The South Will Rise Again, Part 2: High Priest

By Richard Peter Spartacus

The South Will Rise Again is the fully autobiographical books that were written first: The first part of any sound healing process is to deal with your own business.

High Priest concerns itself first and foremost with the Egyptian anchor of the project - and with the past life of the author as Merire, the fanatical High Priest of pharaoh Akhenaten who fought to keep the One God revolution of the New Light from dying with the Pharaoh, and who took the few remaining faithful out of Egypt on board the larger migration of Habiru referred to as the Exodus. Known to the desert people of Habiru simply as “the man born of the Nile” (Moses), my exploits in that lifetime were over centuries mixed with the exploits of an ancient Habiru war hero, Moisis, to form the biblical “Robin Hood legend” of “Moses”.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483523514

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About the Cover:

My books are all about heresy and rebellion - names for two sides of one and the same thing: A quest for Freedom - be it freedom from the institutionalised lies and illusions that enslave us by claiming power over our minds or from the physicality of foreign domination.

Indeed, in Pilgrim the lifelong scientist ventures deep into the heresy of spirituality - the idea that there is more to this world than senseless physicality - and High Priest is full of the energy revolving around the heretic pharaoh Akhenaten who tried to tumble the rule of the old gods for the good of his people - all of which amounts to timeless rebellion against the establishment.

It is a rebellion on all fronts at the same time, and not least is it a rebellion against the institutionalised lies and illusions we hide behind, and which shape our views on the world and our behaviour so profoundly. When that form of inappropriate domination falls, the other equally inappropriate form is bound to fall too: Free your mind and next you will free your body and then the world.

For such books I just had to use the ultimate rebel symbol at some point - and what symbol of rebellion against a merciless enemy that seems overwhelmingly superior could possibly be stronger than the rebel flag, the flag of the Confederate States of America?

I am well aware that in the tyranny of institutionalised lies and illusions some would like to associate the Confederate flag with topics like racism and slavery, but I see it very differently and in my hands it is used as a symbol of the quest for ultimate Freedom: Freedom from racism, Freedom from sexism, Freedom from imperialism, Freedom from consumerism - you name it.

Thus, my use of the flag illustrates what I have to say about lies and illusions.

As it is, the 13 Confederate States went into the fledgling USA out of their own free will, and there was absolutely nothing in the resulting constitution signed on the occasion that should prevent them from leaving again at a later point in time, should they wish to do so. There was therefore absolutely no legality to the Yankee aggression against us.

In the absence of any real legality, the Yankees created their own version of legality by declaring it a war a war against slavery - though they truly fought for their right to dominate us. That pseudo-legality is also the story depicted in the history books of today, as it is the winners who write the history - so in winning their war of aggression the Yankees won the right to falsify history.

In those days I lived in the body of a young man who was born in West Virginia some twenty years before the war, and when we were attacked by our previous brothers I did my service to my home, my friends, and my family - and our right to choose for ourselves how our lives should be lived. For that reason I died on a meadow in Virginia in May 1862 - in what qualifies as a minor skirmish as described in Pilgrim.

I swear to God that neither I, nor any of my friends or my family had any slaves we wanted to keep: I was the son of a poor mountain farmer who left home as a teenager to work for the blacksmith in the city, and then in the General Store, where one day I met my Mary - our schoolteacher. When the war broke out we were engaged to be married, but in the resulting turbulence we never got to marry, and one day it was too late for us.

This is the Truth about the American Civil War, for most of us in the South were like me, and when Abraham Lincoln said about the war that it would create a whole new meaning of the concept of freedom, he was certainly very right, unfortunately, for this war was the occasion where the Yankees redefined the concept of freedom into the right of the strong: The right to be ruled by the Yankees if you are not able to fight off their aggressions against you.

In the civil war we got to feel the Yankee boot, but the victory in that war also gave rise to a coming superpower with the self-understanding that it has the right to judge the rest of us, while being immune to judgement itself, and the right to subdue and dominate any other nation or people as long as it can justify it according to home-grown principles of rights - principles essentially saying that since we can beat you up, we are always right. This utterly inappropriate and disrespectful behaviour at the level of the nation was very neatly demonstrated at Guantanamo Bay, in Vietnam, and in the recent leaks from Edward Snowden - just to pick three very obvious examples from a very long list of disgraceful candidates.

Fortunately there are decent Americans too, as recently illustrated when the founder of Facebook wrote to Barack Obama and complained about how the secret services spy on us all, violating our most basic rights of freedom. Hopefully We can Empower such people to turn their aggressive bully of a nation around and onto a more appropriate course as a friend of humanity. Until that happens, the rebel flag symbolises the fight against the third antichrist perfectly characterised at http://www.time-loops.net/nostradamus/FrenchAntiChrist2.htm.

