Category Archives: Myths and Magic

Trapped in the Great Below: The Story of the Goddess Inanna

From time to time I tune in to mythical beings. Often, they inspire my work. This has seldom been more strongly true than with Inanna.

Inanna in History

Inanna is a goddess of ancient Sumer. The stories about her, which survive in hymns and records of rituals, are among the oldest in the world. She was worshipped as the Queen of Heaven and Earth, considered a goddess of justice and war as well as of love and fertility. In the sky, she was identified with the planet Venus. In later times, her cult combined with that of the Babylonian Goddess Ishtar, and later the Eurasian Aphrodite (1)

In this image from a Cylinder seal dated about 2300 BCE, Inanna is shown with wings and fully armed. Her foot rests upon a lion (one of her emblems), while an eight-pointed stars hangs above her shoulder, representing Venus. Cylinder seal dated about 2300 BCE

How I Met Inanna

Five years ago, I was working on Ghosts of Lock Tower, the third of the Abby Renshaw Supernatural Mysteries. One day, the above image of Inanna showed up on my FaceBook feed. Later that evening, while I was reading a book about magic, I found myself staring at the very same image on the page. That night, I had a recurring dream in which a woman kept coming into my bedroom and shaking the bed.

Now, I may be dense. But an ancient goddess only has to disturb my sleep a few times before I pay attention. Plainly, Inanna had something to tell me. I started researching her. She ended up playing a key role in the plot of Lock Tower, serving as a spirit guide for Abby on her quest.

But how would the presence of a Sumerian goddess make sense in our world (even in fiction)? Abby wondered that too. She asked Kevin, a retired Anthropology professor and one of her mentors. He offered several ideas:

“I can see maybe three ways. One, she’s an element of your personal unconscious that you’ve activated by magic. Two, she’s a figure of the collective unconscious that you’ve drawn into yourself by magic. Three, she’s the spirit of a real ancient goddess who has always existed in the world, waiting for humankind to reawaken her.”

“Good answers. Which is it, I wonder.”

Kevin laughs. “My guess? All of the above.”

Journey to the Underworld
Akkadian cylinder seal from c. 2300 bce or thereabouts depicting the deities Inanna, Utu, Enki, and Isimud. Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inanna

Surely the most famous story about Inanna is of her descent into the Underworld. According to Wolkstein and Kramer, this myth exemplifies:

“…the path of the descent (which) has impelled the mystic since the beginning of recorded human experience. In many traditional societies, initiatory tribal rites are often characterized by a symbolic descent into and ascent from the labyrinthine Earth Mother.” (page 156).

The same idea is played out in later descent myths, such as that of Demeter and Persephone, and Orpheus. It was also the theme of mystery cult initiations, such as the famous rites of Eleusis.

In the case of Inanna, the myth again resonates with the planet Venus. With its orbit close to the Sun, Venus is sometimes seen in the morning sky and sometimes in the evening. And sometimes it remains below the horizon and is not seen at all. In other words, like Inanna, it journeys from the Great Above to the Great Below, and is at times stationed in the Underworld.

In the Sumerian myth, Inanna decides she must leave all of her Earthly temples to visit the Great Below, the realm of the dead, which is ruled by her older sister, Ereshkigal. Inanna adorns herself with royal garments and symbols of her power. But Ereshkigal has decreed that she must surrender these attributes, one by one, as she passes the seven gates to the Underworld. Inanna arrives stripped of power and Ereshkigal “fastens the eye of death upon her.”

When Inanna does not return after three days, her loyal servant Ninshubur, pleads for the gods of heaven to free her mistress. The first two refuse, but then Enki, the God of Wisdom, fashions two creatures and sends them below to rescue Inanna. So the goddess is reborn and returns to her rightful place in the world above.

Myth to Fiction

In Abby’s latest adventure, A Demon on the Lion Bridge, the myth of Inanna again plays a role.

Abby is working as a law intern in St. Augustine, Florida, when she encounters a demon that has haunted the city since earliest time. This demon feeds on human dread and despair. Abby tries again and again to banish the creature. Each encounter weakens her, until at last she falls into despair. Lost in the spirit realms, thinking she will never escape, she calls out to Inanna for help—just as Ninshubur called out to the gods of heaven.

A single candle glows. The light flickers on walls painted with murals. I’m seated in a heavy chair, like a throne, dressed in a long skirt, fringed shawl, gold jewelry—like the priestesses of Inanna wore in ancient times. But when I try to stand, my arms and legs won’t move. I am chained at the wrists and ankles.

“It appears you are trapped in the Great Below, my priestess. Even as once I was.” Inanna floats in front of a bolted iron door.

“How can I escape from here?”

She pauses a moment, considering. “I shall send spirits to try to free you. That is how I was freed.”

 

As promised by Inanna, certain spirits do come to Abby’s aid. Like Inanna, she is able to return to the world of the living—for a final confrontation with the demon.

To learn how that turns out, read A Demon on the Lion Bridge, available on Amazon. Cover: A Demon on the Lion Bridge (1) See Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth by Diane Wolkstein and Samuel Noah Kramer.(1983)

Praise to the Goddess Athene

Okay, recent events have gotten me—and lots of other people—thinking about women. Their place and condition in society, their empowerment or disempowerment.

Being who I am, these pondering led me to think of the Goddess Athene. Because, in the myths that lie at the roots of Western culture, she is the primary figure of a powerful, independent female, complete within herself.

Bust of Athene (picture credit unknown)
Many Aspects

According to the myths, Athene (or Athena) was not born in the normal sense, but sprang fully grown and armored from the forehead of Zeus. She comes into the world strong and compete in herself from the start.

Athene is a multifaceted goddess. As the armor indicates, she is a fighter. But she is also the patroness of artisans and philosophers.

According to the main article on Wikipedia, she was originally the Aegean goddess of the palace and presided over household crafts and protected the king. Hence the appellation “Pallas Athene.” The article goes on to quote Cratylus, a dialogue by Plato, which traces the roots of Athene’s name to the words for mind, intelligence, and divine intelligence.

In Homer’s Iliad, she is of course a fierce goddess of war and allied to the Greeks. In The Odyssey, she serves as guide (tutelary deity) to the hero, Odysseus.

Athena appearing to Odysseus to reveal the island of Ithaca, by Giuseppe Bottani. Source: WikiCommons

Athene was also the patron deity of Athens. A well-known myth relates how she competed with the sea-god Poseidon for that honor. While Poseidon gifted the Athenians with the first horse, Athene won the contest by presenting them with the first domesticated olive tree. (To the ancients, this gift represented not only olives, but oil and hence light for their lamps.)

Things you might not know

A few lesser-known facts about Athene:

  1. You can visit her temple right here in the USA! Nashville, Tennessee has an exact replica of the Parthenon, including a copy of her statue from ancient times
The Parthenon in Nashville, TN
The Parthenon in Nashville. Source https://www.trolleytours.com/nashville/parthenon
Athena Statue in the Parthenon
statue By Photograph by Dean Dixon, Sculpture by Alan LeQuire – Dean Dixon, FAL, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15363521

2. The asteroid (or minor planet) Pallas is named for her. First discovered in 1779, Pallas is one of the largest asteroids in the solar system. It is also notable because of its highly eccentric orbit, inclined nearly 35% from the plane of the asteroid belt. (Athene goes her own way, folks.)

