She opened her door and her window, and the heart and the soul came through, To her right hand came the red one, To her left hand came the blue*
As soon as dusk fell the witness peered into an antiquated telescope positioned by Mysteries’ upper-back window and focused it on the perfect half-moon above the star-crossed landscape.
The portents were all there; love really was in the air.
For starters, Mars had just moved into a visually stunning conjunction with Aphrodite’s blue-white ball of ferocious energy, as the shyly radiant moon made up the third part of a most compelling, cosmic love-triangle.
Mercury hovered expectantly, waiting for the precise moment to convey his timeless message to the lovers and their watchers.
The Day of Transformation was truly dawning and the witness could only wonder if the consciousness of the human race was strong enough to survive the impact. Would the collective mind be blown – short-circuited by the influx of cosmic energy – or would humanity rise to the occasion by using it to accelerate a collective metamorphosis into a higher dimension?
Half an hour later the Master re-emerged sans magazine or whiskey glass but clutching to heart an exceedingly large, old and important-looking volume.
The much-lamented loss of Pros Theon had abruptly ended a few short minutes after entering the small, cluttered bathroom, where it was at the bottom of an ever-increasing pile of toilet-reading material and duly rescued by its ecstatic owner.
Tremendously relieved, ten or twelve years of life added back on – a full Jupiter return! – the Master placed the book on the desk in the study, switched on the ancient desk lamp and turned to the penultimate section:
‘Los Días de la Transformación’; The Days of Transformation.
Translating and interpreting the elaborate text was a mission. It took every effort of will and much metaphorical ploughing for the book to yield its rare fruits.
After only half an hour the Master, who had a surprisingly short attention span for one given to meditating, looked up from the text and out of the window for inspiration. In that same instant a piercing set of eyes imparted the truth – a reminder – with almost unfathomable simplicity:
‘‘Forwards backwards; time is taking
Cosmic steps through every section.
Herein find the secret waiting:
Future from the past; reflection.’
Soaring Eagle then spread his wings and flew towards the Master, who felt like a very small child in that same instant and rushed towards the great bird as if pulled along on some invisible line between them.
The Master sighed, deep in thought, and approached an overloaded bookcase on the Eastern wall of the treatment room. The afternoon sun cast rendered certain areas invisible with its blinding rays.
Scanning the shelves intently, following the words on each well-worn spine with a finely-nailed forefinger, all but that which the Master sought was readily apparent, the object itself merely absent.
After almost an hour of fruitless seeking, the Master stamped a foot and sighed loudly in frustration. Thoughts from what was by any standards a frequently exercised brain penetrated the atmosphere with ease.
Where on Earth is the magical book?
There was no answer to this question.
Didn’t I see it just after Halle Bop came around again and the moon was side by side with Jupiter?
Again, there was no answer, but the Master felt sure this was when the rare and ancient copy of ‘Pros Theon’, which translated into English as ‘By the Gods’, had last been consulted.
Where can it be, for heaven’s sake?
Who could say? No word came, though the room was imbibed with an overpowering sense that to lose the text completely would be disastrous.
There were only seven transcripts of the book left in existence and at least two of those – the Master’s included – were incomplete. Of the other six, a well-used copy was with the exiled Dalai Lama and the Chief Rabbi – who may well have denied its existence had he been questioned – kept a pristine version hidden away in his library behind the more orthodox texts.
Mahavatar Babaji had somehow obtained a copy of the book that he subsequently left with his disciples, while a famously un-heard of Sufi Magician inherited the fifth from his grandfather. This highly revered leader of a largely forgotten tribe of nomads had escaped persecution by retreating to a hidden network of mountain caves above the plains of ancient Babylon.
The Vatican had the remaining two copies of Pros Theon. One was in fragments and a second had been retrieved by the Knights Templar from a vault below the Church of the Sepulchre in Jerusalem.
The Master felt a sudden chill. Could it be true that the only freely available text of Pros Theon had been lost or even stolen?