Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
XI.
Falk and Marit stood facing each other, embarrassed. He had seen her walking along the lake from the country road and caught up with her.
“I really have incredibly sharp eyes,” he said, extending his hand.
“Yes, you do; it was quite hard to spot me here.” Silence.
The afternoon was turning to evening; the sky was overcast, the air oppressive.
They sat on the shore; Falk looked at the lake.
“Strange how deeply still the water is today. You know: this calm, this heavy calm that lies beyond all calm, I have seen only once in my life.”
“Where was that?”
“Yes, when I was in Norway, at some fjord; I forgot the name. Oh, it was uncannily beautiful.”
Silence fell again. Marit grew restless.
“How did you get home yesterday?” “Oh, very well, very well.”
The conversation wouldn’t move forward.
“No, Fräulein Marit, it’s too sultry here; in the room it’s a thousand times better.”
And they went home. Falk tried to become intimate.
“That was yesterday the most splendid evening I ever experienced.” Marit was silent, looked at him anxiously.
Falk understood her. This mute resistance disturbed him to the highest degree. He had to bring the story to a conclusion today; he felt it as an unavoidable doom. But he was limp; he didn’t feel the energy to break her resistance.
He needed some stimulant. Yes, he knew it; after the second glass it always began to ferment and work in him, then came the intoxicating power that knows no obstacles.
“Marit, do you have anything to drink? I swallowed a lot of dust.” Marit brought wine.
Falk drank hastily.
Then he sat in the armchair and stared at her fixedly. Marit lowered her eyes to the floor.
“But what is it with you, Fräulein Marit? I don’t recognize you at all. Have you committed a crime? or what…”
Marit looked at him sorrowfully.
“No, Falk, you will be good. You won’t do that again. All night I tormented myself unheard-of. You are a terrible man.”
“Am I?” asked Falk drawlingly; “no, what you’re saying.”
“Yes, you don’t need to mock. You took everything from me. I can no longer pray. Continuously I must think of the terrible words you said to me. I can no longer think, always I hear you speaking in me. Look: You took my religion, you took my shame…”
“Well, then I can probably go…”
“No, Erik, be good, don’t do it anymore; it torments me so terribly. Do what you want; mock, scoff; only not that anymore—don’t demand it anymore from me.”
The small child’s face was so grief-stricken; a heavy sorrow spoke from it, that Falk involuntarily felt deep pity.
He stood up, silently kissed her hand, and walked up and down the room.
“Good, Marit; I will be good. Only the one, single thing: call me *du*. You see, we are so close to each other; in the end we are like brother and sister to each other—you will do it, won’t you?”
Falk stopped before her.
“Yes, she would try if she could manage it.”
“For you see, Marit: I really can’t help myself: I love you so that I am completely out of my senses. You see, all day I walk around only with the thought of you. At night I can’t
sleep. Yes, I walk around like a dizzy sheep. Well, and then: what should I do? I must of course go drinking to calm myself. Then I sit among these idiotic people in the pub and hear them talk the stupid stuff until I feel physical pain, and then I go away, and then again the same torment, the same unrest…
No, my little dove, you can’t help it; I know. I don’t blame you either; but you simply destroy me.
Yes, I know. I know you could give me everything; everything. Only the one, single thing that makes the greatness of love, that is at all a pledge of love: only that not.
Yes, you see, you can say what you want, but we simply stand here before the single dilemma: If love is not great, then it naturally has reservations, conditions, prerequisites. If love is great, i.e. if it is really love—for the other is no love: an affair, an inclination, what you want, only no love—well, I mean: if love is love, then it knows no reservations, no scruples, no shame. It simply gives everything. It is reasonless, scrupleless. It is neither sublime nor low. It has no merits nor flaws. It is simply nature; great, mighty, powerful, like nature itself.”
Falk got into the mood.
“Yes, I infinitely love these natures, these bold, mighty violent natures that tear down everything, trample it, to go where the instincts push them, for then they are really human; the innermost, the great sanctuary of humanity are the strong, mighty instincts.
Oh, I love these noble humans who have courage and dignity enough to follow their instincts; I infinitely despise the weak, the moral, the slaves who are not allowed to have instincts!”
He stopped before her; his face clothed itself in a mocking, painful smile.
“My good, dear child; an eagle female I wanted to have, with me up into my wild solitude, and got a little dove that moreover has rusty idiotic moral foot-chains on; a lioness I wanted and got a timid rabbit that constantly acts as if it sees the gaping maw of a giant snake before it.”
“No, my little dove, my rabbit—” Falk laughed mockingly—”have no fear; I will do nothing to you.”
Marit broke into a convulsive sobbing.
“Marit! for God’s sake, don’t cry! Good God, don’t cry! I will go completely mad if you keep crying like that! I didn’t want to hurt you, but everything trembles, groans in me—for you, for you, my sweet, holy darling.”
Marit sobbed incessantly.
“No, Marit, stop! I will tell you such wonderful things. I will give you everything. I will now be so good, so good.”
Falk knelt down; he kissed her dress, her arms, he took her hands from her face, passionately kissed her tears from her fingers.
“Don’t cry—don’t cry!”
He embraced her, pulled her to him, kissed her eyes, pressed her face into his arms, stroked and kissed her blonde head.
“My dear, sweet child—my only darling—my…”
She pressed herself against him; their lips found each other in a long, wild, gasping kiss.
Finally she tore herself free. Falk stood up.
“Now everything is good! Smile a little for me! smile, my darling, smile.” She tried to smile.
Falk seemed very cheerful; he told a lot of anecdotes, made good and bad jokes, suddenly a pause occurred. A sultry unrest swelled like an air wave and seemed to fill the whole room. Both looked shyly into each other’s eyes and breathed heavily.
It grew dark. A maid came and called Marit away. Falk stared after her.
In his soul he suddenly felt a greedy cruelty. There was something hard, dogged; there was a stone that rolled, that knew it falls into an abyss, but that knew it must fall.
It grew darker and darker in the room; the short twilight colored everything around with heavy, swimming shadows.
The sky was overcast; it was unbearably sultry.
Falk stood up and walked restlessly up and down. Marit stayed away so long! “Dinner, please!”
Falk started. In the middle of his brooding the voice had fallen, as if torn from the body; a voice floating in the air and suddenly audible.
“No, you mustn’t frighten me like that, dear Marit… yes, I am almost too nervous.”
He took Marit’s arm and pressed it to him; they kissed. “Ssh… My brother is there too.”
At table Falk told stories again; neither he nor Marit could eat anything. All the more eagerly the little brother ate, completely absorbed in his catechism. They soon left him alone.