3. As Goddess of Wisdom, she is associated with both owls and snakes.

Stela of Athene feeding a snake
Stela of Athene feeding a snake. Currently hanging on my backyard gate. Photo by Jack Massa

4. As noted in Wikipedia,  in contemporary Wicca, Athena is venerated as one aspect of the Great Goddess. Some Wiccans believe that she may bestow the “Owl Gift” (the ability to write and communicate clearly) upon her worshippers.

(Always, I pursue the Owl Gift.)

In Conjurer of Rhodes

I was inspired to write about Athene in the Conjurer of Rhodes series, In both The Lights of Alexandria and The Treasure of the Sun God, she appears as a guide to the protagonist, Korax, inspiring him to heroism and service.

At one point, she counsels him to leave Egypt and return to his home island…

“Go home to Rhodos. Your father still lives, and he needs you. More, your city needs you. When you were struck down, and Anticleia sacrificed her life, it began a chain of events that has brought misfortune to Rhodes. In the old times, priests would have recognized the omens. They would have known that the city was polluted by an undiscovered crime. They would have said the Furies were wreaking vengeance, until atonement was made.” The goddess leaned her head with irony. “Unfortunately, these days there are few with the vision to read the signs, and most people wouldn’t believe them anyway. But I am the protector of free cities. And free cities will not perish so long as they have citizens of wisdom and valor.”

To which I can only say, “So may it be!”

Poem

Here is a praise poem I wrote for Athene some time back…

Athene
Let us now praise glorious Athene
Paradoxical granddaughter of Time
Placid in counsel, fearsome in war
Teacher of reason, patroness of rhyme.

Virgin complete in her Goddess body
She loves philosophers and heroes best
Showed Socrates how to delve for causes
Guided Odysseus home to his rest.

Her house is the paragon of temples
Her gifts are the oil, the lamp and the light
She is the just protector of cities,
The brightness of air, the owl in the night.

********************************************************

A Bridge From Balor, Chapter One

In this post we present the opening chapter of A Bridge from Balor, a historical fantasy set in Medieval Ireland.

A Bridge From Balor Cover
Cover photograph courtesy of SandiePhotos www.sandiephotos.com.

Ireland, 1305. Six are called: warrior, druid, healer, scholar, harper, witch. Summoned in a dream on the Eve of May, they are charged by the Earth itself to thwart an invasion from another realm.

Chapter 1 – A May Day Dream

On the Eve of Beltaine, the First of May, the young Lord Farrel dreamed a vivid and peculiar dream.

Transported to a grassy hilltop near the boundary of his lands, he found himself wandering among massive, tumbled stones—the ruins of an ancient ring fort. An old, slender moon glided low in the east. Rolls of mist, glistening in the moonlight, floated about the hill and over the plains below. The countryside, green and lush with Spring, shimmered with a ghostly, emerald glow.

Farrel shuddered at a disturbing sense of the uncanny: he knew he was dreaming, yet the dream felt undeniably real. Ring forts and other such ruins were known to be the haunts of faeries. Sensible folk shunned such places—especially at night.

A murmur of voices reached Farrel from higher up the hill. Just then a bank of mist parted and he saw a man and woman standing together before a crumbled gray wall. The man, dressed in long robes of gold and white, pointed a crooked wand at Farrel.

“Come forward and join us,” he called.

Instinctively, the young chieftain glanced down to see if he was armed. But the broad, studded belt over his linen tunic held neither sword nor dagger. Farrel set his jaw and put a slight swagger in his gait as he marched toward the two strangers.

The man looked mortal enough, and seemed about Farrel’s age of twenty. He was tall, perhaps half a head above Farrel’s considerable height, and well-made, though he lacked the Lord of Tronwall’s deepness of chest and wide, brawny shoulders. The stranger’s beard, the same tawny color as his unshorn hair, curled long and full but retained the softness of youth. It looked like yellow down compared to Farrel’s scruffy black beard.

The girl seemed even younger than the man. Trim and fair, she wore the simple skirt, blouse, and bodice of a country maid. A bright plaid kerchief bound her auburn hair.

“Who are you?” Farrel demanded of them both. “How have I come here? Stolen from my bed by faeries, was I?”

“Not quite.” The man gave a wry smile. He gazed at Farrel’s forehead as though reading an invisible scroll there. “You, so I behold, are the young Lord Farrel, Chieftain of Tronwall on the northern coast.”

Farrel gestured broadly to the countryside at his back. “That is part of my lands, as are these hills. Making you my guests, or foes. Which is it?”

“I am no enemy, I assure you,” the young woman answered. “I only arrived a moment ago, and was about to ask this man if he knew how I came to be here.”

“We are all of us here in a dream,” the other said, “a dream we share together, if you can conceive of such a thing. What I know of it, I know in the manner of dreamers. For instance, this lovely green-eyed girl is Glenna, a maid of Tirawley and apprentice to the healing woman of Nephinwood. As for me, I speak my true name only to trusted friends. Yet such, I feel certain, you both must be—or become. I am Valin, initiate of the Oak Priests.”

“A druid then.” Farrel’s voice took on a calmer tone.

From earliest times the druids had been the magicians, priests, and law-givers of his race. Even in this Christian age, the Old Ways had a following, especially in the wild places of forest and upland. A druid was a man of mystery and power, respected by all save the most arrogant churchmen and lords.

“Why have we been brought here, druid?” Farrel asked.

“No doubt we will learn that in time,” Valin said. “But I sense our circle is not yet complete. Look, another joins us.”

With his short wooden wand he gestured down the hill, to where a maiden was stepping among the fallen stones. She wore a gown of white linen, loose and frayed. A girdle of new flowers circled her waist, and a similar wreath of blooms crowned her abundant, gold-red hair. Gazing up at the three dreamers, she gave a wild, gleeful smile. She came toward them barefoot, treading lightly.

“I have dreamed this dream before,” she said. “But always before I dreamed alone. This time we dream together, do we not? For I feel each of you is truly here with me: Valin, Glenna, Farrel, most brave and true.”

Speaking their names, she touched each on the arm, touching Farrel last and allowing her fingers to trace over his hand. She stared at him with mad, enchanting eyes.

Farrel stared back, utterly captivated. A moment passed before he collected himself and gruffly cleared his throat.

“Young woman, you seem to know more of this than we do. Perhaps you can tell us the reason we are here.”

The girl shrugged, looking about. “My dream never went past our meeting. But is not our meeting enough on such a glorious night?”

“You are Kerrawyn,” Valin intoned, “daughter of a mortal lass and some elf-man she met on Midsummer’s Eve …”

“And never thought to ask his name,” Kerrawyn said, “so beguiled was she by his wild faery charms. Yes, I am Kerrawyn the wood-witch, friend to birds and water-sprites, lover of bright flowers. Is not Spring the sweetest time of year?”

