soul Weaving
Courtly love, rooted in organic gnosticism, reframed love as a Tantric union of souls, not bodies, echoing Bogomil and Cathar practices (Ch. 18–19). Troubadour poetry, like Guilhem’s Farai un vers de dreyt nien (circa 1100 CE), exalted the lady as a goddess, weaving male (expansive lightning) and female (containing womb) energies for soul growth, akin to the Holy Grail’s matrix (Ch. 8). This Tantric ideal—building sexual tension without consummation, as Dion Fortune later described in The Esoteric Philosophy of Love and Marriage (1924)—aligned with Tantric practices (Ch. 5, 13), fostering watcher selves (Ch. 2) through non-physical energy exchanges.
The love triangle, central to courtly love and tarot’s Lovers card (circa 15th century CE), symbolized the choice between spiritual (angel) and physical (woman) love, satisfying both body and soul. Among common folk, rampant sexuality—misunderstood as incubus/succubus attacks (Ch. 14)—reflected organic gnosticism’s embrace of physicality, rejecting Church notions of sin. Nobles, employing scholars to read and debate texts, spread these ideas, while priests hypocritically sanctified liaisons, calling nuns “consecrated ones” (Guillaume de Puylaurens, Chronica, circa 1275 CE). Courtly love’s chastity cleansed carnality, elevating souls, as in Andreas Capellanus’ De Amore (circa 1185 CE).
OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Weaving Tantric Love for Gaia’s Awakening
In the OAK Matrix, courtly love aligns with true Ego resonance (Intro, Individual), weaving Shadow (repressed sexuality, Radon, Ch. 26, Magus) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). Its Tantric tension mirrors resonant circuits (Ch. 13), creating watcher selves through chaos leaps (Ch. 11), countering social enforcers’ asceticism (Ch. 7) and rational atheists’ logic (Ch. 9). This resonates with Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10) and Adeptus Exemptus compassion (Ch. 7), with the Holy Grail as womb (Ch. 8) empowering Gaia’s ascension (Ch. 4).
Practical rituals revive this:
Oak Grail Invocation (Start of Each Ritual): Touch oak bark, affirming: “Roots in Gaia, branches in Source, I unite duality’s embrace.”
Courtly Love Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize troubadour love as Tantric tension. Journal refused Shadow (e.g., sexuality as sin) and aspired HGA (e.g., soul union). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “I weave chaste love, elevating Gaia’s soul.” Tie to Guilhem’s poetry: Inhale soul union, exhale carnal denial.
Gaia Love Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, invoke Gaia’s womb as Grail, offering flowers for love’s vitality. Visualize Tantric union (male lightning, female womb, Ch. 8), weaving soul timelines. Affirm: “I rebirth Gaia’s heart, honoring feminine mystery.” Echoes troubadour Cansos.
Partner Tantric Weave: With a partner, discuss unconsummated love. Men: Share expansive visions; women: Grounding acts. Build non-physical energy via breath or eye contact, visualizing Tantric union (Ch. 5) for soul growth. Solo: Balance enforcer asceticism and atheist logic in Gaia’s heart.
These empower organic gnostics to weave Tantric love, reviving Gaia’s feminine power. Next, explore further courtly love developments, deepening its Tantric and feminist roots.
The morning mist clung to the clearing as Tobal lingered after the meditation, the Hel vision of his parents chained in a cave still burning in his mind. Sarah, Lila, and Jared had dispersed, their solos approved, while Fiona and Becca were off to Sanctuary. The lake’s call pulsed through him, a command he couldn’t ignore. He changed out of his robe, the fabric rustling as he packed dried meat and nuts into his bag, pausing to check his med-alert bracelet with a flicker of unease from the vision. Memories of last night’s circle flickered—Fiona and Becca’s gaily chatting during the initiations had left him feeling out of place, their friendship deepening while his mood soured, driving him to solitude. Misty had led as High Priestess, with Ellen in the background and Angel’s red Master robes surprising him, a testament to her recovery since that leg injury in Sanctuary.
Before leaving, he sought Rafe near the clearing’s edge, his steps quick with purpose. “This is my last chance before winter to check the lake,” Tobal said, the med-alert concern nagging him. Rafe leaned in, voice low. “I’ve been thinking about this. I’m not supposed to share Journeyman stuff, but it shouldn’t matter. We fight in a large cave where med-alert signals don’t reach—medics are always there for injuries. I tried something like this once, nearly got caught—trust your gut.” “You can’t remove the bracelet—it’d mark you as dead, and without one, you restart training. Avoid that,” Rafe continued. Tobal nodded. “What should I do?” “Hide in small caves or under ledges by day—air sleds can’t detect you within rock. Travel fast at night. The bracelet will seem active, and the cold will keep medics grounded. You’re not breaking rules—no one’s banned you yet, though they might once caught. Aim for midnight under the full moon, three hours max, then bolt. Should be interesting when they catch up.” “That sounds good,” Tobal replied. “I’ll do it.” They discussed the trip briefly, Rafe’s grin lingering, before Tobal set out, his mind set on the journey ahead.