They returned to the salon. On the table the lamp burned and filled the room with light.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Not a single false tooth, Ruprecht thought. How graceful she is, younger than I, her cheeks smooth and soft, the dimple in her chin like a flower’s calyx. Resolute, he said, “No, no, I want to discuss this. Will you grant me the pleasure of calling on you tomorrow?” “Does it matter so much to you?” “Yes!” “Daytime’s packed—every hour’s booked. But… evening, around eight, when it’s dark, come to the small park behind the Nordstern Hotel.” Evening, when it’s dark, Ruprecht thought. She smiled once more and left. How slender she is, how she moves, echoed in him. It’s the music of motion, harmony of the outer self. If she walked over a gravestone, the dead below would feel their heart beat. The door clicked shut. Ruprecht stared at the garish patterns a well-meaning painter had added to the walls. Only with her gone did he realize how much she’d swayed him. She’d truly unsettled his composure. That perfume still roiled his senses. By Saint Pachomius! It hit him—what that elusive note in her scent recalled. It was—God, what a thought— the smell of dried blood, mixed with rotting fruit and steaming hay. Such fancies people have. Yet it was a strange perfume, sparking such thoughts. So, tomorrow evening… in the park behind the Nordstern… Ah, this woman was a danger! Now, with her gone, it was clear. A danger… all the better. Let a battle replace a flirtation. Ruprecht relished testing his strength. God—a danger, coursing through veins, washing over muscles. Let’s see, little lady, what comes of this… I’ve never fled danger, little lady! He’d missed the table d’hôte. Dining in his room, he drank a whole bottle of white Bordeaux. Then, needing action, he went to the hotel garden, stood before a thick plane tree, gripped his walking stick like a saber, and slashed at the groaning trunk with thirds, fourths, and thrusts until little remained but the handle. The next morning, Ruprecht received an anonymous letter. In scrawled script, it read: “Well, you’ve fallen for it, dear sir! You’ve chosen the worthiest of your suitors. Frau Dankwardt was seen visiting you yesterday. So, Frau Dankwardt is the favored one! You’re too new here to know what’s said of Frau Hermina Dankwardt. She’s been married three times, and it’s rumored she killed all three husbands. We call her nothing but Madame Bluebeard. She’s the greatest coquette for twenty miles around, juggling twenty men at once, all fools like you, stringing them along with her wiles. We wish you fine entertainment. Dance well on her string. Three friends who mean you well.” Three friends, Ruprecht thought, tossing the letter into the wastebasket. Three of those Jana told I wouldn’t come. So, they know she visited. All the better; if she’s compromised herself, it binds her to me more. Today, Ruprecht swam farther into the sea than usual, letting waves carry him, lying on his back, watching white clouds, then hiked the hills, returning refreshed and limber. At dusk, he entered the small park behind the Nordstern Hotel and sat on a bench. He thought of nothing, waiting patiently, time passing like a gentle wing’s brush. Children’s voices came through the dark… a small laugh. Ruprecht looked up. Stars gleamed above the palms, large and bright, and streetlamp light broke through the rough, hairy trunks, casting jagged yellow patches on the shadowed paths. He rose. Frau Dankwardt rounded the corner, two little girls and a young lady trailing her. The children held hands; the governess carried their cloaks. Frau Dankwardt greeted Ruprecht with an unselfconscious handshake. “These are my two little misses… Miss Nelson! They were at Arbe, only arriving tonight.” No—this wasn’t the meeting Ruprecht had imagined. They walked side by side, the children chattering freely about their myriad adventures. Now one, now the other clung to their beautiful mother’s arm, and more incessant than the children’s prattle was the governess’s measured silence. Had Ruprecht not loved children, he might’ve been furious. But soon the girls ensnared him, weaving him into their secrets. After an hour, they parted as fast friends. Frau Hermina offered her hand, gazing at him with the same expression as her daughters. Ruprecht poured a swarm of feelings into his handshake. She didn’t return the pressure, her eyes widening in surprise, withdrawing her fingers. It had been a disappointment, Ruprecht thought, if not an outright defeat. He paced his bedroom. Where’s your composure? something within him chided. Silence! he snapped at himself. I expected a wrestling match, and it turned into an idyll. What kind of woman is this? Her perfume carries the scent of blood, yet she’s the mother of two charming little girls. I’ll visit her tomorrow—I must understand her. Very well—tomorrow, then. The next afternoon, Ruprecht went to the Hotel Royal, where Frau Dankwardt was staying. The porter, in a tone of polite regret, informed him that the lady and her two girls had departed at noon.
Chapter Three Informs how Frank Braun persuaded the Privy Councilor to create Alraune
THEY sat in the carriage, Professor Ten Brinken and his nephew. They didn’t speak. Frank Braun leaned back staring straight ahead, sunk deeply into his thoughts. The Privy Councilor was observing, squinting over at him watchfully. The trip lasted scarcely half an hour. They rolled along the open road, turned to the right, went downhill over the rough road to Lendenich. There in the middle of the village lay the birthplace of the Brinken family. It was a large, almost square complex with gardens and a park. Back from the street stood a row of insignificant old buildings. They turned around a corner past a shrine of the patron Saint of the village, the Holy Saint John of Nepomuk. His statue was decorated with flowers and lit with two eternal lamps that were placed in niches by the corners. The horses stopped in front of a large mansion. A servant shut the fenced gate behind them and opened the carriage door. “Bring us some wine Aloys,” commanded the Privy Councilor. “We will be in the library.” He turned to his nephew. “Will you be sleeping here Frank? Or should the carriage wait?” The student shook his head, “Neither, I will go back to the city on foot.” They walked across the courtyard, entered the lower level of the house at a door on the right hand side. It was literally a great hall with a tiny antechamber and a couple of other small rooms nearby. The walls were lined with long immense shelves containing thousands of books. Low glass cases stood here and there full of Roman artifacts. Many graves had been emptied, robbed of their cherished and carefully preserved treasures. The floor was covered in thick carpet. There were a couple of desks, armchairs and sofas that stood scattered around the room. They entered. The Privy Councilor threw his alraune on a divan. They lit candles, pulled a couple of chairs together and sat down. The servant uncorked a dusty bottle. “You can go,” said his master. “But don’t go too far. The young gentleman will be leaving and you will need to let him out.” “Well?” he turned to his nephew. Frank Braun drank. He picked the root manikin up and toyed with it. It was still a little moist and appeared to be almost flexible. “It is clear enough,” he murmured. “There are the eyes–both of them. The nose pokes up there and that opening is the mouth. Look here Uncle Jakob. Doesn’t it look as if it is smiling? The arms are somewhat diminutive and the legs have grown together at the knees. It is a strange thing.” He held it high, turned it around in all directions. “Look around Alraune!” he cried. “This is your new home. You will be much happier here with Herr Jakob ten Brinken than you were in the house of the Gontrams.” “You are old,” he continued. “four hundred, perhaps six hundred years old or even more. Your father was hung because he was a murderer or a horse thief, or else because he made fun of some great knight in armor or in priestly robes. The important thing is that he was a criminal in his time and they hanged him. At the last moment of his life his seed fell to the earth and created you, you strange creature. Then your mother earth took the seed of this criminal into her fertile womb, secretly fashioned and gave birth to you. You the great, the all-powerful–Yes you, you miserable ugly creature!–Then they dug you up at the midnight hour, at the crossroads, shaking in terror at your howling, shrieking screams. The first thing you saw as you looked around in the moonlight was your father hanging there on the gallows with a broken neck and his rotting flesh hanging in tatters. They took you with them, these people that had tied the noose around your father. They held you, carried you home. You were supposed to bring money into their house. Blood money and young love. They knew well that you would bring pain, misery, despair and in the end a horrible death. They knew it and still they wanted you, still they dug you up, still they took you home, selling their souls for love and money.” The Privy Councilor said, “You have a beautiful way of seeing things my boy. You are a dreamer.” “Yes,” said the student. “That’s what I am–just like you.” “Like me?” the professor laughed. “Now I think that part of my life is long gone.” But his nephew shook his head, “No Uncle Jakob. It isn’t. Only you can make real what other people call fantastic. Just think of all your experiments! For you it is more like child’s play that may or may not lead to some purpose. But never, never would a normal person come up with your ideas. Only a dreamer could do it–and only a savage, a wildman, that has the hot blood of the Brinkens flowing through his veins. Only he would dare attempt what you should now do Uncle Jakob.” The old man interrupted him, indignant and yet at the same time flattered. “You crazy boy!–You don’t even know yet if I will have any desire to do this mysterious thing you keep talking about and I still don’t have the slightest idea what it is!” The student didn’t pause, his voice rang lightly, confidently and every syllable was convincing. “Oh, you will do it Uncle Jakob. I know that you will do it, will do it because no one else can, because you are the only person in the world that can make it happen. There are certainly a few other professors that are attempting some of the same things you have already done, perhaps even gone further. But they are normal people, dry, wooden–men of science. They would laugh in my face if I came to them with my idea, would chide me for being a fool. Or else they would throw me completely out the door, because I would dare come to them with such things, such thoughts, thoughts that they would call immoral and objectionable. Such ideas that dare trespass on the craft of the Great Creator and play a trick on all of nature. You will not laugh at me Uncle Jakob, not you! You will not laugh at me or throw me out the door. It will fascinate you the same way it fascinates me. That’s why you are the only person that can do it!” “But what then, by all the gods,” cried the Privy Councilor, “what is it?” The student stood up, filled both glasses to the rims. “A toast, old sorcerer,” he cried. “A toast! To a newer, younger wine that will flow out of your glass tubes. Toast, Uncle Jakob to your new living alraune–your new child!” He clinked his glass against his uncle’s, emptied it in a gulp and threw it high against the ceiling where it shattered. The shards fell soundlessly on the heavy carpet. He pulled his chair closer. “Now listen uncle and I will tell you what I mean. I know you are really impatient with my long introduction–Don’t think ill of me. It has helped me put my thoughts in order, to stir them up, to make them comprehensible and tangible. Here it is: You should create a living alraune, Uncle Jakob, turn this old legend into reality. Who cares if it is superstition, a ghostly delusion of the Middle Ages or mystic flim-flam from ancient times? You, you can make the old lies come true. You can create it. It can stand there in the light of day tangible for all the world to see–No stupid professor would be able to deny it. Now pay attention, this is what needs to be done! The criminal, uncle, you can find easily enough. I don’t think it matters if he dies on a gallows at a crossroads. We are a progressive people. Our prisons and guillotine are convenient, convenient for you as well. Thanks to your connections it will be easy to obtain and save the rare seed of the dead that will bring forth new life. And Mother Earth?–What is her symbol? What does she represent? She is fertility, uncle. The earth is the feminine, the woman. She takes the semen, takes it into her womb, nourishes it, lets it germinate, grow, bloom and bear fruit. So you take what is fertile like the earth herself–take a woman. But Mother Earth is the eternal prostitute, she serves all. She is the eternal mother, is always for sale, the prostitute of billions. She refuses her lascivious love to none, offers herself gladly to anyone that will take her. Everything that lives has been fertilized in her glorious womb and she has given birth to it. It has always been this way throughout the ages. That is why you must use a prostitute Uncle Jakob. Take the most shameless, the cheekiest one of them all. Take one that is born to be a whore, not one that is driven to her profession or one that is seduced into it for money. Oh no, not one of those. Take one that is already wanton, that learns as she goes, one whose shame is her greatest pleasure and reason for living. You must choose her. Only her womb would be like the mother earth’s. You know how to find her. You are rich–You are no school boy in these things. You can pay her a lot of money, purchase her services for your research. If she is the right one she will reel with laughter, will press her greasy bosom against you and kiss you passionately–She will do this because you have offered her something that no other man has offered her before.