“This Spring is tainted by a threat,” Valin murmured, looking aloft. “Though as yet I cannot discern its shape. Wait, two more arrive—to complete our assembly, I think.”

They followed his gaze to where a young man and woman emerged from the mist, climbing the slope toward them. The man, clean-shaven except for a thin mustache, was of middle stature, slim and angular. The girl was only a bit smaller and very pretty, with black hair cut short above her shoulders. Both wore traveling garb, colorful woolen cloaks and soft leathers.

As he approached, the young man scrutinized each of the dreamers, his dark eyes keen beneath a red cockade hat.

“An unlikely conclave, this. And why my sister and I find ourselves here I confess I cannot fathom. You look as if you may have authority here.”

He had addressed the last remark to Valin, staring at the druid with a mixture of irony, confusion, and belligerence.

“I am merely a dreamer like you,” Valin replied. “I perceive that you are Sontoral and Aidan, children of the Lord and Lady of Caer Wold in Wales, now deceased.”

“Aye, our parents are dead seven years,” Sontoral answered. “Murdered by the local Norman tyrant in order to steal our lands. But how do you know who we are?”

“He sees with the druid’s sight,” Farrel answered.

Valin continued, addressing Sontoral: “Further, I learn you are a harper of the ancient school. And though only a journeyman, already your name carries some fame, owing to certain satires against the English and their king. While your sister, despite her youth, is an accomplished scribe and scholar, a preserver of traditional verse and lore.”

“So you know us,” Aidan said, “while we know nothing of you save that you speak the Irish tongue.”

“That is meet, for we stand on Erinn’s soil,” Valin replied, “though your bodies lie asleep across the sea. I am Valin. Here is Glenna, Farrel, Kerrawyn …”

The druid paused, brow wrinkled, as though he listened to some internal voice. “I sense that we six are sharing this dream at the behest of some unknown power … Three women and three men, all born within the same three-year. Druid, warrior, harper, healer, scholar, witch: each of us is needed.”

“Needed for what?” Farrel demanded. “You bewilder us with a tangle of details while claiming ignorance of this central question: Why are we brought here?”

Valin chuckled and scratched his bearded chin with the tip of his wand. “That is the central question,” he agreed. “Let us sit and listen for the answer.”

He sat down on the ground with legs folded. Kerrawyn nodded and followed his example.

“And to what are you listening?” Sontoral asked.

“Inner voices speak with wisdom to the spirit,” Valin replied, “provided one has the wisdom to listen.”

Glenna glanced around at the others, shrugged and sat down beside the druid. Farrel waited a moment more, then flopped himself down as well.

“A stranger dream than this was never dreamed,” he grumbled.

“Shhh,” Valin held up a hand, eyes shut, a look of keen attention on his face.

Only Aidan and Sontoral remained standing, wearing grim and baffled expressions.

Presently, Valin rose to his feet. “The dream will provide our answer,” he said. “Look there!”

He pointed his wand into the mist, which immediately retreated, rolling back from the hilltop. In moments the whole countryside in that direction lay uncovered, flat marshland stretched beneath the moon and stars.

From the center of the marsh, faintly visible against the sky, rose an arc of blue light, sweeping up in a tremendous curve until lost in the outer firmament.

The sight filled the dreamers with a feeling of awe and foreboding. For several moments, none of them spoke.

“What is it?” Glenna asked finally. “A bridge,” Valin whispered, “a bridge from another world.”

The arc of light grew brighter, till it flashed with dazzling brilliance. Then the vision shifted and the dreamers stood upon the marsh, the bridge of light before them like a huge, gleaming tower.

Gradually, the marshland surrounding the bridge began to change. Reeds and rushes withered and died. The marshwater drifted with oily smears, dead fish and frogs floating on the surface. Trees on the surrounding hillsides rotted and fell. The soil turned ashen, and the very air shimmered with dank, fetid gasses.

Nature spirits, visible to the dreamers’ eyes, rose twisting from their dwelling places in root, stream, and rock, driven out by this foreign power unleashed upon the Earth.

Kerrawyn seemed to share the spirits’ agony. She cried out as if in pain, covered her face and wept. Farrel hesitated, then drew her close and held her against his shoulder. Frail and birdlike, she trembled in his arms. With one hand he caressed her wild hair.

When Farrel looked up again his breath caught in his throat. Creatures were gliding down the bridge and emerging on the marsh. Huge and monstrous they were, with bulky shoulders, sallow hides, and sloping, hairless skulls. Armed with axes and hammers the first group of creatures slogged forward, approaching the dreamers.

Farrel lifted Kerrawyn in his arms, preparing to flee. Sontoral and Glenna recoiled. But the druid held up his arms.

“No need to fear,” he said. “These beings are only images, portents of what might be. They cannot harm us, yet.”

The chieftain of Tronwall was not entirely convinced. But he set the young woman down behind him and stood his ground. Clustered near the druid, the dreamers stared as the fearsome creatures marched to within a few yards of them—and moved on.

As the monsters slouched by Farrel gazed at them with sickening fascination. Though surely no beings of Earth, they yet stirred dim primordial memories that filled him with loathing and hate.

Abruptly the vision altered again. Now the dreamers saw a fleeting succession of images: the creatures stalking through the night, approaching huts and cottages near the marsh, smashing down doors and walls to drag the inhabitants from their beds. Farrel heard the screams of women as they watched their husbands butchered, the wailing of babes lifted from their cribs to be torn apart by fiendish hands. Helpless to stop the appalling vision, he watched many of his clanspeople dragged back to the marsh to be devoured alive.

On that grisly scene the vision mercifully faded. Farrel found himself with the other dreamers, standing on the hilltop once more. Across the lowlands, shrouded in mist, the arc of blue light faintly glowed. Aghast, the dreamers gazed at one another.

“I am ready for this dream to end now,” Sontoral the harper declared.

“What meaning do you read in all this?” Aidan, the harper’s sister, asked the druid.

“A warning of invasion from another realm,” Valin muttered, plainly as shaken as the others. “A prodigious omen, especially outlandish in this age when the Earth is receding from contiguous worlds. Still, if true, it would explain why we are assembled here. Of old, the Earth protected herself by summoning her children to her defense. From this it would follow that we six are called upon to foil the invasion.”

“How can we do so?” Farrel demanded, enraged by what he had seen.

Valin sighed. “That answer I do not have. When I wake I will seclude myself in the forest and try to learn more of this bridge of light. I have many allies who may give me counsel. If I learn that this dream portends a true danger, I will summon each of you, in the waking world.”

“This has been most fascinating,” Sontoral remarked. “But now my sister and I are ready for more ordinary dreams.”

He gripped Aidan’s wrist and started to leave. But she held back, unsure.

“Do you mean you would refuse to help us?” the druid said.

Sontoral frowned and cleared his throat before answering. “I am sorry. But Aidan and I have other schemes to hatch, and flesh-and-blood enemies to fight.”