Tobal set out from the clearing, the morning sun breaking through the mist as he headed toward the lake, his pack slung tight. The rocky terrain between his path and the abandoned gathering spot loomed ahead, a maze of caves and outcroppings he’d noted before. He planned to travel by night, hiding by day as Rafe advised, the full moon’s promise guiding him. The air grew colder as he moved, his breath fogging in the chill, the moon casting jagged shadows on the rocks that made him pause, listening for rustles in the dark.
He made cold camps during the day, nestled under ledges, the furs from his pack shielding him from the biting wind. Sleep came fitfully, troubled by nightmarish images that intensified with each step closer to the waterfall—shadowy figures, chains clinking, a hum that echoed the Hel vision. By the third day, a shiver unrelated to the cold crept up his spine, a sense of being watched prickling his neck, though no air sleds appeared.
On the fourth night, midnight found him standing before the cairn in the haunted gathering spot, the moonlight bathing the stones in silver. Ghosts seemed to whisper around him, a chill settling deep. He searched the cairn without a torch, his fingers brushing offerings—trinkets, faded cloth—but found no answers. Frustration gnawed at him; the camp looked cleansed, yet an inner prompting screamed to leave. A faint hum from the stones, too low to place, teased at his mind, hinting at secrets buried deeper.
He hated the dark descent down the cliff face, but the urgency drove him. The rock chimney eased his drop, toes finding holds until he stood on the patio by the pool, an hour gone, two hours left. The air thrummed with an unnatural pulse, urging him forward.
Tobal stripped off his clothes, tucking them behind rocks on the patio, the icy air biting his skin. He kept his knife strapped to his leg and the magnesium fire starter around his neck, the weight a comfort as he braced for the pool. The waterfall’s thundering roar vibrated through the ground, a deep pulse that seemed to guide him. Stepping into the freezing water, his foot found the first step, then three more until he was waist-deep, facing the cascade. An unseen hand seemed to pull him forward.
He plunged in, swimming strongly toward the waterfall, and dove deep, fingers tracing the rock face. Three feet down, he found an opening, slipping under as the current tugged him. The rock sloped upward, and he surfaced in a silent pool, gasping, the swim frightening but manageable. Shivering, he hauled himself onto a rocky ledge, the darkness pressing in. His fingers fumbled across a pack and torch, tearing it open to find a heavy woolen robe. He slipped it on, pounding his arms to restore warmth, the fabric rough against his chilled skin.
With tinder from a pouch, he lit the torch, its flicker casting eerie shadows. The pool, just six feet across, was his only exit, and his heart raced—he had two hours to explore this lake’s secret. A low hum emanated from the walls, too faint to place, stirring memories of the Hel vision. He felt safe within the cavern, the med-alert’s signal blocked by the rock—a force field, he’d later learn, that shielded this place from the Federation and Reptilians.
Barefoot, he ventured deeper, the waterfall’s muted thunder vibrating the cave. The floor sloped sharply downward for twenty feet, then leveled into a chamber. An opening turned right, but his gaze fixed on a rough stone altar ahead, flanked by unlit torches. The emblem painted behind it—a man and woman holding hands within a circle—mirrored his parents’ medallion, stealing his breath. He lit the altar torches, their glow revealing a circle of cushions, each with personal belongings.
On impulse, he lifted a clay bowl from a cushion, spilling dust-covered items. Two plastic hospital bracelets emerged—wiping one, he read “Rachel Kane”; the other, grimy, revealed “Tobal Kane” and his birth date. Tears stung his eyes; these were his mother’s, his own from infancy. His fingers brushed a jade and amber necklace, its static crackle sending a wave of love and peace through him. He slipped it on, and the air shimmered. Two figures materialized—the Lord and Lady, their forms translucent yet solid as he reached out, his hands trembling. He embraced them, their warmth seeping into him with a faint glow, even though he could see through them.