Part II: A More Esoteric Consideration of the Hermetic Art and Its Mysteries
Chapter 2: Of the Mysteries, Part 1
Introduction: The ancient mysteries, from Egyptian to Greek traditions, hold the key to divine wisdom. This chapter explores their transformative power, revealing a path to enlightenment through sacred rites, far beyond modern misinterpretations.
The Sacred Path of the Mysteries
An ancient oracle of Apollo declares, “The path to Deity is arduous, sublime, with gates bound by brass. Egyptians, Phoenicians, Assyrians, and Chaldeans revealed this road through infinite actions.” The Hermetic art, rooted in Egypt, was known to the Greeks as Theurgy, practiced in temples like Eleusis. Greek philosophers, borrowing from Egyptian and Persian wisdom, sought this divine art, which promised a deeper understanding of existence.
Modern scholars, lacking the ancients’ insight, misjudge these mysteries. Some, like Warburton, dismiss them as political frauds, claiming gods were deified men and the rites mere deceptions. Others, like Sainte Croix, see only astronomical symbols, while Gebelin and La Pluche view them as agricultural rituals. Another calls them repositories of religious melancholy, missing their true purpose. Even Thomas Taylor, though philosophical, reduces them to abstract ceremonies, lacking evidence of their transformative power.
Yet, the ancients revered the mysteries as pathways to wisdom. Platonists like Iamblichus and Cicero call them “Initia,” beginnings of a virtuous life, leading from irrational existence to divine immortality. Heraclitus names their rites “medicines,” healing imperfect souls, while Strabo credits them with advancing human knowledge. Servius notes the Bacchic rites purified souls, and Greek tragedians like Euripides and Sophocles proclaim, “Life is found in the mysteries; elsewhere is misery.” Clemens Alexandrinus reveals, “The Greater Mysteries unveiled the universe, removing the veil from Deity and heaven. The Lord Himself, as hierophant, illuminates the initiated, sealing them with divine love.”
Christian Echoes and Secrecy
Early Christian fathers, like Augustine, Cyrillus, and Synesius, adopted the mysteries’ language and rites, calling them “blessed.” Cyrillus notes the church veiled its mysteries from the uninitiated, speaking in enigmas to protect their sanctity. This secrecy, shared by Ethnic and Christian traditions, guarded a profound truth, distinct from ordinary worship, which transformed life itself.
Animal Magnetism and Modern Limits
Recent discoveries in Animal Magnetism (Mesmerism) hint at the mysteries’ phenomena, like trance and heightened perception, but fall short of their divine aim. Magnetism alleviates pain, restores health, and reveals lucidity or prevision, a glorious step forward. Yet, it remains stuck in practice, repeating familiar effects without exploring the soul’s deeper potential. Unlike the ancients’ Theurgic arts, which purified the spirit to access supreme wisdom, modern mesmerism lacks a philosophic aim, leaving its revelations unguided and its practitioners like dreamers in a new world.
Closing: This chapter introduces the ancient mysteries as transformative rites revealing divine wisdom, far beyond modern misinterpretations. The path to their sacred practices unfolds further in our next post, deepening the quest for the Hermetic art’s truth.
Chapter 30: Synthesis – Gaia’s Ascension Through Loving Duality
Historical Overview: Common Elements in Esoteric Traditions and Organic Gnosticism’s Universal Path
Throughout OAK: The Temple of One, we have traced organic gnosticism’s resilient thread—from Neolithic goddess religions (Ch. 1) and Atlantean harmony (Ch. 3) to Egypt’s Tantrika mysteries (Ch. 5), Gnostic Christianity’s heart wisdom (Ch. 9), Cathar defiance (Ch. 19–20), and Rosicrucian alchemy (Ch. 26). This path, rooted in your haplogroup G-M201 genetic heritage and AMORC eldership since 1976, reveals a universal framework for soul development, shared across esoteric traditions yet kept secret among initiates. Common elements—loving duality, soul weaving through male-female energies, and direct experiential gnosis—cross cultures, as seen in Tantra, Kabbalah, Rosicrucianism, Gnosticism, and Sufism, where inner knowing transcends dogma.
Organic gnosticism’s history shows this universal path was guarded as the most sacred secret, known only to elites like Tantrika yoginis (India, circa 5th century CE), Kabbalistic mystics (Sefer Yetzirah, 2nd–6th centuries CE), Rosicrucian adepts (Fama Fraternitatis, 1614 CE), and Gnostic initiates (Gospel of Philip, 3rd century CE). Suppressed by rational atheists (logic-driven elites) and social enforcers (dogmatic zealots), it survived in hidden covens, alchemical labs, and indigenous rites (Ch. 28), resurfacing in modern revivals like Theosophy and AMORC (Ch. 29). Symbols like the Tree of Life (Kabbalah) or Abraxas gem (Gnosticism) cross traditions, representing duality’s weave.
This secrecy protected the path’s power—soul development through Tantric duality, inner rituals, and heart integration—from patriarchal distortions (Ch. 6, 10), ensuring its transmission to the few who could wield it for Gaia’s ascension.
Mystery School Teachings: The Universal Path’s Secrets and Loving Weave
Mystery schools across traditions teach soul development as a universal path, weaving male-female duality for gnosis and ascension, kept secret to protect its transformative power. Tantra’s shakti-shiva union (Ch. 5, 13), Kabbalah’s Tree of Life mapping soul ascent (Ch. 2, 26), Rosicrucianism’s alchemical marriage (Ch. 25–26), Gnosticism’s Christ-Sophia syzygy (Ch. 9, 19), and Sufism’s divine love (fana, annihilation in God) all emphasize this weave, crossing borders as symbols like the Rosicrucian rose-cross or Gnostic Abraxas transcend dogma. This path, known to initiates like Tantrika yoginis, Kabbalistic adepts, and Rosicrucian elders, was guarded to prevent misuse by rational atheists (head-centric logic) or social enforcers (dogmatic control), surviving persecutions like the Cathar genocide (Ch. 20) and Stonehenge massacre (Ch. 11).
Indigenous traditions (Ch. 28), like Lakota wíŋkte vision quests, weave this duality globally, emphasizing heart over head. The path’s secrecy ensured its purity, transmitted through oral lore, alchemical symbols, and Tantric rites, as in your AMORC eldership (1976 onward) and translations of Ewers-Przybyszewski (Ch. 26), revealing German Satanism’s dark Tantric current.
OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Resonating with Esoteric Traditions for Universal Soul Growth
In the OAK Matrix, organic gnosticism’s universal path resonates with any valid esoteric tradition, weaving Shadow (primal urges, Radon, Ch. 26, Magus) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). Common elements—loving duality, soul weaving, and experiential gnosis—align with Tantra’s shakti-shiva, Kabbalah’s Tree of Life, Rosicrucianism’s alchemical marriage, Gnosticism’s syzygy, and Sufism’s fana, all fostering watcher selves (Ch. 2) through resonant circuits (Ch. 13) and chaos leaps (Ch. 11). This universal weave empowers Gaia’s ascension (Ch. 4), as in your radiant portal vision (August 17, 2025), countering social enforcers’ asceticism (Ch. 7) and rational atheists’ logic (Ch. 9). It resonates with Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10) and Adeptus Exemptus compassion (Ch. 7), guarded as a secret to protect its power.
Practical rituals weave this universal path:
Oak Grail Invocation (Start of Each Ritual): Touch oak bark, affirming: “Roots in Gaia, branches in Source, I unite duality’s embrace.”
Universal Weave Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize esoteric symbols (rose-cross, Tree of Life) weaving duality. Journal refused Shadow (e.g., fragmented energies) and aspired HGA (e.g., cosmic unity). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “I weave universal paths, ascending Gaia’s soul.” Tie to Tantra-Kabbalah: Inhale weave, exhale separation.