“What enemies?” Farrel asked.

Sontoral gave a hard smile. “Some things are better not spoken of, even in dreams.”

He tugged Aidan’s arm. But before she could turn away Kerrawyn spoke out in loud and forceful voice.

“Sontoral and Aidan belong to the Society of the Black Glove, a secret band dedicated to driving the English from Wales.”

The Welshman and his sister froze, glowering at the witch. “I suppose an inner voice told you this?” the harper said.

“Friends,” Kerrawyn stared at them earnestly, her eyes still wet with tears. “Your own minds told me this. Sometimes when thoughts are strongly felt—as yours in this are strong as iron—I hear them in my head as clear as voices. You have no enemies here. I spoke only to show you that I understand your duty to your people. Yet I beg you to put that aside for a time, because I feel in my heart how sorely we may need your help.”

Sontoral scowled and looked away. But his sister returned Kerrawyn’s gaze for a long moment, like one enspelled by a glamour. Finally, Aidan shook her head.

“I do not know how to answer. All this is a dream, as we all agree. Yet I cannot escape the feeling that what we have seen portended is real.”

Suddenly the hilltop brightened. The dreamers glanced about, then upward, for it seemed the glaring light shone from above—a blue light like the one that gleamed over the marsh.

“We are discovered,” Valin cried, holding up his wand as if for protection.

With a cringing in his gut, Farrel sensed a presence, a powerful awareness probing his mind. The blue light intensified to a piercing flash that sizzled, then clapped like thunder.

Next moment, the six sleepers in their far-flung bodies awoke.

                                                   ***
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Interview with the Sea God

The Treasure of the Sun God is Book 3 of the Conjurer of Rhodes series. In this novel, our hero Korax has returned to his home island of Rhodes after adventures and misadventures in Egypt and the Greek capital at Alexandria.

Though young, Korax is a skilled magician and student of the Mysteries. He wants only a peaceful life as a citizen of Rhodes and son of a merchant family. But times in Rhodes are hard. Bad weather and piracy have combined to decimate the shipping trade. When the loss of two of his familys’ trading ships threatens catastrophe, Korax decides he must invoke Poseidon, the Lord of the Sea, who is known to be sympathetic to the pirates of Crete …

The modern harbor of Rhodes
Harbor of Modern Rhodes Source : https://www.trekearth.com/gallery/Europe/Greece/South_Aegean/Dodekanisos/Rhodes/photo695497.htm
On the evening of a dark moon, Korax walked alone to the end of the mole. He wore a hooded blue cloak trimmed in silver and carried a wineskin and a ceremonial dagger. On his chest was the amulet Miriam had designed.

In the past month, two more cargos from Rhodos had been stolen by pirates. Worse, word reached the town that the family’s vessel, the Melancarmia, had sunk in a storm off Locri. Korax had decided he must speak with the god of the sea.

Behind him, the last remnant of daylight died over the city. All around him surged the gray, unquiet waters. He climbed onto the parapet wall and pulled the stopper from the wineskin.

Whispering words of offering, he poured the wine onto the rocks below.

Returning to the center of the parapet, he drew his dagger and traced a magic circle in the air, an invisible boundary of protection. Next, he drew the sigil of Poseidon, then of Set, the Egyptian god of the abyss.

He spread out his arms and spoke his summons: “Poseidon, son of Kronos, tamer of horses, earth-shaker, lord of the sea, accept my humble offering in peace and deign to speak with me. Arise from your golden palace beneath the waves and come into my presence, mighty lord.”

He waited. After a time, a gust of wind lifted his cloak. The nocturnal sea surrounded him like an enormous living spirit, a god of old and dreadful power.
Image of Poseidon rising from the sea
Poseidon: Source: https://everyfactever.com/facts-about-poseidon/
“Mortal man of Rhodes, I know you. You have sought to pierce my intentions with your tiny mind. Now you would cajole my will with a meager spilling of wine?”

The voice, compounded of wind and wave, reverberated to the bottom of Korax’s soul, where it roused an instinctual terror. Korax lowered his arms, pressed his feet firmly on the rock.

“Mighty Poseidon, I am in truth but a puny mortal, and have no wish to rouse your enmity. I only ask what I can do, what the men of Rhodes can do, to appease your wrath and secure your protection.”

The wind blew harder, salt stinging his eyes.

“Of old, three sons were born to my father Kronos, the devourer of his children. When we gods overthrew Kronos and chained his body to the pillars of the world, we divided his realm into three. Zeus took the sky, Hades the underworld, and the sea became mine to rule. Earth and Olympus, we agreed to hold in joint and equal dominion. But now on earth and sea alike, men disdain my worship. Those who do offer prayers and sacrifices make empty gestures; the awe and fear have dwindled in their hearts. I will not succor them.”

Korax lifted his chin and answered, “It is true that many men have lost their belief in the old gods. But the seafarers of Rhodes still honor you with all due reverence. I have sailed with them, and I know this to be true.”

“I will not debate my whims and actions with you—I am a god! I will make the waves crash and the storms blow as the urges strike me. So it has always been and will always be. As for the sea-wolves, the men of Crete worship me with fitting veneration. I will not scorn their sacrifices, nor will I help the Rhodians destroy them.”

Now the wind was howling. Back along the mole, Korax could see the spume of waves splashing on the rocks. He saw no further point in trying to placate the sea god. He only wished to end the audience and withdraw himself to safety.

“Mighty Poseidon, tamer of horses, earth-shaker, lord of the sea: I thank you for your presence here at the boundary of your realm. To pay you further homage, I will make worthy sacrifice at your temple.”

He bowed low and stayed down. Gradually the wind died away and the powerful immanence dissipated. Korax rose and quelled his fear with long, deliberate breaths.

The sky was starless. Across the harbor, the braziers and lanterns of the city cast the only feeble light. Korax picked his way warily back along the mole, pressed on both sides by the dark and sinister sea, feeling defeated and utterly alone.


Treasure of the Sun Gode

The Treasure of the Sun God is on sale
the week of December 14th for just 99¢.
 

Or you can check out the earlier books in the series here.

Holding Up the Sky

Lately I’ve been feeling like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. (Yes, I know I’m not the only one.) Thinking of that phrase this morning reminded me of Hecules and how he carried the sky (or some say the world) on his shoulders as part of one of his labors.

Statue of Hercules
Source: https://www.greekmythology.com/Myths/Heroes/Heracles/heracles.html

As you might remember, Hercules (Greek Heracles) was a demi-god, a son of Zeus. In the myth, he murdered his wife and children in a fit of madness. To atone, he was given twelve nearly-impossible tasks to perform. One of the last was to obtain the Golden Apples of the Hesperides. The titan Atlas, who held up the heavens (or some say, the world) was one of the few who knew the location of the sacred garden where the apples could be found. Atlas refused to disclose the location, but offered to fetch the apples himself if Hercules would hold up the sky while he was gone.