As for the slaves, they were indeed there in the south, but this was the age of industrialisation, so they would soon have been replaced by machines anyway, so there was no reason to slaughter half a million American citizens on the way.

Besides, if slavery was the real issue, Abraham Lincoln would have freed the slaves at the onset of the war. He did no such thing, but waited until the war was already won.

Furthermore, you cannot separate slavery and the racism that was created as an ideology to justify slavery. Thus, if there had been any real contents to the claims by the victorious party, segregation would not have existed in the American society for another hundred years: When the war ended the black Americans were simply transferred into legalised economic bondage, and they did not get their full and equal rights until a hundred years later. At that time they were about the last people of their kind to achieve it, only surpassed by the native populations of Rhodesia and South Africa.

It is even so that after the black Americans fought and died for their country during WWII, quite a few of the returning black war heroes were lynched at their return home - at a rate of one nigger lynched per week. So racism remained rampant in the society long after the ending of the Civil War, and it still lurks in the wings of the American society as illustrated by some high-profile court cases from recent years, and by a certain Nelson Mandela, who ended up on the American list of terror suspects due to his non-violent fight against apartheid in South Africa - a list he was kept on even after he won the Nobel Peace Prize and was elected president of his country...

One could have chosen other examples than the land of the free, the land of equal opportunity for all to illustrate the miserable world we create when we live in the land of lies and illusions - also examples that have little to do with the US, but with the choice of illustration, there was a very obvious and concrete example to go for in this war of words against lies, domination, and hypocrisy, for where was the justification for denying half a nation the right to rule itself and for killing half a million people to prevent it from happening?

Thus, I will end this introduction by giving the word to good old Guns N’ Roses: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HbQLKvfrCAA

Part 1: Let there be Light

A Danish woman, Inger Schiøtt, who died while I was still a young man, once wrote a book called The Golden Sandals (only published in Danish). In that book she chronicles her memories of her life as Meritaten, pharaoh Akhenaten’s eldest daughter. After the death of Inger Schiøtt her heirs have quite fittingly transferred the book rights to the Rosicrucian organisation AMORC, for the Rosicrucians, are one of the heirs to an ancient mystic tradition established in Egypt even before the days of Akhenaten.

Akhenaten brought about a One God revolution that collapsed with his death, but he had a High Priest by the name of Merire, and after Pharaoh’s death it was up to Merire to carry the spark of Light on into the future. To that end he, on the bequest of the Archangel Metatron, took Habiru out of Egypt, so they could become the vessel of transmission. In doing so he became known to this world as Moses. Since I was once Merire, you may say that I was Moses.

From Moses on the transmission has gone through the Essenes, through Yeshua bar Yosef, through the Cathars and the Knights Templar, and into modern day organisations like AMORC.

With this story in mind it may be equally appropriate that AMORC has granted me the rights to use the material from The Golden Sandals as I please, so you will find most of the contents of the original book either here or in my other books, where it has been divided into sections so that the story of Akhetaten is told in this book, whereas the story of the ancient initiations is told in Who Owns God?, and the aftermath, the brief peace we enjoyed in Heliopolis (On, the city of the Sun), is told in Six.

Chapter 1: Childhood

Yeshua said: The man old in days will not hesitate to ask a little child seven days old about the place of life and that person will live. For many of the first will be last and will become a single one.

(Gospel of Thomas, Saying 4)

The first thing I remember quite clearly is the day I turned four. It was a day quite different from any other day. Sakera and his sister Haja had been allowed into the nursery to congratulate me early in the morning. A very shy Sakera had given me a doll he had cut from some nice brown wood. It could move its joints and had real black hair on its head. I thought Sakera might have cut the hair from his own head, for it had a slight curl, just like his hair. The doll made me very happy, but that only made Sakera turn even shyer and he blushed as he scraped the floor with his sandal - but then he quickly added that the dress for the doll was from Haja, and that she had sown it herself - even done the broidery with the little golden ears of corn - and she was only seven, and Sakera was eight.

My nanny Nefthy made a shout of surprise and admiration when she saw the doll, but it was only when she held a small silver mirror to my face - so I could do the comparison - I realised that the doll looked exactly like me - even the dress was identical to one I often wore. Nefthy clapped her hands as she kept saying: You are an artist, Sakera, you are an artist.

I had such a strange feeling I cannot explain, but it was as if a part of me was in the doll - and some of Sakera too - and I liked that feeling.