Gaia Global Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, invoke Gaia’s womb as universal Grail, offering seeds for soul vitality. Visualize Tantric union (male lightning, female womb, Ch. 8), weaving timelines. Affirm: “I rebirth Gaia’s spark, uniting esoteric secrets.” Echoes AMORC mysticism.
Partner Esoteric Weave: With a partner, discuss universal duality. 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 esoteric paths, ascending Gaia’s soul. Next, explore modern esoteric revivals, continuing this legacy.
Several hours later the sun was coming up. There was a fire blazing in the fireplace of one of the log buildings at the gathering spot and two Masters were standing guard outside the door as Ellen finished questioning Tobal. She absentmindedly pushed his parent’s things toward him and indicated that he should pick them up.
“I don’t know what to do,” she murmured softly. “There is no doubt in my mind that these things truly belong to you and that you should have them. If they had belonged to my parents I know I would want to have them. I am now also inclined to believe the rogues were somehow able to follow you. Perhaps they do have monitors. That would explain why we rarely see any of them. They would know when we are in the area and would hide.”
She turned a puzzled expression toward Tobal, “But that would also mean they are not from the village to the west of here. That village is totally primitive and has no technology. These rogues must be coming from somewhere else and they are interested in what you found at the lake. This might be very dangerous and your life might be in danger, all our lives might be in danger and we don’t know from whom. I suggest we keep this quiet for now and don’t talk to anyone else about it.”
“I need to talk with Rafe about it,” Tobal protested. “He already knows something is out there and so does Fiona. She was with me when we first found the gathering spot at the waterfall. I don’t want them to be in danger too!”
Ellen sighed, “Well, I will have to trust your judgement in this. Don’t talk to anyone unless you really trust them ok?”
Tobal nodded, “I wasn’t going to anyway” He chuckled. “I wasn’t even going to tell you until you cornered me about it.” He didn’t mention the slender silvery wand that was hidden safely in his pack.
Both Ellen and Tobal decided it would be a good idea for him to stay close to the gathering spot and around other people in case the rogues had specifically targeted him. So he spent most of the month helping Dirk and Rafe working up wood for circle.
Rafe asked him about his trip and was very interested but Dirk was always around and Tobal felt he needed to talk with Ellen first so he told Rafe to wait till circle. Rafe’s eyes narrowed a bit eyeing the amber and jade necklace. He didn’t ask anything more about the trip.
They were trying to get wood ahead so there would be an ample supply during a snowstorm or blizzard. There was already one foot of snow and travel was getting difficult. With Tobal’s help Rafe and Dirk got a lot of wood brought into camp. Rafe was becoming more confident and sure of himself. He was also growing taller and filling out. The constant backbreaking work of chopping wood with stone axes seemed to be putting muscle on him too. The Chevrons on his sleeve proclaimed he had won three fights and he was learning how to take care of himself.
The first week, exhaustion pulled Tobal into a restless sleep after a long day of chopping. A stormy dream gripped him—Rachel lunged through the mist, her chains clanking as she grabbed his arm, her tear-streaked face glowing faintly. “Harry’s searching for you—stay hidden!” she cried, the air thick with damp stone and rust. He thrashed awake, sweat soaking his furs, clutching the medallion as it pulsed with a warm, frantic beat.
By the second week, the medallion’s weight grew heavier as Tobal dozed under a ledge. Ron strode through a misty vision, his hands slamming against a shimmering force field, its blue light crackling as he pushed Tobal toward it. “The cave hides a secret—find it!” he roared, the ground trembling under Tobal’s feet. Tobal jolted up, heart pounding, gripping the medallion as its pulse quickened, the air heavy with ozone.
Late in the fourth week, after a grueling day, Tobal’s sleep turned dark. Ron and Rachel staggered toward him in a dim, echoing cave, their chains dragging with a metallic screech as they pulled him into the shadows. “The Nexus calls, their souls can’t rest!” they wailed, their ghostly hands brushing his face with a cold sting. He woke, gasping, the medallion pulsing rapidly, its heat searing his palm.
Tobal wore the jet and amber necklace around his neck and kept the ceremonial dagger in the sheath strapped to his ankle. Each day he took them out and looked at them. They were the only things he had that came from his parents. He wanted to go back to the cave but knew it was more dangerous than ever. He put the two plastic hospital bracelets in his medicine bag and carried it on a leather thong around his neck. He snuck away from Rafe and Dirk for a few hours to be alone, saying he wanted to go hunting for venison.
It was the wand that he didn’t know what to do with. It was about a foot long and one inch in diameter. He had examined it more completely and still didn’t know much about it. There were five buttons on the thing. He had tried the first and second buttons in the cave. Outdoors they worked much the same. The first button made the wand act as a light. When he activated the second button it melted a circle of snow about fifteen feet in front of where he was pointing. It seemed to have a range of about fifteen feet and the heat kept increasing as long as he held the button down. The third button caused a blade of light to extend out of the wand about two inches. This was some type of laser used for cutting. He tried it on a few rocks and cut deeply into them without melting the rock. The fourth button acted as a sighting device shining a point of red light on anything it was pointed at without apparent harm to the object. The fifth button however, would flash a pulse of light burning a hole through whatever it hit. The fifth button could only be pushed at the same time the fourth one was pushed and needed to be re-pushed for each new pulse of light.
It apparently acted as some type of safety device limiting the damage that could be done with the wand. He tried it once killing a deer at twice the normal bow range. The deer dropped without a sound. Close examination showed a hole that went completely through the deer.
As he butchered the deer and brought it back into camp he reflected on the nature of the wand itself. It was obviously a tool or a weapon using pulsed energy of some type he had never seen or heard about. That meant it was probably part of some secret military technology his parents had been involved in. In any case it was extremely dangerous and even more dangerous to be caught with. On the other hand he didn’t want to loose it or have it stolen. He guessed he might have to talk with Ellen about it sometime. In the meantime he made a sheath for it on his other leg and kept it on his person.
As the month waned, Samhain’s festivities began. Tobal was surprised at how many showed up for it. It started different from the other celebrations with Ellen saying, “This is a three-day celebration, Tobal—Samhain’s too big. We will have the meditation group day after tomorrow in the morning after everything is done and people are leaving.” Then she continued with proclaiming newbies ready to solo. Nikki and Char both proclaimed their newbies ready to solo. There were several initiations scheduled.
Wayne’s newbie wasn’t ready yet but was going to be initiated. The same thing happened with Zee’s newbie and Kevin’s newbie. They were going to be initiated into the clan but they needed another month of training. With the advent of cold weather the training was taken seriously by all clan members.
Most clansmen had already partnered up for the winter and would not be doing anymore training till next spring or they would partner up at this circle. He thought about Tara and Zee. They had both asked him about partnering up for the winter. Now they both had partners selected even if Zee and Kevin still had one more month of training till their newbies soloed.
Soon there would be no one to ask or partner up with unless it was a newbie. Was he really being so different in not partnering up with anyone? Rafe had trained newbies all winter long. He caught Char a bit later and talked with her about it.
“I notice your newbie is soloing this month,” he congratulated her. “What are you going to do now?”
“Well, I was going to see if Wayne wanted to partner back up for the winter,” she said bitterly. “But he is not speaking to me and in the middle of training his newbie. If he is training her like he trained me, she will probably be spending the winter with him. I hate that man!” She started crying and Tobal put an arm around her shoulder to comfort her. He felt her shoulders shaking against him.
“He’s just training newbies like you are Char, what are you mad at him for?”
“He’s not talking to me or looking at me, that’s why,” she snapped at him. “All he does is spend time with her.”
Tobal sighed and wished he were anywhere else. “You sound just like he did last month when I was talking to him. Don’t you remember how jealous he was? You were afraid he was going to pick a fight with Rory. Look, this will make one chevron for you and two for him. What are you going to do now? Try training another newbie or wait out the winter? You can’t control what he does. You can only control what you do. What is it that you really want to do?”
“Become a citizen and get a real life.”
“Ok, so what do you need to do?”
“I guess I’m going to train one more newbie this winter. Thanks Tobal,” she told him. “I know that I need to move ahead but it’s hard sometimes. These old habits are so hard to break. It’s easy to get depressed about things.”
“Let me know if you need any help,” he told her. “I’m planning on training newbies all winter myself. It’s kind of strange but I’m a little afraid of partnering up with anyone for the entire winter.”
“Why would you feel that way Tobal?” She asked curiously.
“Well partnering up with a girl for the winter kind of implies a sexual relationship,” he flustered.
“What’s wrong with a sexual relationship?” She asked. “You do want sex with girls don’t you?”
Now he was red and embarrassed, “Wanting sex and having sex are two different things Char. At least for me they are. I don’t want to hurt anyone and what if it doesn’t work out between us. What if she gets pregnant or something.”