Contemplating the story, I wrote this poem some years back…

Hercules with the Sky on His Shoulders

Who’d have thought the sky could be so heavy?
Below it looks so empty, full of light,
Not this altar slab of bloody marble
Pinching the bone at the back of my neck.
I should have thought to fold the lion skin,
Make it a pillow to soften the pain.

The Nemean Lion–there was a foe.
His famous hide no blade or point could pierce.
Lucky I caught him sleeping, belly full.
Still, not many heroes, or even gods,
Could have strangled him, won that prize pelt. But
I was stronger then, not so worn with toil.

So many labors, monsters, wars–For what?
Expiation? How can that be justice
When you can’t even remember the crime?
Only awaking from a drunken sleep
To recognize the slaughtered innocents:
My wife, my babies–No! Don’t think about it.

I might have been a fool to trust that giant;
He seemed a bit too ready to oblige,
As if, almost, he knew I was coming.
Maybe Hera put a plan in his ear:
Offer to fetch the gold apples yourself;
Leave him supporting the sky forever.

Oh, that would be so very like the gods:
Send a man fishing in a leaky boat
Then wonder at his prayers as he’s drowning.
Better luck to try and drain the ocean.
That’s always been my way: tear up the roots,
Topple the whole…Yes, look where it’s brought me.

What would happen if I just let it go,
Slip aside and let the Cosmos collapse?
Would Olympus fall, and Zeus my father–
If he is my father–Would his house fall?
The glorious palace, the smug, bright gods…
If I could only be there to see it.

But would it be so bad to wake a shade
In Hades realm, to slowly fade to nothing?
No more tragedies, no scenes at all,
Just a quiet, merciful dissolving…
No! I can bear this pain much, much longer.
My knees will not buckle; I am resolved.

When the giant returns, although it be
Only to smirk and gloat, I’ll find a way
To make him take back his burden, and then
Carry the apples back to Argolis,
Laugh at the king’s dire disappointment
As I spill them glittering at his feet.

I will finish his trials, every one.
And on the day I’m released, scale the heights
Of Olympus, break down the shining doors,
Storm through the gaggle of horrified gods,
Face Zeus, stare into his uncaring eye,
And demand to know the reason.

Statue of Atlas holding up the world
Atlas holding up the world. Source: Wikipedia

Hope you liked my little poem. And if you’re struggling to hold up your world right now, take heart.

Even demigods must endure hard times.

_____________________

For more stories based on Greek mythology, check out my Conjurer of Rhodes titles.

An Initiation in Alexandria

This post presents an excerpt from The Lights of Alexandria, Book 2 of the Conjurer of Rhodes series. The story takes place in the city of Alexandria in the Third Century BCE. At that time, Alexandria was a crossroads of learning and culture, a cosmopolitan center such as the world had not seen before.

Ancient Alexandria Image
An artist’s impression of the Lighthouse of Alexandria, built c. 300 – c. 280 BCE and one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. (From the computer game Assassin’s Creed Origins) Source https://www.ancient.eu/image/7615/lighthouse-of-alexandria-artists-impression/

Our hero, Korax, is a young Greek from the island of Rhodes. Owing to some careless conjuring, he ended up a slave in Egypt. After two years as a scribe at a temple on the Nile—during which time he gained initiation into the Mysteries—Korax escaped his captivity. Now he has come to Alexandria with the aim of mastering his magical gifts. Using the name Astrametheus, Korax  has applied for membership in a society of scholars and magicians from many lands.

Late one night, they summon him via psychic message…

The mist had cleared from the sky, leaving the moon a golden shield hung on a tapestry of stars. Korax hurried through the dim, deserted streets. He had dressed in a chiton and sandals, wrapped the gray chlamys over his shoulder. He had considered bringing the beaded satchel, but decided not. Instead he had slung on his sword-belt. The streets of Alexandria were patrolled by a watch, but at this late hour, in this part of the town, robbers might be lurking.

As he neared the grounds of the Paneum, he saw that the iron gates stood shut and guarded by two sentries. The men wore black hooded cloaks and carried truncheons.

“Reveal your name and business,” one of the guards ordered.

“I am Astrametheus of Hermopolis. I believe I have been summoned.”

The man nodded. “Surrender your weapon to me.”

Korax removed his sword-belt and handed it to the sentry. The other man pushed the gate open.

Passing inside the wall, Korax was confronted by a figure dressed in a loose white robe and holding a lamp. The person’s face was concealed by a cowl and a mask of hammered gold. From the size and slender shape, Korax guessed it was a woman. She raised a finger to the lips of the mask, commanding him to silence. Then she gestured with the lamp for him to follow.

At first, Korax wondered if his guide might be Miriam. But after a few steps, he concluded not. This person moved with a sinuous confidence, unlike the rather stiff adolescent stride he recalled in the young Jewish woman. Beneath the hem of her robe, small feet appeared, bare on the grass. Korax glimpsed the sparkle of a toe-ring.

They entered the pavilion of Pan and moved through the shadows. Behind the statue of the god, the secret door stood ajar. The guide motioned Korax to enter first. Bent at the waist, he felt his way down the passage. Soon the height increased and he could walk upright. Faint illumination appeared ahead.

The tunnel ended in the great circular chamber at the interior of the stone mound. Moonlight glinted through slanted vents in the distant pinnacle. At the center of the black floor burned a ring of lanterns.

A solemn voice issued from the area of light: “Let the candidate come forward.”

Korax and his guide stepped noiselessly across the chamber. As they approached, he spied perhaps forty persons seated on cushions, each behind a flickering lamp. Twelve of the company sat in an inner circle, the others in a second circle outside the first. All of the figures wore white robes with hoods and gold masks with the same blank, enigmatic expression. A dense cloud of incense floated in the air.

Korax was led to a seat in the center of the concentric circles. His guide repeated her earlier gesture, warning him to silence, then withdrew to take a place at the outer circle. Korax stared at the masks and waited.

For a long time all was quiet.

Korax’s spine grew tense and achy. A tingling crept over the skin of his arms. He took deep breaths to quell his emotion, but the smoky incense made him lightheaded. He could feel the minds behind the blank visages, probing him.

Needles seemed to prickle his nerves. The prickling grew sharper, till tiny worms of flame were crawling all through his body. His limbs trembled. He forced himself to keep still, to stare resolutely.

Abruptly a jolt shuddered through him and the fire vanished. His whole being was enveloped in an aura of peace and relief. A tall person rose from the inner circle. When he spoke, Korax thought he recognized the voice of Krateros.

“My brothers and sisters of the Paths of the Mysteries, this candidate seeks admission to our Society. What is your judgment of his worthiness?”

“He is most worthy,” said a woman’s voice from the outer circle. “He has talent and a brilliant mind.”

“Brilliant yes, but inconstant,” said a deep male voice with an Egyptian accent. “He lacks clarity and depth.”

“He is young,” answered another. “He only needs cultivation.”

“He knows Thoth-Hermes. I sense the god’s influence.”

“Yes, I felt it too. A peculiar paradox: His knowledge is shallow, yet his experience is profound.”

“He is courageous.”