A little later Haja and my younger sister Ankhen - who was just one, and only recently had learned to walk on her own - started playing, and Sakera and I went out into the garden. The day was still different from any other day, and the garden was not what it used to be. I don’t know if it was because I otherwise always slept at this hour, and never before had been out when the sun began rising.

We took each others hands and walked very carefully - not to awaken the trees, the bushes, and the flowers that were still sleeping - we could hear them breath very deeply. The sky was blue as Lapis-lazuli and so clear that you could look right through it. It came closer and closer - and now it touched the ground. Sakera and I - and all the flowers and the trees - were in it. It flowed into us, it awakened the flowers, and the whole world opened up, letting the sky flow into it. Everything breathed with one breath as it all turned red with the rays of the sun as they sang through the world. Sakera and I had to laugh and laugh - and we had to run and dance. But we did not tell the adults that the sky had been on the ground to wake up the flowers.

The day continued to be different from any other days, and something I had looked very much forward to for a long time was about to happen - I was to start school in the temple. Father walked me there himself. Nefthy had bathed me, and I had been dressed in a simple white garment with no jewellery other than the sign of life, the Ankh, in a string around my neck.

Obviously I had been to the temple many times before, but it too looked different that day - and I held Father’s hand tightly as we went through the big colonnade. Oh, how big and threatening the columns looked - so strict and unapproachable - they must be cold to touch - and up there by the door were the serious adult people I now should be alone with the next many hours. Suddenly I longed for the safe comfort of the nursery - and Ankhen and Nefthy - and I couldn’t possibly understand that I had looked forward to this.

Father had explained to me that when I got to school and learned all sorts of things I could, once I became an adult, become something he called an initiate - something both he and many, many others were. He said that it was like climbing a ladder, and that every step took you closer to God. So I asked if God was sitting on the last rung of the ladder, waiting for us - but Father answered that it was only figurative, that one could not say the things as they are, so he would try to say it in another way. He then said that God is within me and within any other living being in the world. But because God is within us, we can only see Him with our inner eyes. It is as if those eyes are covered with veils, and the initiations meant that with each initiation one of the veils was lifted so one came to see better and better with the inner eyes with each initiation. I could not understand that God could be within me and within everything else at the same time, for I could not. If I played in the garden with my gazelle, I could not at the same time play in the nursery with my dolls, but Father said that with God it was different - and that I would understand when I got older.

But one thing I had understood - that in the temple I should learn to read and write all those strange signs that were painted on the walls. Not only were they funny and beautiful, they also told a lot. I should even learn to write them - and do arithmetic - and hear about all that had happened in Egypt and the whole world before I myself was born - even before my father was born. The best thing was that I should learn to dance like the girls we had so often seen at the celebrations in the temple - and learn to play and sing. Perhaps I would even learn to paint and model.

But there was a thing my father had said to me with great sincerity, and it was that in the temple I should not expect that anyone would take into consideration that I was his daughter. Everybody should be equal here. And I had to obey even the youngest apprentice in the temple. Remember, Merit, he had said, that you should not only pick up what you drop on the ground, but also what others drop.

It seemed like the walk through the temple courtyard would never come to an end - and how I felt like turning around - but then I got to look up on my father, and he looked very lovingly at me. Then he bowed down and lifted me up on his arm as he whispered: Little Merit - now I shall carry you to the door, but then you will have to walk yourself. I will always carry you like this until you can walk the way yourself.

Oh, how safe it was to sit there on his arm, and at the time I did not know how unheard of it was that Pharaoh carried a burden himself - even if it was his own child.

When we reached the door leading into the room that was used as classroom, he put me down on the floor, and gave my hand a little squeeze. Now I wasn’t afraid at all any more - and I was so occupied with the little girls waiting in there that I did not even notice him leaving. I knew some of them already - not least Haja - and I knew that it was her and Sakera’s father that should teach us to read and write the strange pictures called hieroglyphs. Then there was also Min-re. She was daughter of Ramose, the commander of the southern army. She was a couple of years older than me and came a lot in the palace both with her parents, when there was a celebration, and also on her own to play with us. I liked her very much, and she had such a funny way of wrinkling her nose when she laughed.

It was a wonderful time that started that day. Perhaps the best part was the dancing lessons. To begin with it took a long time to learn how to walk and move - how to hold the hands and arms, that sort of a thing. We had pots put on our heads and were told to walk like the servants and the peasant women when they collect water. It was so that we would develop an erect posture.

With time we learned different dances and it was not so much the legs that should be moved, as it was the upper part of the body and the arms. Harps of different sizes were played - and flutes. It was not so much melodies, but more notes that were repeated at particular intervals and put together in different patterns. Each note had its movement and it could be difficult to remember, but it was much of a help that the stone floor we danced on was chequered in black and white stones. It supported the memory.