Char laughed. “You are taking this much too seriously Tobal. For one thing, no one is going to get pregnant out here. Once a year we get birth control shots that last the entire year. In fact, we get them during Samhain, which is this month. The medics will make sure we get our shots if we want to continue in the Apprentice program. I thought you knew that.”
Tobal looked confused.
She continued, “It might not be a good idea for two Apprentices to get together like Wayne and I did. It is really hard having a permanent love relationship with someone when you need to train and live with other people like Wayne and I need to do. But it is normal to be sexual with others. Having sex is a form of sharing and a way of deepening a relationship. It is no big deal really. None of us are experts at love. We all need to have experiences and learn from those experiences. Our love partners help us and we teach each other about what pleases us.”
“Tobal,” she looked at him intently and unfastened her robe. “Do you want to have sex with me?”
He found himself staring at her body. Her soft breasts and the mound of blonde pubic hair stirred something inside him. Tobal found himself uncomfortable with the subject and with his own feelings. She had a good-looking body.
“I think I will wait until I get to Journeyman before I worry about it too much,” he said awkwardly.
She laughed. “Well at least give me a hug and a kiss then.” She moved closer so her bare body was against him as they hugged. It was a long hug and a long kiss.
It took a while to recover and Tobal wandered around the gathering spot trying to collect his wits together. He thought about what Char had said and wondered if she was right. Maybe he was making too big of a thing about it. Maybe sex could be as casual as shaking hands for some people but he knew it was not that way for him. For one thing there were a lot of attractive girls around the camp and only one or two had ever really drawn his eye.
He thought of Fiona, yes, he was sexually attracted to Fiona. Then Becca came unbidden into his mind and he hastily pushed her back out. He didn’t know what was going on between him and Becca but it was more like electric shock therapy than sexual attraction.
Sarah, Mike and Butch had all completed their solos and were talking together when he came up to them. They were going to take this month off and work on their own base camps, getting prepared for winter. It seemed most clansmen were either doing that or had already done that. None of them were talking about partnering up for the winter but they were thinking about working together setting up winter camps. Once their winter camps were set up they would decide if they were going to do any training or not.
Fiona, Becca, Nikki and he were the only ones interested in newbies this month. They each received a new chevron except Nikki. Her first newbie was going to solo that month. That made three for him, and one each for Becca and Fiona.
“You’re going to travel with us to sanctuary after the meditation group aren’t you?” Nikki asked. “It will be a blast.”
“I might,” he said evasively. “I need to talk with Ellen first though and I might be running later than usual. If I’m not around just take off without me and I’ll catch up with you.”
“What do you need to talk with Ellen about?” Nikki asked.
“She wants to know more about when my base camp got burned by rogues.” He evaded by giving a simple answer.
“I remember that,” Fiona exclaimed. “That’s when we found the waterfall by the lake and that weird abandoned gathering spot. Tell her she can talk to me too if she wants. Say, have you ever gone back there like you said you were going to?”
“That’s one of the things I’m going to talk with Ellen about,” Tobal said. It’s pretty bad weather to go there now though. Too easy to get snowed in.”
“Maybe we can all go there this spring some time,” Becca said. “I love swimming and there isn’t a really good swimming spot around here.”
“That’s a great idea!” Nikki said enthusiastically.
“Well just let me know so I can go with you,” Tobal said. “It might be dangerous and there should be enough of us going so no one will attack us.”
“Why would anyone want to attack us?” Nikki laughed. “You have something in mind handsome?”
The other two laughed and Tobal turned away with a dark shadow on his face. He couldn’t tell them the entire story or it would be all over camp and Ellen would have his head. It was better just to leave things the way they were for now. Misty was again High Priestess and did a nice job. Ellen was there and said she needed to talk with him later after circle. Angel was also helping out in the circle. There was a new High Priest too but Tobal didn’t remember his name.
Dirk was there along with Rafe on wood patrol keeping the fires going. There were several Journeymen Tobal recognized and many more he didn’t. This was the largest circle he had ever been too. Ox had even shown up for the party strutting three chevrons on his black tunic.
It was the end of the harvest cycle and the last time many of them would see each other until next spring so they were determined to have a good time. After the initiations the party really began. At drum circle the drumming and dancing went long into the night as people laughed leaping among the flames individually and together. The festivities lasted three days with the last two days reminding Tobal of a flea market and county fair. People brought items to sell or trade especially beautiful handcrafted garments and tools. The most interesting were winter garments that made Tobal’s efforts seem crude in comparison. He examined them carefully and took mental notes so he could duplicate the work later. He did the same with other tools and items that caught his interest.
This was the time clan members would show off their creativity and individual talents. There was music, hand made stringed instruments and wooden flutes. There were of course the drums that beat out a steady rhythm deep into the night for all the dancers.
The second day was reserved for games and competitions. During a break Tobal approached Rafe near the wood pile. “Watch this,” he said, drawing the silver wand from its sheath and pointing it at a patch of snow. A red light flashed, and with the fifth button, a pulse melted a fifteen-foot circle, steam rising. Rafe’s eyes widened. “Holy shit! Put that away—do you want us killed?” Tobal sheathed it quickly. “I found a secret cave—my parents’ things, this wand. Air sleds tracked me, Ellen was furious but checked my camp. It’s forbidden—rogues are after it.” Rafe nodded, stunned. “Does Ellen know?” Tobal shook his head. “Not yet—I’m figuring it out.”
He was not surprised when Fiona won a knife-throwing contest but he gaped in envy at the prize. It was a hand-forged axe one of the third degree members had somehow created. With an axe like that work would go much more quickly than with stone axes and knives. It would help not only with firewood but also in the creation of bigger and more permanent shelters like log cabins.
It was also on the second day when female clan members got their annual birth control shot to prevent pregnancies. There were lots of sexual jokes going round the camp and open invitations. Tobal wondered more about this and asked one of the medics. The medic told him the city felt it was too dangerous to have children or raise children under these harsh survival conditions. People were free to have children once they became citizens but not before.
This was a rule that was strictly enforced and medics would fly their air sleds out to those females that had not attended this gathering. If they refused the shot, they were disqualified. This did happen, the medic told him. There were always 2nd degree couples content living as they were and wanting to raise families out here in the wilderness. In fact, there were enough of them that they had formed their own family type gathering spot two hundred miles to the West.
When Tobal tried asking more questions the medic shut up like he had already said too much and that he needed to be going. There was certainly a lot Tobal didn’t understand. He wondered if the dead camp at the lake had been a family one. He hoped not because the thought of dead children lying in that cairn made him feel sick. Still, in his heart he knew it had been a family camp because his own hospital bracelet proved he had been there just as Adam Gardner had said. The old man had talked about other children that had been murdered too. There were secrets out there, secrets he intended to find out.
It was on the last day the medics handed out special supplies and medicines like salt, wine, vitamins and medical gear scavenged from old med-kits. Needles, hair brushes, combs, string and things like that were very welcome. So were scissors and razors, not to mention toothbrushes and other items that could be gotten at sanctuary.
The next morning, after the three-day celebration, the meditation group gathered in the clearing as people began to leave. Fiona approached Ellen, her voice trembling. “I can’t get it out of my mind… Tobal and I found that lake, the burned village. I’ve dreamed of ghosts, blood—we need to go there in our meditation.” Her eyes glistened, her fear swaying the group. Becca gripped her arm. “I’ve heard those tales—let’s face it!” Nikki nodded, “If Fiona’s in, I’m curious—what if it’s real?” Rafe added, “I’ve felt something odd—count me in.” Others murmured agreement, pressure mounting.
Ellen frowned, crossing her arms. “This could draw danger—rogues, worse. But with so many… fine, 20 minutes, and we stay cautious.”
They settled, the medallion pulsing against Tobal’s chest. Closing their eyes, they linked and visualized, a rift pulling them through. They materialized above the lake, the waterfall ahead. A shimmering force field blocked their path, unseen by Fiona and Tobal before when they passed through. A glowing light—Arthur—challenged, “Who seeks this truth? Prove your hearts!” Tobal thought, “Arthur? It’s OK, they’re with me,” and the light softened. “Follow me—see the truth,” Arthur telepathed to all, his voice warm yet urgent.
They drifted to the village—burned huts, ghosts wailing, blood pooling as massacre replays flashed: a mother shielding a child, screams piercing the smoky air, figures fleeing. Tobal froze, heart racing, the medallion’s pulse quickening. Fiona sobbed, “I saw the fire again—those children!” Becca trembled, “The screams—too real!” Nikki gasped, “A child called my name!” Rafe clenched his fists, “This isn’t just history.” Ellen’s face paled, “This isn’t natural—someone’s meddling.”
Arthur’s light pulsed. “The force field protects—Reptilians hunt beyond. Beware the Federation.”