“But also willful and proud.”

“Once he was arrogant, but his soul has been tempered by suffering.”

“He feels the pain of others and knows compassion—rare in one so young.”

“I sense that his spirit is lost. He is not sure what he wants.”

“Surely that is true of us all to some degree.”

“Still, it worries me that his heart is frivolous.”

Knots tightened and re-tightened in Korax’s belly. Their perceptions sliced him apart, he thought, with the cool efficiency of a chef filleting a fish.

“His ability is undeniable, but does he have sufficient dedication?”

“He has promised to serve the gods. That is a worthy ideal.”

“Yes, and he holds to that strongly.”

A hush settled over the enormous chamber. Korax waited nervously, straining to keep still. Finally, the man he believed was Krateros spoke again.

“I thank you all for your assessments. By their tenor, I believe we are agreed to offer this young man membership in our Society. Is there anyone who disagrees?”

Silence.

“So let it be done.”

The masked figures stood all at once. They picked up their lamps and filed after Krateros, who had turned and was pacing across the floor. Korax clambered to his feet, his knees unsteady. His guide appeared beside him and indicated he should follow. They took their place at the rear of the line.

A chant began, rolling in low powerful tones through the long procession. The sound vibrated inside Korax’s head: three lines in some archaic tongue; three more, in another language he did not know; then a third verse in Egyptian:

Light rushes forth
In rays manifesting
From the mind of the One
Beehive Tomb Interior
Interior of an ancient beehive tomb, the inspiration for the fictional interior of the Temple of Pan. Source: https://www.travelblog.org/Photos/9122777

At the edge of the chamber, the procession moved up a curving ramp. It mounted to the first gallery and turned a complete circuit. The chanting never altered as the company filed up the next ramp and around the second gallery.

In all, the magicians ascended seven ramps and circled seven galleries. Each circuit grew shorter, as the walls of the enormous space curved inward toward the summit. At the top of the seventh ramp, Korax followed his guide into a narrow cleft of rock. At one point, the way grew so narrow he had to turn sideways to squeeze through. The chant had ceased, and for an alarming moment he feared he had lost the company. Then he emerged to find his guide awaiting him at the base of a winding stair. They climbed together and walked out onto the roof of the Paneum.

The moon now floated in the west. Stars glinted in the blue vault, seeming to reflect the countless lights of Alexandria that twinkled far below.

The company had formed a single circle within the round parapet. Korax was led to the center, where Krateros, still masked, stood before a plain stone altar. On the stone sat two gold vessels: a bowl full of wine and a platter piled high with cakes.

“Here at the summit of the Temple of Pan,” Krateros said, “we honor and worship all gods and goddesses. Young stranger, known to us as Astrametheus, I bid you welcome.”

“Welcome.” The word echoed around the circle.

The priest lifted the bowl and handed it to Korax.

“I give you wine, the blood of the god who eternally dies and is reborn: Osiris, Adonis, Dionysus. May his sacrifice renew the strength of your blood.”

As Korax tilted the bowl to his lips, the voices repeated the divine names.

“Osiris. Adonis. Dionysus.

Krateros held the gold plate. “I give you bread, the gift of the goddess who eternally sustains all life: Isis, Astarte, Demeter. May the fruits of her body replenish your spirit.”

All in the circle chanted: “Isis. Astarte. Demeter.”

Korax took a morsel and ate it.

Krateros said: “All gods are one. All goddesses are one. All life is one. This is the Mystery of Pan.”

The priest’s hands came up and lifted away his mask. “Now, Astrametheus, it is my privilege to welcome you to our company, the Society of Alexandrian Pan.”

Book cover: The Lights of Alexandria

The Lights of Alexandria, along with the other Conjurer of Rhodes titles, is available on Amazon.

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Magic Systems and the World of Glimnodd

To start off this post with a picture, here is the new cover for Cloak of the Two Winds, Book 1 of the Glimnodd Cycle.

Cloak of the Two Winds New Cover

I’m excited to announce I will be re-releasing this series over the next couple of months AND publishing Book 3, Tournament of Witches.

To mark the occasion, let’s talk about magic systems in fantasy and in the Glimnodd books in particular.

I think a lot about magic in fiction (and also in real life for that matter). For fantasy, I find constructing magic systems to be one of the most interesting points of world-building.

But how do you build a fictional magic system that readers will understand and love?

Brandon Sanderson’s First Law of Magic

For many, a cogent answer to this question begins with author Brandon Sanderson’s famous Three Laws of Magic. As presented by the author in a series of blog posts beginning here, these laws are:

  1. First Law: An author’s ability to solve conflict with magic is DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL to how well the reader understands said magic.
  2. Second Law : Limitations > Power (For story purposes, limitations on the magic are more important than the magic powers.)
  3. Third Law: Expand what you already have before you add something new.

Now, as author Max Florschutz points out in a blog post here , these laws are not so much about creating magic systems as rules for how best to use magic in a story.

Nevertheless, when you invent a magic system as an author, you need to be aware of the First Law in particular. In other words, you have to figure out how to make the magic comprehensible to the reader.

Hard, Soft, and In Between

In his essay on the first law, Sanderson elucidates with examples of different magic systems on a continuum from “soft” to “hard”:

On one side of the continuum, we have books where the magic is included in order to establish a sense of wonder and give the setting a fantastical feel. Books that focus on this use of magic tend to want to indicate that men are a small, small part of the eternal and mystical workings of the universe. This gives the reader a sense of tension as they’re never certain what dangers—or wonders—the characters will encounter. Indeed, the characters themselves never truly know what can happen and what can’t. … I call this a “Soft Magic” system…

Sanderson cites Tolkien as a prime example. In The Lord of the Rings, the rules of the magic are never much explained. By the same token, while magic creates the dangerous situation (the Lord of Mordor and his rings), magic is seldom if ever used to solve the characters’ problems. Frodo and Sam don’t magically teleport to Mordor to drop off the One Ring.

Illustration from Lord of the Rings
Illustration from The Fellowship of the Ring. Source: https://www.theonering.net/torwp/2019/02/13/105874-free-lord-of-the-rings-art-show-in-san-jose-ca/

On the other end of the continuum is “hard magic,” where the working rules are explicitly explained:

The magic itself is a character, and by showing off its laws and rules, the author is able to provide twists, worldbuilding, and characterization.

If the reader understands how the magic works, then you can use the magic (or, rather, the characters using the magic) to solve problems. In this case, it’s not the magic mystically making everything better. Instead, it’s the characters’ wit and experience that solves the problems. Magic becomes another tool—and, like any other tool, its careful application can enhance the character and the plot.

Taken to its extreme, hard magic systems can be like table-top gaming, where specific powers are based on point-systems. Many readers want this kind of hard-and-fast rules-based world, but I personally find hard systems less than appealing. If everything is known, where is the sense of wonder?

Fortunately, as Sanderson points out, most writers choose a middle ground between the hard and soft extremes. He cites the Harry Potter novels as a prime example.