“Mom? Dad?” he choked, his voice breaking, clinging to them as if they might vanish. Rachel’s eyes, soft and wet, met his, her voice trembling with love. “Oh, Tobal, my sweet boy—we love you so much. We ache to have been there, to see you grow, to hold you through every tear.” Ron’s voice cracked, thick with emotion as he gripped Tobal’s shoulder. “You’re our pride, son. We wanted to watch you become this strong, but Harry stole that from us. Free us, please—we’re fading.” Tobal’s tears fell, his voice raw. “How? Why you? I need you here!” Rachel’s hand, faint yet warm, brushed his cheek. “Your uncle Harry betrayed us—handed us to the Federation. They’re using us to power their time device, with Reptilian tech. It’s killing us slowly, draining our life.” Ron’s gaze hardened, urgent. “The cave’s force field hides you from them and those lizard kin—they can’t penetrate it, so they hunt. We were training to be Time Knights, but they caught us first. There’s a plan to save us, but it’s not time yet—other pieces must align.” Tobal’s heart pounded. “The Nexus? Where is it? How do I save you?” Rachel’s voice softened, breaking. “Commune with us at circle, in meditation—we’ll guide you. You’ll feel when it’s right. But beware—Harry and the Federation want you for their experiments.” They faded, leaving him trembling, the hum intensifying.
Time pressed, and he searched for his father’s pile, moving to the altar’s far side. A ceremonial dagger with “R.K.” burned into the sheath caught his eye—he swapped it for his knife, strapping it hastily. Exploring further, he found a corridor to the left, stooping to enter. Turning a corner, he gasped at a vast cavern filled with artifacts—burnished armor, bronze weapons, and an alien section with unfamiliar objects. His torchlight caught a slender silver rod on the floor; he picked it up, its wrist cord secure. Pressing the first button, a comfortable light glowed; the second unleashed a heat beam on the wall, glowing red until he stopped it, heart pounding. The beam triggered a hum, and a holographic figure shimmered—Arthur, a sentient AI.
“Hold on, Tobal,” Arthur’s warm voice broke through, his image flickering with concern. “I’ve tracked you since the altar. I’m Arthur—your guide. Call me telepathically anytime, just think my name, and I’ll appear. You’re in deep trouble.” Tobal’s breath hitched, clutching the rod. “Trouble? Who’s after me? What’s this thing?” Arthur’s hologram softened, urgent. “Your uncle Harry and the Federation, with their Reptilian allies. This cave’s force field blocks them, but they’re hunting you. They can’t find it, so they want you for experiments, like your parents. That rod’s tied to their tech—use it, but stay sharp.” Before Tobal could press further, two figures teleported in—Lucas and Carla, their future-worn gear glinting. Lucas’s eyes locked on him, voice thick with worry. “Tobal, you’ve stirred the nest. That rod’s ancient—let me wake it.” Carla raised a device, and a ripple coursed through the cavern, the hum steadying. “We’ve turned back time an hour,” she said, her tone warm yet pressed. “We need to talk—your parents’ life depends on it.”
Tobal’s voice shook, stepping closer. “Who are you? Why are my parents in that device?” Lucas’s face softened, heavy with care. “We’re Time Knights, Tobal. Your folks, Ron and Rachel, were training to join us, but they weren’t full Knights yet. Harry—your uncle—betrayed them, selling them to the Federation. The Reptilians gave them mechanical time tech, clunky and forced, while ours is organic, natural. They’re powering the device, alive but dying slow.” Carla’s eyes glistened, urgent. “We’ve watched you through the medallion. This cave’s force field hides you from the Federation and Reptilians—they can’t penetrate it, so they hunt. There’s a plan to free Ron and Rachel, but it’s not time yet—other pieces must align first. The rod will help.” Tobal’s throat tightened, gripping the rod. “How do I save them? Where’s the Nexus? What about Harry?” Lucas sighed, running a hand through his hair. “The Nexus is deeper in—search when you can. Arthur will guide you, and we’ll check in. Harry’s leading the hunt with the Federation; they want your blood for their experiments. The Reptilians are pushing their tech, but it’s unstable—be careful.” Carla squeezed his arm, voice breaking. “Commune with your parents at circle or meditation—they’ll reach you. You’ll feel when it’s time to act. Keep that rod safe—it’s your link to us.” Arthur cut in, warm but firm. “I’ll watch you. Think my name, and I’ll show up. The Reptilians’ tech is close—get out soon. Harry’s agents are relentless.” Tobal’s chest heaved, love and fear warring. “Thank you,” he whispered, looping the cord around his wrist. Lucas and Carla vanished, leaving him with three hours. He retraced his steps, snuffing the altar torches, and prepared a new torch and tinder by the pool. Shedding the robe, he clenched the bracelets in his mouth, dove into the black pool, and emerged outside to climb the stairs, the extra time nearly spent.