Ellen snapped, “Enough! We need to leave. This isn’t safe—keep it quiet, or we’re targets.” The group returned, shaken, whispers spreading about Tobal’s lake secret.
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
X.
The restaurant was not closed despite the advanced hour; Flaum still had guests, and so they went in. The editor ordered wine.
“I’m very glad,” he said, “that we met again. It was terribly interesting how you performed at the district commissioner’s today. But—forgive me—you judge a bit too much in bulk and wholesale.”
“Yes indeed I did that. I often do. That’s self-evident. Every thing really has very many different sides, which—understand—not lie next to each other for convenient overview. No, sir, on the contrary. There are the most various illuminations. A thing is like a hectogon; only one surface gets full light there. And now look: the whole human judging rests on the fact that only this one surface is considered and perhaps still three or four that lie closest.”
Falk emptied the glass.
For his intellect there was no judging at all. He could say nothing certain about any thing. If he judged at all, it happened merely because he somehow had to communicate with people, and then he judged just like all other people, i.e. he proceeded from certain premises of which he knew that they counted as “given,” and drew the conclusions.
But for himself there were no premises and therefore also nothing “given”; he therefore asked the Herr Editor not to take his opinions as absolute.
The editor seemed not to understand that and drank to Falk for lack of an answer.
The young doctor listened curiously and drank very eagerly. Suddenly he got the desire to annoy the editor: Falk joked so excellently.
“What do you think, but in all seriousness, of a social future state?”
The editor winked his eyes; he noticed the malicious intent.
“What do I think of that?” said Falk. “Yes, I already developed at the district commissioner’s my opinion, which rests on ‘given’ valuations.”
“By the way, this whole state interests me only insofar as it—admittedly again only if the premises are correct, Herr Doctor—yes, only insofar as it can bring certain reforms in the field in which I am active.”
“Look, then for example the state will also create the social living conditions for artists, and then you can be convinced that many people who now à faute de mieux became artists because it is nowadays the easiest bread, will then rather become supervisory officials in some warehouse or otherwise make themselves somehow useful with four- to six-hour work time and social equality. Artists will be only those who must.”
The editor, who now scented joke behind every word of Falk’s, threw in irritably:
“You seem to hold artists in low esteem too?”
“No, really not, and precisely because there are almost no artists, or if there are any, they botch themselves immediately as soon as they have to bring their wares to market.”
“For me only he is an artist who is not otherwise able to create than under the unheard-of compulsion of a so-to-speak volcanic eruption of the soul; only he in whom everything that arises in the brain was previously glowing prepared and long, long collected in the warm depths of the unconscious—let us call it—that doesn’t write a word, not a syllable that is not like a twitching, soul-torn-out organ, filled with blood, streaming to the whole, hot, deep and uncanny, like life itself.”
“Well, such artists he probably never met?”
“Oh yes, yes! but only among the despised, the unknown, the hated and ridiculed, whom the mob declares idiots.”
Falk drank hastily.
“Yes indeed; and one of the greatest I saw go to ruin and perish. There was one, my schoolmate; he was the most beautiful
man I ever met. He was brutal and tender, fine and hard, he was granite and ebony, and always beautiful. Yes, he had the great, cruel love and the great contempt.”
Falk pondered.
“Yes, he was very strange. You know, that characterizes him: we once got the essay topic: how heroes are honored after death.
Do you know what he wrote? what would probably be the greatest honor for a hero?
“Well?”
“Yes, he wrote: the most beautiful honor he could imagine for a hero would be if a shepherd accidentally dug up the bones of the hero in question, then made a flute from the hollow bones and blew his praise on it.
Another time he wrote on the topic what benefit wars bring, that wars are a great boon for farmers, that they namely excellently manure the soil with the corpses of the fallen warriors; corpse manure is much better than superphosphate.
Yes, allow me, that is brutal; but brutal like nature itself. That is mockery; but the terrible mockery with which nature plays with us. Yes, sir: that is the sublime mocking seriousness of nature itself.”
The editor was silent, offended.
“Does Herr Falk want to joke with him? that really isn’t nice.”
“No, he doesn’t want that at all, he never joked with any person, least of all with the Herr Editor.”
“Yes, then they are only personal opinions that can apply only to one person.”
Falk felt a strange irritability that he couldn’t comprehend; but he controlled himself.
“Yes indeed; my opinions apply only to me. I am I and thus my own world.”
“Well, Herr Falk seems to have strangely high opinions of himself.”
“Yes, I have, and every person should have them. You know, there is a man in Dresden who calls himself Heinrich Pudor. In
general one holds him for a charlatan and he indeed makes himself talked about through strange quirks. For example, recently he demanded of the state attorneys that they prohibit the playing of Chopin’s music because it is arousing and sensual. But despite all the quirks there sticks in him yet a strange power.
Recently he held an exhibition of his own paintings in Munich. The paintings are supposed to be ridiculous and childish; I don’t know, I haven’t seen them. But for the exhibition he wrote a catalog in which it says: I am Heinrich Pudor! I am I! I am neither an artist nor a non-artist! I have no other attributes than only that I am I!
Look, that is well said.
No, you are mistaken, Herr Doctor: that is no excessively demanding significance. For as soon as I am human, I am precisely a significant, uncannily significant piece of nature. If I now say: Here are my paintings! however ridiculous they may be, but they are a piece of me! and presupposed that they are really generated from innermost compulsion: then they characterize me better than all good deeds I have done and will still do.
Here is a piece of my individuality; whoever is interested may look. I am I, and nothing is in me of which I need to be ashamed.”
“But that is absolute megalomania,” the doctor threw in.
“Absolutely not absolute and absolutely not relative! You as doctor should know that the so-called megalomania goes hand in hand with the loss of individuality. Only when the consciousness of my ownness is lost do I hold myself for Napoleon, Caesar etc. But even the strongest consciousness of my own I and its significance has nothing maniacal.
No, on the contrary: it educates humanity, it produces the great individuals of which our time so terribly lacks, it gives power and might and the holy criminal courage that until now has created everything mighty.
Yes, he certainly has that, Herr Editor! Only the ‘megalomaniac’ consciousness has the great energy and cruelty, the courage to destroy, without which nothing new and splendid comes about.
By the way, hm, it is indifferent whether one has it; the main thing is that one *must* have it! yes, *must*…
Again the unrest and fear rose high in Falk.
“No, it is really terribly idiotic to waste our time with stupid conversations; this empty threshing of straw. No, to the devil, let’s be merry, let’s drink! The riddles of life… hey! Herr Host! another bottle!”
And they drank. Falk was very nervous. His mood communicated itself to the others. They drank very hastily.
Soon the editor had drunk beyond measure.
“Yes, he loved Falk above all; he would consider himself happy to have him as a collaborator.”
Falk had definitely promised him to send regular reports from Paris to his *Kreisblatt*.
The doctor giggled.
“*Elbsfelder Weekly*: two columns ads, regular reports from Paris! Ha-ha-hah, where is the village Paris?”
The editor felt mortally insulted. Falk listened into himself.
An infinite longing for his wife dissolved in him. Yes! her bodily warmth, her hands and arms!
Strange how Marit had completely left him; no trace of desire. He broke up.
When he came home, it was already day. He cooled his eyes in the washbasin and opened the window. Then he wrote the following letter:
My dear, above all beloved wife!
I am drunk with my love. I am sick and wretched with longing for you. Nothing concerns me in this world except you, you, you!
You love me; tell me how you love me, you my, my everything!
And when I am with you, how will I find you, how will you be to me? Am I still to you your great, beautiful man? Why was your last letter so sad?
How everything in me groans for you! How I long for you! Tell me! am I to you what you are to me?! – The light, the life, the air: everything, everything in which alone I can live? For you see: now, now I know
sure: never have I known anything more surely: I cannot live without you! no, really not.
Only love me! Love me beyond your power; no, as much as you can. You can very, very much! Only love me, love me.