Each of these books outlines various rules, laws, and ideas for the magic of the world. And, in that given book, those laws are rarely violated, and often they are important to the workings of the book’s climax. However, if you look at the setting as a whole, you don’t really ever understand the capabilities of magic.

This strategy allows characters to solve problems with magic while avoiding the trap of the magic becoming a predictable, rote system and thereby losing all the mystery and wonder.

Harry Potter artwork
Artwork for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix DVD, source: https://goldendiscs.ie/products/harry-potter-and-the-order-of-the-phoenix-david-yates-1

Magic in the World of Glimnodd

I am big on mystery and the mystical sense of wonder. Nevertheless, magic is integral to the plot of my fantasy stories. Which means my characters often solve problems with magic. Which means the reader has to have a sense of the limits and the rules. So my stories fall somewhere in the middle of the hard-soft spectrum.

In the Glimnodd Cycle, magic is definitely and consistently a deep aspect of the story lines. On Glimnodd, magic has been around for a long, long time. So much so, that the unrestrained use of magic caused the fabric of reality to fray and the world to change. This brought about a time known as The Age of the World’s Madness, where chaos reigned, new sentient species arose, and one of the three moons flew off into space.

Later, balance was restored. To preserve the balance and vent off excess magical energies, great spells were woven. One causes the seas of Glimnodd to shine with a perpetual light. The second causes magic winds to blow which change the seas to ice or the ice back to soft water.

Icy seas on Glimnodd

There are multiple magical systems mentioned in the stories. In terms of magic used to solve plot problems, there are touches of shamanic magic, alchemy, and ancient evil sorcery (with clearly defined rules in A Mirror Against All Mishap).

But the most detailed magical system is that codified and used by the Witches of Larthang. This is based on five arts.

The Five Revered Arts

The Five Revered Arts of Larthangan Witchery are:

  1. Deep Seeing (wei shen) – The art of perceiving thoughts, images, and events through no physical sense but through the mind alone.
  2. Formulation (jai-dah or “weaving”). The creation of mental constructs that are stored and then released at a chosen moment, through incantation and mental casting.
  3. Trinketing (barang-xing). The fabrication of magical objects. In this art, the witch generates a magical design and binds it to a material object, allowing the power to be unleashed at a later time by herself or another person.
  4. Magical combat (weng lei). In this art, a witch trains with dagger, sword, ritual stances, and fighting techniques. With the force of her mind she can send blades through the air or cast weakness into an opponent’s body.
  5. Pure-shaping (quon-xing). The spontaneous use of mental power to create effects in the world.

In terms of their limitations, all five arts depend on the practiced skill and mental strength of the practitioner (the witch or ‘deepshaper’). In scenes where magic is used to solve problems, there is always a sense of struggle, tension, and doubt.

For further reading …

To learn more about Brandon Sanderson’s work, check out brandonsanderson.com.

You can read his posts on the Three Laws of Magic here:

  1. First Law
  2. Second Law
  3. Third Law

To learn more about the magic of Glimnodd, check out these pages:

Or you can pick up Book 1, Cloak of the Two Winds on Amazon.

Or… Sign up here for our Triskelist Newsletter and receive “Street Sorceress,” a short story that takes place prior to the events of Cloak.

Street Sorceress Cover

Use this link to get the free story.

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The Mystical Themes of Groundhog Day

Happy February!

The start of this month is marked by many holidays and festivities, depending on what mythology you follow or what country and century you happen to live in.

In Canada and the United States, February 2nd is of course Groundhog Day . If that rodent in Pennsylvania comes out of his hole and sees his shadow, then it’s more Winter for you.

Themes of note: Emerging from the Underworld, seeing our shadows, projecting ahead.

Standing Groundhog
Standing Groundhog By Marumari at English Wikipedia – Transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons., CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1779877

Some Christian churches celebrate February 2nd as Candlemas (also known as the Feast of the Presentation of Jesus Christ and the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary.) The holy day is observed by blessing candles for the year ahead.

Themes: New light for the year ahead; purification.

Source: https://rorate-caeli.blogspot.com/2011/12/question-for-our-readers-rorate-masses.html

 

It is believed that the roots of both Groundhog Day and Candlemas go back to earlier times. Way earlier times.

Candlemas has been linked with Lupercalia, a festival of purification held in mid February in ancient Rome.  Lupercalia was also called dies Februatus, after the instruments of purification called februa, which gave February (Februarius) its name. The name Lupercalia, however, likely derives from lupus (wolf) and this suggests association with an even older festival celebrating wild creatures and the worship of nature gods.

Themes: purification, wild nature.

Bronze Wolf's Head
Bronze wolf’s head, 1st century AD. Source; https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lupercalia

 

In Celtic countries, meanwhile, February 1st is celebrated as St. Brighid’s Day, which derives from an older pagan holiday known as Imbolc.  This holiday (located midway between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox) celebrates the return of the sun with the lengthening of days. The name Imbolc may derive either from “ewes’ milk” or “budding.”

Imbolc is strongly associated with St. Brighid, as it was with her earlier incarnation as a Gaelic Goddess of the same name. To quote the Wikipedia article:

“On Imbolc Eve, Brigid was said to visit virtuous households and bless the inhabitants. As Brigid represented the light half of the year, and the power that will bring people from the dark season of winter into spring, her presence was very important at this time of year.”

Brigid’s Crosses, woven of grass or rushes, were hung over the door to welcome the goddess.

Brighids Cross. By Culnacreann – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3500722

Themes: Spring, light returning from the darkness.

Imbolc is also a sacred holiday in some neopagan traditions. The coming of Spring is seen as the awakening of the Earth, the Great Goddess. Like Brigid, she comes bringing the light. Like the groundhog, she emerges from her sleep in the Underworld.

To summarize the many threads, we have traditions associated with light for the year ahead, purification, reawakening, rebirth.

On a personal level, of course, none of these come without struggle. These are all good ideas to contemplate, as we reflect on the year past and envision the year ahead.

With some of this in mind, I wrote this little poem about the holiday a while back.

Brighid’s Day

Bloody footprints mar the snow,
A crust of fragile glass on the river.
But the sun is lamping our way again;
Milk for the lambs is quickening.

She appears every year around this time
From somewhere in the forest.
Some say there’s a cave at the base of the mountain,
But no one’s ever found it.

Her red hair hangs wild from too much sleep,
Her eyes half-shut, her cheeks silver.
But she’s a strong maiden, straight as a pine:
Her white cape lined in green.

Most who glimpse her through the twilight
Whirl and rush away in fear.
But if you stay and bow as she passes,
Your dreams will be more real this year.

************************************

 

Origins of the Frog Monster

As guest author at a book club meeting recently, I was asked about the egregore, a figure in my latest novel Ghosts of Lock Tower. In the story, the egregore is a thought-form, a monster that originates as an internet meme but soon takes on a life of its own.

Ghosts of Lock Tower
Ghosts of Lock Tower is available on Amazon.

As I explained to the book club, as much as possible in my fiction, I like to base magical content on the real thing—that is, magic as it is actually believed in and practiced in our world. I have researched this quite a bit, and both historical and modern occult practices are represented in Lock Tower.