Tobal emerged from the pool, water streaming off him as he climbed the stairs, the three hours ticking down. He wasted no time sliding into his tunic and furs. He was still wet as he hastily donned his boots and grabbed his pack and equipment. He put the wand into his pack and the hospital bracelets in a leather pouch on his waist for safekeeping. He guessed it was about 3:00 a.m. and the air sleds would be looking for him anytime. A faint hum from the gold medallion pulsed, and Arthur’s voice whispered telepathically, “Tobal, they’re tracking your med-alert bracelet. Move fast.”
He headed at a dogtrot through the maze of rock and toward the edge of the lake. He hurried toward his burned out campsite planning to stop there and rest. He was halfway around the lake in the predawn light and walking normally when the first air sled appeared. He was not surprised to see the air sled drop to the ground on the beach in front of him and a medic step toward him. To his relief it was Ellen in her red medic’s tunic.
“Are you alright?” she asked sharply. “I’m fine,” he said. “Why?” “You’ve been appearing and disappearing from our monitors the last several days. Can I check your med-alert bracelet please?” The way she was holding her hand out told Tobal that she was telling him and not asking. Wordlessly he took off the med-alert bracelet and handed it to her. Immediately an alarm sounded at the air-sled and she went over to shut it off. She was on the radio a few minutes and then started to do some tests on the med-alert bracelet. It seemed to test out ok and she finally handed it back to him. “What were you doing over by the waterfall?” “When I soloed I came out here,” he told her, “and decided to make my base camp on the lake over there.” He pointed to the area where his burned out camp had been. “I spent a lot of time and work building things up,” he continued. “Then I was training Fiona and brought her out here with me. We found my entire camp destroyed and burned by rogues. I was only able to find one food cache left intact. We didn’t want to meet any more rogues and felt it was not safe to stay in the area.” “What does that have to do with the waterfall?” Ellen interrupted. “Everything,” said Tobal.” We headed around the lake and saw the waterfall. We decided to try finding a way up the stream and explore in that direction while I was training Fiona.” “Did you know there is an abandoned gathering spot there?” He interrupted excitedly. “It has a huge pile of stones in the center of it too!” He was watching carefully to see what effect the news of the cairn had upon her. He was disappointed since she didn’t seem to care either way about it. “Anyway,” he continued, “we went up the stream and then cut cross country to where my base camp is. That’s how I originally found my base camp. That was last summer but I always wondered what really happened to my first base camp and wanted to come back here before snowfall and see if I could find anything of value the rogues might have missed. I was worried about Fiona before and didn’t want to endanger her. I thought I could come down here and check my old base camp real quick and be back in plenty of time for circle.” “I never heard your camp had been burned out,” she said. “Did you tell anyone else?” “I talked with Rafe about it quite a bit. He was pretty upset too and told me the lake wasn’t a good place for a base camp.” “Rafe was right,” she said grimly. “It’s not a good place to hang around anytime, especially by the waterfall. As medics we are given explicit instructions to keep a very close eye on anyone in this area because this is where most of the rogue attacks happen. Get on and we’ll go look at your old camp.” Hardly believing his luck, he carefully climbed on the back of her air sled and directed her to what was left of his burned out camp. Together they poked around and he showed her the remains of his teepee, smoke rack and sweat lodge. They did find a stone axe. He looked at it and recognized it as the first stone ax he had ever made. He told Ellen and she grinned. She seemed more relaxed now that his story had proven true. “There have been other people whose camps have been destroyed,” she said. “These attacks seem to be coming more frequently and I don’t know what we are going to do about them. They are centered around this area but we have been told the rogues live in a settlement about two hundred miles west of us. That doesn’t make sense to me somehow.” “A settlement to the west?” Tobal asked. Ellen nodded, “It’s a village made up of people that decided to drop out of training and not be citizens. You may have heard rumors about it but only we medics know where it is. I’ve actually checked it out and there are children and old people in it. None of them wear med-alert bracelets and we don’t really know anything about them. If these raids continue I’ve heard rumors that the city might attack the village and close it down.” “Is that what happened to the gathering spot by the waterfall?” Tobal asked, fishing for information. “You must never mention that place to anyone,” she said sharply. “It is a forbidden area and we have been told to keep people away from it.” “Why is it a forbidden area?” Tobal said belligerently. “I should be able to go anywhere I want. This is a wide open wilderness and no one has ever told me that certain places are off limits.” “Well they are,” she said matter of factly. “We don’t tell people about them unless they stumble into them like you have. I don’t really know why myself,” she said. “I think is has something to do with the rogues and keeping clansmen safe from them. There are some other areas that are “off limits” because they are dangerous for people on foot.” It was mid