I will write a whole literature for you, just so you have something to read. I will be your clown so you have something to laugh at. I will crawl under your feet, like a slave I will serve you, the whole world I will force to its knees before you: only love me as you loved me, as you perhaps still love me. I will with absolute certainty leave here in two days… Your husband…
But when Falk had slept it off, he made five days out of the two—after which he took the letter to the post.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
The beach grew livelier, so after a brief continuation of the conversation, which turned to other topics, Ruprecht invited his friend for a walk. They strolled along the shore, then climbed toward the heights between villas and hotels. Sky and sea shimmered in boundless clarity. The setting sun seemed to conjure all the sea’s gold from its blue depths. A refreshing coolness rose from below, mingled with the scents of myriad blossoms and fruits, woven into a dense garland around the coast. The summer was wondrously beautiful, blessed with constant sunshine yet tempered by a lively, cooling breeze that prevented scorching heat. No one wanted to leave this shore. The season stretched far beyond its usual end, into a time when all would typically have fled. Ruprecht and Hugo reached a rocky outcrop offering a clear view of the coast and sea. Before the low sun hung a narrow cloud, like a knife poised over an orange. The sea was calm, bearing fishing boats with a willing smile. “There’s the scene of your heroics,” Hugo said, pointing to the two white stone cubes among the vineyards where Ruprecht had lassoed Mr. Müller. “What made you get involved? It was decidedly original, but… one doesn’t just help the police like that, do they?” “You can imagine I found Mr. Müller more likable than the helpless police commissioner. Still— why? The bit of danger intrigued me. I think danger’s one of the sweetest pleasures life offers.” “You find too little of it in our quiet Europe. That’s why you roam the world, seeking wilder places. God, you’ve got it good! No one to answer to, money like hay, doing as you please. I’d love to travel too—not like you, but with pleasant company, under Cook’s care, so I don’t wake up in a Papuan’s stomach.” Ruprecht smiled, gazing silently at the sea. Then, with a sweeping half-circle of his arm, he encompassed the beauty spread before them. “Only those who know struggle,” he said, “can truly appreciate peace. How glorious this is. How the soul simplifies, how wings grow.” A faint chime rose over sea and land. Like a delicate, firm web, the peals of church bells, ringing the evening blessing, stretched through the clear air. The friends sat silently for a while. Then Hugo reminded them to head back to avoid missing dinner at the hotel. They descended quickly through the twilight, past orchards and vineyards, and at the Kaiser von Österreich, Hugo parted with a promise to visit again tomorrow. Reaching his room, Ruprecht began changing. He was in high spirits. The evening’s colors and sounds had sunk into him, filling him with joy. He always felt this way on the eve of new adventures, brimming with expectation and eager energies. Yet he knew only months of quiet country life awaited, somewhere with few people and no events. As he donned his dinner jacket, his Malay servant entered the dressing room, standing erect by the door. “What is it?” Ruprecht asked. “Sir, a woman wishes to speak with you. She’s waiting in the salon.” Somewhat surprised, Ruprecht followed. Before entering, he placed a hand on the Malay’s shoulder. “Wait! Is she one of those you visited on my behalf?” “Yes, sir.” Well, by all the gods of Hindustan, she was persistent! That was something! A strange way to approach a stranger. Smiling, Ruprecht entered the salon. Under the chandelier stood the young widow who enchanted all, the woman who sat front-row at the Emperor’s celebration. She smiled too. Ruprecht bowed. She took a few steps toward him. Silk skirts rustled, a faint cloud of perfume wafted over. A peculiar scent—dried fruit, hay, and something else Ruprecht couldn’t pinpoint. “You thought, on your way here, that I’m persistent,” she said. “You found it odd to answer a refused meeting with a visit.” “You’re very perceptive, madam!” Ruprecht replied. “Oh, come, that hardly takes perception—it was clear in your smile. Well, see, I’m smiling too. And do you know what my smile says? It expresses my pleasure in proving you wrong.” Ruprecht met her eyes—green, with narrow pupils, seeming to drink in light and scatter it in a thousand rays, as if dissecting it. Cat’s eyes, he thought. They held that indefinable expression, neither clearly friendly nor hostile. “I’m no starry-eyed schoolgirl,” she continued, “nor an adventure-seeking woman. I’m not after a flirt or a fleeting resort acquaintance. I simply want to meet you, exchange a few words, to know what to make of you.” The perfume, seeping from her exquisite lace gown and soft brown hair, unsettled Ruprecht. He, who’d studied the Orient’s delicate, provocative scents, was uneasy at failing to identify this elusive note. “Forgive me,” he said slowly, “your letter was one among many. It didn’t stand out.” She laughed. “Then your perception failed you. You should’ve seen at once I’ve no intention of throwing myself at you with loving gestures.” What does she want, then? Ruprecht thought. Her gaze, accompanying those words, didn’t align with them. It didn’t contradict, but clung to him—a promise given and withdrawn, a granting that was also a retreat. “I could do so more easily than others,” she said, “for I answer to no one. You’d only have to fight two or three duels with my ardent admirers. That wouldn’t trouble you, would it? But truly, I only wish to know if you’re as vain as they say.” Ruprecht flinched. The word stung. He straightened slightly and said, “Madam…” She smiled again. “Hold on… I find it improper to parade in costume as a wild man before a respectable audience, shooting holes in cards and shattering glass balls. Isn’t that a far worse surrender of one’s person than other artistic pursuits, which are already deplorable prostitutions? My late husband studied Indian philosophers. He called the arts silver embroidery on Maya’s veil—something special, glittering, yet part of the web of illusions. You know Schopenhauer thought differently. But I believe my husband was right.” Ruprecht stood dumbfounded. What did this woman want, with her odd jumble of “personality,” “Maya’s veil,” and Schopenhauer? Was this an original worldview or mere confusion? He grasped only that she presumed to judge him, acting as if she had a right to challenge him, which irked him all the more since he hadn’t fully shaken the shame of his performance. “Forgive me,” he said, mustering a blunt defense, “I believe I’ve proven vanity has no hold over me.” “Oh, certainly,” she laughed, “you didn’t attend the rendezvous. But… isn’t that a ploy? Perhaps you’re spoiled. Who knows? In my presence, a bet was made that you’re not vain. I judged from your sharpshooting display and took the wager. Now, I must admit—you didn’t come, and it seems I’ve lost. Yet I’d like to know if I haven’t won precisely because of that. I suspect you aim to stand out in a unique way.” “I’ve no such intention,” Ruprecht said, annoyed. “It was a favor for my friend. I was persuaded. And before… the lasso affair was just for the thrill of it…” At that moment, the dinner gong clanged in the hall below—a long, wild peal, a hideous noise piercing every corner of the hotel, even through the salon’s heavy curtains, drowning all other sounds. Three single strikes followed. “You’re summoned to dine,” the widow said. “I’ll go. Well… I must accept my bet is lost. What else can I do? Thank you for listening so kindly.” She offered her slender hand freely, meeting his eyes with equal ease. “Let the gong make its racket,” Ruprecht said, agitated. “You come here, insult me with your suspicions… yes, forgive me, I find that offensive. Let me explain… I was deeply vexed at getting involved. No… please, I don’t care about being late for dinner.” But the young widow insisted she couldn’t bear the guilt, nor did she wish to draw attention at her hotel by arriving late to table. Yet her eyes said something else: Oh, foolish man, happiness stands before you, just reach out.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
It was a brown dusty thing made of rock hard wooden root. It looked like an ancient wrinkled man. “Oh, it’s our alraune!” Frau Gontram said. “It’s just as well that it fell on Sophie, she has a hard skull!–When Wölfchen was born I gave that disgusting manikin to him. I was certain he would be able to break it to pieces but he couldn’t.” The Legal Councilor explained, “This has been in our family for over two hundred years now. It has done this once before. My grandfather told us that once in the night it sprang off the wall and fell on his head–He was completely drunk when it happened though–He always liked having a few drops to drink.” “What is it really?” the Hussar lieutenant asked. “Well, it brings gold into the house,” answered Herr Gontram. “It is an old legend–Manasse can tell you all about it–Come over here, Herr Colleague, tell us, Herr History–What is the legend of the alraune?” But the little attorney didn’t want to, “Why? Everyone knows it already!” “No one knows it, Herr Attorney,” the lieutenant cried at him. “No one. Your learning greatly overshadows that of modern education.” “So tell us, Manasse,” said Frau Gontram. “I always wanted to know what that ugly thing was good for.” He began. He spoke dryly, matter of factly, as if he were reading some piece out of a book. He spoke unhurried, scarcely raising his voice while swinging the manikin root back and forth in his right hand like a baton. “Alraune, albraune, mandragora–also called mandrake– mandragora is its official name, a plant belonging to the Nightshade family. It is found around the Mediterranean, Southeast Europe and Asia up to the Himalayas. Its leaves and flowers contain a narcotic that was used in ancient times as a sleeping potion and during operations at the illustrious medical college in Salerno, Italy. The leaves were smoked and the fruit made into a love potion. It stimulates lust and increases potency. The plant is named Dudaim in the Old Testament where Jacob used it to increase Labaan’s flock of sheep. The root plays the leading role in the saga of the alraune because of its strange resemblance to an old male or female figurine. It was mentioned by Pythagoras and