Two Schools of Magic

The protagonist, Abby Renshaw, is an initiate of the Circle of Harmony, a magical order loosely based on the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. Founded in the late 19th Century, the Golden Dawn became a wellspring of modern occultism, and there are still Golden Dawn groups practicing today.

Perhaps the best-known book on the Golden Dawn, by Israel Regardie

During the story Abby encounters another tradition, called “Postmodern Magic,” which is (again, loosely) based on contemporary occult practices grouped under the collective term “Chaos Magic.” As explained in Wikipedia: “Chaos magic has been described as a union of traditional occult techniques and applied postmodernism – particularly a postmodernist skepticism concerning the existence or knowability of objective truth. Chaos magicians subsequently treat belief as a tool, often creating their own idiosyncratic magical systems…”

A character in Lock Tower explains to Abby that he was drawn to Postmodern Magic because it is “free of doctrine and bullshit, a completely scientific search for truth.” Abby finds this appealing, but also worrisome. Postmodern magic lacks the structure and guidance she is used to from the Circle of Harmony. Yet is also offers power that she needs.

The Concept of the Egregore

Two concepts from Chaos Magic that figure prominently in Ghosts of Lock Tower are sigils and the egregore.

We’ll leave sigils for perhaps another time, but (again quoting Wikipedia), “Egregore (also egregor) is an occult concept representing a “thoughtform” or “collective group mind”, an autonomous psychic entity made up of, and influencing, the thoughts of a group of people.”

Source: Supernatural Magazine, Image Source: https://supernaturalmagazine.com/articles/egregore

Notice that an egregore is both made up of the thoughts of a group of people (usually an occult circle) and also influences their thoughts. An independent entity, created by thought, that manifests in the world and affects peoples’ minds – if you spend any time on social media, it is no stretch at all to see how this idea compares to a meme.

The egregore in Ghosts of Lock Tower begins life as a character in an online game. Soon he is adopted as a meme representing collective rage and hate.

But why a frog?

The egregore first appears early in the book. Abby has a nightmare that takes place in a virtual reality game world. She runs in terror through dungeons and corridors filled with dazed and injured young people. Finally:

I enter an upper chamber, like a temple or throne room. Suits of glittering armor stand along the walls. More kids are lined up in a queue, approaching a throne. On the throne sits a huge white frog, with mad angry eyes in its head—and dozens more eyes in its stomach. A girl approaches the throne, and the frog monster opens its mouth. She shrieks as he sucks her in, like sipping cola through a straw.

A frog monster
A Frog Monster similar to the one in the novel. Source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/480266747758596316/

When I drafted that scene, the image of the egregore as a giant white frog spilled readily out of my unconscious. It was only later that I realized a connection. In our own little world there is in fact a meme (or egregore) that started as a harmless online character but transformed into a powerful emblem for hate. You may have heard of Pepe the Frog .

Pepe the Frog from New York Magazine
Pepe the Frog, from an article in New York Magazine. http://nymag.com/intelligencer/2017/04/the-whole-world-is-now-a-message-board.html

The ways of the group mind are vast, deep, and strange, gentle reader. Like Abby, we all must look for principles and guideposts to help us navigate the chaos.

*********************************************

To learn more about Abby’s quest to combine the two forms of magic, check out Ghosts of Lock Tower here .
You can also read more about the frog monster in this (free online) story published by Harbinger Press: “Return of the Egregore.”

All the Sorrows of the World

Content Warning: Magical Philosophy

I’m very happy to report that I am finally nearing the completion of the third of the Abby Renshaw Adventures, which will be titled Ghosts of Lock Tower. This book’s been over a year in the making and was originally planned as a novella. It took on a life of its own, as stories often do.

Bok Tower, a real building in central Florida on which the fictional Lock Tower is based.

This month’s post is inspired by a phrase that appears in the novel. Midway through the story, something terrible happens. Abby, our protagonist, is devastated by horror and grief. She is also racked by guilt. She had a premonition something bad was going to happen, and feels she should have found a way to prevent it, or at least to warn someone.

Kevin, one of her mentors and an initiate of the same magical order as Abby, tells her this:

“You had a vision, Abby. But you didn’t have enough information to act on it. Or the power to stop what happened. I understand how you feel. But there’s a lesson in the Circle of Harmony that says ‘you can’t carry all the sorrows of the world.’ A true magician is prone to see many things. Sometimes that can include terrible evil. You cannot let yourself be crushed by it—not if you want to keep any hope of doing good.”

 

When I wrote that speech, the phrase carry all the sorrows of the world strongly resonated with me. I was dimly aware that it’s source was something I had read years ago, in Israel Regardie’s The Golden Dawn.

As you may know, the Golden Dawn was a magical society of the late 19th and early 20th Centuries. Its members included prominent occultists A.E. Waite, Dion Fortune, and Paul Foster Case, as well as artists, authors, and poets, such as Arthur Conan Doyle and W.B. Yeats. (See this article on Wikipedia for more.)  The Circle of Harmony, the secret magical society in the Abby Renshaw stories, is loosely based on the Golden Dawn.

As revealed by Regardie’s book, initiates in the Golden Dawn advanced through a series of grades. Each advancement was marked by a ritual, in which the candidate was given new knowledge. The system of grades and the paths of advancement had correspondences both to the Qabala and the Tarot.

In some rituals, paths would be shown to the candidate but were not yet “open”—until the candidate had attained a higher grade. This was the case with the particular ritual I remembered. The path in question is named for the Hebrew Letter Mem, and corresponds to the Tarot Card, The Hanged Man. It is a path of sacrifice.

Image of the Hanged Man; By Pamela Coleman Smith – a 1909 card scanned by Holly Voley (http://home.comcast.net/~vilex/) for the public domain, and retrieved from http://www.sacred-texts.com/tarot (see note on that page regarding source of images)., PD-US, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17299698

In this ritual, the candidate is told:

“The Portal of Mem is barred. Yet it is well to be willing for the Sacrifice itself, is as yet, not fully prepared. For in the Path of Mem rules the Hanged Man, the power of the Great Waters. Can your tears prevail against the Tide of the Sea, your might against the waves of the storm, your love against the sorrows of all the world?”

From The Golden Dawn, as revealed by Israel Regardie, Llewellyn Publications, 1990,  page 212).

 

Surely, in the way of poetry, there are many meanings we could unwrap here. To me, an important one is this: No matter how awful the evil we witness in the world (and these days, if your eyes are open at all, you’re witnessing plenty), we must not let it destroy us.

As Kevin tells Abby, we are not required to carry all the sorrows of the world. We are only required to do the good that we can.

I think this quote from the Talmud gives the same message:

Internet meme, source: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/3b/ce/44/3bce445d6f971d4ff592b27cea1f32c0.jpg

At least, that’s how I see it.

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Ghosts of Lock Tower is scheduled for publication Summer of 2019

Meantime, you can check out the first two Abby Renshaw adventures here.