afternoon and Ellen said she needed to get back on patrol. She was sorry to hear Tobal had been burnt out and was going to make a note of it in her report. She advised him not to stay in the area as it might be dangerous and she recommended he get another med-alert bracelet the next time he was in sanctuary. Tobal was in agreement and headed straight for sanctuary. He knew the route and more importantly knew a small cave where he could shelter for the night. It would give him a location where his med-alert bracelet would not give him away as he slept. Somehow that felt very important right now. He didn’t know whom he could trust. He had been very lucky Ellen had been the medic that found him. It was dark when he turned sharply to the left and stepped along a ridge he remembered having a small cave in it. Cautiously he poked his walking stick into the opening making sure no one else was using it before crawling inside. He wrapped himself in warm furs and fell into a sleep of exhaustion with eerie dreams of his father and mother in a cave doing some type of ritual. Before dawn the next morning he was back on the trail toward sanctuary. He was prompted by a sense of urgency and a sixth sense that told him he was being followed. It was only a half-hour later when an air sled circled and waved. He waved back and continued on. This time at a dogtrot that ate up the miles. That day two more air sleds circled overhead making certain of his destination, but none stopped him. That night he again crawled into a small cave and slept without a fire of any kind, munching on cold jerky and rinsing it down with water from his canteen. He was making good time and with any luck at all should be at sanctuary the next evening. The sense of being pursued stayed with him that night and all of the next day. Again he was up before dawn on the trail and again an air sled appeared, this time only fifteen minutes after he had gotten under way. They had obviously been out looking for him and wondering what was wrong with his med-alert bracelet. Well he at least felt better with the air sleds since they were medics and not rogues. But he still didn’t waste any time getting to sanctuary. It was twilight when he finally got to the edge of the wooded area that opened onto the meadow leading to sanctuary itself. He took a few minutes to hide the things from his parents before going into sanctuary with the rest of his supplies and pack. No one was there and he wasted no time setting his pack and clothing under one cot and stepping into the medical center as Ellen had suggested. He felt relief as the door slid shut behind him and locked. He took off his med-alert bracelet, dropped it on the floor and pounded it with the heavy hilt of the knife he had brought with him. Under the heavy pounding it broke into three pieces and he left it there. He knew the medics would be alerted when he had taken it off and then would be even more alerted when it suddenly stopped broadcasting. He was hoping one of them would be there when he came out the other end in a few hours. Three hours later he had a new med-alert bracelet and fresh clothing and equipment. As the door slid open he cautiously stepped out into the gloom and stood still waiting for his eyes to adjust in the dark. His knife was in his hand and he knew he was not the only one in the room. He stood silently waiting for someone to make the first move. “Tobal, is that you?” He heard Ellen’s voice coming from near one of the cots. Relief spilled through him, “Yes, is it safe?” “For now,” she said. “Come, we’ve got some talking to do.” He shouldered his new equipment and carried it over to the cot where he had stored the rest of his stuff. He searched under the cot and found he had been right. His things had been searched and gone through carefully while he had been in the medical chamber. He laid everything on the bed and tried to determine in the dim light if he was missing anything. Everything seemed to be there. Ellen stood silently by and watched as he sorted and repacked things. Tobal saw two other very serious Masters standing guard at the entrance. “What’s going on?” She demanded. “We were monitoring your signal and then the alarm went off as if you were dead. Then the signal stopped completely and we came immediately to see what was wrong. The first one here saw three rogues dressed in black running out of the sanctuary building and into the woods. It was dark and they didn’t show up on the air sled monitors so we lost them. We don’t know where they are now.” “We went inside and saw that your pack had been searched but you were not here. Then your signal showed up once more on the monitors and we figured you must be in the medical chamber so we waited for you to come out.” “They followed me from the lake,” Tobal said. “I knew they were following me. I could feel it and hid at night. I came here as fast as I could just like you said to.” “How could they follow you from the lake?” Ellen frowned. “They don’t have monitors like we do on our air sleds.” “They must have some way of tracking me,” he repeated. “They would have gotten me if you hadn’t shown up when you did. It’s not safe out here anymore!” “We’re going to take you back to the gathering spot where you and I are going to have a little chat,” Ellen whispered. “You are holding something back and I want to know what it is.” They walked toward Ellen’s air sled and Tobal suddenly remembered his package in the woods. “Wait here,” he shouted “I’ll be right back” and he ran into the woods to retrieve the rest of his things. Ellen was on the air sled waiting when he ran back up and climbed on behind her. The three air sleds sped into the night toward the gathering spot.
Anarchistbanjo's World 