already in his time believed capable of making a person invisible. It is used for magic or the opposite, as a talisman against witchcraft. The German alraune story began in the early Middle Ages in connection with the crusades. Known criminals were hung stark naked from a gallows at a crossroads. At the moment their neck was broken they lost their semen and it fell to the earth fertilizing it and creating a male or female alraune. It had to be dug out of the ground beneath the gallows when the clock struck midnight and you needed to plug your ears with cotton and wax or its dreadful screams would make you fall down in terror. Even Shakespeare tells of this. After it is dug up and carried back home you keep it healthy by bringing it a little to eat at every meal and bathing it in wine on the Sabbath. It brings luck in peace and in war, is a protection against witchcraft and brings lots of money into the house. It is good for prophecy and makes its owner lovable. It brings women love magic, fertility and easy childbirth. It makes people fall madly and wildly in love with them. Yet it also brings sorrow and pain where ever it is. The house where it stays will be pursued by bad luck and it will drive its owner to greed, fornication and other crimes before leading him at last to death and then to hell. Nevertheless, the alraune is very beloved, much sought after and brings a high price when it can be found. They say that Bohemian general Albrecht Wallenstein carried an alraune around with him and they say the same thing about Henry the Eighth, the English King with so many wives.” The attorney became quiet, threw the hard piece of wood in front of him onto the table. “Very interesting, really very interesting,” cried Count Geroldingen. “I am deeply indebted to you for sharing that bit of information Herr Attorney.” But Madame Marion declared that she would not permit such a thing in her house for even a minute and looked with frightened, believing eyes at the stiff bony mask of Frau Gontram. Frank Braun walked quickly back to the Privy Councilor. His eyes glowed; he gripped the old gentleman on the shoulder and shook it. “Uncle Jakob,” he whispered. “Uncle Jakob–” “What is it now boy?” The professor asked. He stood up and followed his nephew to the window. “Uncle Jakob,” the student repeated. “That’s it!–That’s what you need to do! It’s better than making stupid jokes with frogs, monkeys and little children! Do it Uncle Jakob, go a new way, where no one has gone before!” His voice trembled; in nervous haste he blew a puff of smoke out from his cigarette. “I don’t understand a word you are saying,” said the old man. “Oh, you must understand Uncle Jakob!–Didn’t you hear what he said?–Create an Alraune, one that lives, one of flesh and blood!– You can do it Uncle, you alone and no one else in the world.” The Privy Councilor looked at him uncertainly. But in the voice of the student lay such certainty, conviction and belief in his skill that he became curious against his will. “Explain yourself more clearly Frank,” he said. “I really don’t know what you mean.” His nephew shook his head hastily, “Not now Uncle Jakob. With your permission I will escort you home. We can talk then.” He turned quickly, strode to the coffeepot, took a cup, emptied it and took another in quick gulps. Sophia, the other girl, was trying to evade her comforter and Dr. Mohnen was running around here and there hyper as a cow’s tail during fly season. His fingers felt the need to wash something, to pick something up. He took up the alraune and rubbed it with a clean napkin trying to wipe the dust and grime away that clung to it in layers. It was useless; the thing had not been cleaned for over a century and would only get more napkins dirty. He was filled with the sense that something was not right. He swung it high and skillfully threw it into the middle of the large wine bowl. “Drink alraune,” he cried. “You have been treated badly in this house and must certainly be thirsty!” Then he climbed up on a chair and delivered a long solemn speech to the white robed virgins. “I hope you can stay eternally as pure as you are tonight,” he finished. He lied, he didn’t want that at all. No one wished that, much less the two young ladies, but they clapped with the others, went over to him, curtsied and thanked him. Chaplain Schröder stood next to the Legal Councilor complaining powerfully that the date was nearing when the new Civil Law would go into effect. Less than ten more years and the Code of Napoleon would be gone and people in the Rhineland would have the same civil rights as over there in Prussia! It was absolutely unthinkable! “Yes,” sighed the Legal Councilor, “and all the work! A person has to learn everything all over again, as if they don’t have enough to do as it is.” He was completely indifferent on the basis that it would not affect him very much since he had studied the new laws already and had passed the exam, thank God! The princess left and took Frau Marion with her in her carriage. Olga stayed over with her friend again. They stood by the door and said goodbye to the others as they left, one after the other. “Aren’t you going too, Uncle Jakob?” the student asked. “I must wait a bit,” said the Privy Councilor. “My carriage is not here yet. It will be here in a moment.” Frank Braun looked out the window. There was the little widow, Frau Von Dollinger, going down the stairs nimble as a squirrel in spite of her forty years, down into the garden, falling down, springing back up. She ran right into a smooth tree trunk, wrapped her arms and legs around it and started kissing it passionately, completely drunk and senseless from wine and lust. Stanislaus Schacht tried to untangle her but she held on like a beetle. He was strong and sober in spite of the enormous quantity of wine that he had drunk. She screamed as he pulled her away trying to stay clasped to the smooth tree trunk but he picked her up and carried her in his arms. Then she recognized him, pulled off his hat and started kissing him on his smooth bald head. Now the professor was standing, speaking some last words with the Legal Councilor. “I’d like to ask a favor,” he said. “Would you mind giving me the unlucky little man?” Frau Gontram answered before her husband could, “Certainly Herr Privy Councilor. Take that nasty alraune along with you! It is certainly something more for a bachelor!” She reached into the large wine bowl and pulled out the root manikin but the hard wood hit the edge of the bowl, knocking it over, and it rolled to the floor with a loud crash that resounded through the room. The magnificent old crystal bowl broke into hundreds of crystal shards as the bowl’s sweet contents spilled over the table and onto the floor. “Holy Mother of God!” she cried out. “It is certainly a good thing that it is finally leaving my house!”
Part II: A More Esoteric Consideration of the Hermetic Art and Its Mysteries
Chapter 1: The True Subject of the Hermetic Art, Part 5
Introduction: The esoteric heart of alchemy unveils wisdom as a divine force within the soul, guiding seekers to universal truth. Ancient sages like Solomon and Plato reveal how self-knowledge, awakened by sacred rites, connects us to the divine.
Wisdom as Divine Essence
Doubters may dismiss wisdom as an abstract fancy, but ancient tradition, echoed by Aristotle, declares it “the most essential of the essential,” an operative force informing and sustaining all. Solomon’s Wisdom of Solomon praises it: “Wisdom moves faster than any motion, passing through all by her pureness. She is God’s breath, a pure influence from His glory, undefiled, the brightness of everlasting light, the unspotted mirror of His power. One, yet all-powerful, she renews all while remaining herself, entering holy souls to make them friends of God and prophets. More beautiful than the sun, she outshines stars, untouched by vice, richer than all earthly treasures.”
This divine promise urges us to seek wisdom’s conditions, not through common sciences but through inner exploration. The outer man, bound by senses, calcines and measures surfaces, finding them wanting. True seekers turn inward, guided by ancient wisdom to uncover the true light of alchemy—not a dream, but a psychical reality, uniform across all life.
The Alchemical Method
Alchemists propose a reduction of nature that preserves its vital vehicle, transforming its form through rational conditions. Geber notes, “Men deem gold’s confection impossible, ignorant of nature’s artificial destruction.” Lacking the method to probe “altitude, latitude, and profundity,” they miss the causal truth. Plotinus explains, “The soul, encased in body, forgets self-contemplation, absorbed in external life. Purified, it recalls what this life obscures.” Plutarch adds, “Souls, bound by senses, glimpse divinity dimly, like a confused dream. Freed into purer realms, God leads them to behold His beauty, filling the universe with good.”
This beauty, pursued by Isis in mythology, is the divine truth alchemists seek through sacred rites. Psellus, commenting on the Chaldaic Oracles, declares, “Only material rites strengthen the soul’s vehicle, initiating it into divinity.” Plato calls Zoroaster’s magic “the service of gods,” perfecting the soul through earthly powers. Synesius and Emperor Julian confirm that divine union requires such arts, as seen in the Eleusinian Mysteries, where wisdom arose from vital experiments.
Archytas advises, “Investigate rightly, and discovery is easy; without knowledge, it’s impossible.” The ancients’ silence on these rites, guarding them from the unworthy, leaves modern seekers ignorant of the method. Yet, their scattered hints suggest a path to rediscover this ancient experiment, testing its merits through inquiry rather than blind faith or skepticism.
The Path to Self-Knowledge
We invite readers to consider this Hermetic mystery—not with pride or indifference, but with belief in our worthiness to explore the soul’s palaces. The ancients’ wisdom was no vain display but a real, attainable good, not spontaneously revealed but earned through disciplined art. As the Platonic successor notes, “Jupiter gave us sacred arts to commune with the divine, ensuring we’re not deprived.” These arts, veiled in mystery, offer a clue to unravel the path, leading toward the soul’s native truth.
Closing: This section unveils wisdom as the soul’s divine force, awakened through sacred rites to reveal universal truth. The journey into the Hermetic art’s method deepens, promising further revelations in our next post.
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