At that time we had no idea that there was a deeper meaning to the dances - it was only later we learned that. Still, there was something captivating and strangely touching about them. It was as if the notes would lift you up and merge with you. At times you had to cry and at times you had to laugh. One of the dances made me feel like a little bird looking for its young ones. Another one gave me the feeling of being a papyrus with its roots deep in the Nile, gently swaying in the wind while it protected a bird’s nest with its broad inflorescence - and otherwise just is.

Learning to write was also funny. Sakera and Haja’s father, Menes, was a young man with melancholic brown eyes and a soft voice, which always sounded as if he had just been crying. His wife had died when Haja was born, and I always thought that this was the reason why he was so sad. His hands were as soft as the voice, and whatever he did, it seemed as if he Loved to do exactly that. I liked the way he painted the hieroglyphs on the clay tablets - it was as if he shaped every one of them with the greatest care.

I understood how he Loved painting them, for I liked it so much myself. Dipping the papyrus brush in the colour - to form the images so they looked alive - it was wonderful. I just had difficulties understanding why the image of a vulture meant mother and the image of a goose meant son. By contrast it was obvious that a set of legs walking in the direction of the writing - right to left, that is - meant going out, whereas when they walked the other way it meant going home. Likewise I already knew the sign for life (the ankh), for we all carried it one way or another, since life is the same as God. Menes showed me that a plough was the same as my name, Merit, and that it means Love, because the plough prepares the ground to receive the seeds - like Love does.

Then one day my father told me that Menes had said to him that he could see on my hieroglyphs that I ought to start at the art school. He had shown Thotmes, who was the leader of the art school, what I had written and drawn - without saying who had done it - and Thotmes had agreed, commending on what he saw.

I was seven at that time...

The day I started art school there had been a happy event in the palace the previous night: A new little sister had been born - she was number five. It was Father himself who brought us the news in the morning, but he didn’t seem happy to me, and I thought it might be because it was all just girls, and it was bad for mother not to have a son. That was bad for anyone, but particularly bad for a queen. We thought it was good that the little new one looked strong and healthy, though, since Meket, who had been born the year after me, had died just recently. She had been weak since birth and had lived alone with her nanny, so we had not seen a lot of her, but it was still strange and disturbing that she was now dead.

Father had explained to us that no one can die - even if they tried to - for when we believe that people die, they really just live on in another body called Ka, which is invisible for those who are still in their ordinary body. Ka is never weak or ill, as an earthly body can be, and it is a great joy to die, because you then come to live in Ka and in Aten’s Light - until you one day is born again in a new earthly body. The earthly body is like a heavy dress, Father said, and when you are dead you walk on without it - which is easy and beautiful.

Still, I would rather have my sisters here where I could see them, talk to them, and where we could play with each other, and I Loved them so much.

Ankhen had black hair and dark eyes, just like I had, and she would do the strangest things. She had quite a temper. The slightest thing could make her eyes flash, and she would often stomp her feet angrily - afterwards she would regret her bad temper, and then you could have anything from her.

Nefer-Aten was six years younger than me. She was the one looking the most like mother, and she should be happy about that for mother was called the most beautiful woman in all of Egypt. It was because she was so beautiful that she was called Nefer - for that was the first thing Father said when he saw her - Nefer, beautiful. Nefer-Aten’s hair had the same colour as gold which has become very old, and the eyes were blue as the Nile - and she was gentle as my pet gazelle.

That was two wonderful things in one day - first the little sister, and then my first time at the art school with Thotmes.

Sakera had already gone to art school for some years - he was now a big, pretty boy of eleven years, and his face lighted up in a happy smile when he saw me. He was cutting a lion out of ivory. It was about to jump, and there was so much condensed Power in it that you expected it to do so every moment. I thought that if he was allowed to cut this precious material, he had to be very, very good.

Thotmes was a tall, slender man with red hair and slender, strong hands. His eyes were grey and I had always thought that people with grey eyes should have just that colour hair - it looked so nice together. That day he told us about the difference between the old art and the new art, that he and many others whole-heartedly supported, and which was strongly supported by Pharaoh Akhenaten.

He said, among other things: Previously we painted and modelled according to predetermined rules. The individual artist had only very limited leverage. It is therefore very difficult to see any personal touch to any of these pieces of art, and though great skill was applied, it was more a matter of good craftsmanship. There are countries here on earth - on the other side of the great ocean - where it may get so cold that the water in the rivers hardens so adult people can walk on it. The only thing that can turn this water fluid again is heat: As soon as the sun sends its warm rays towards it, it turns living again. It is like that with the art in Egypt - it has hardened into a fixed form, and the only thing that can bring it back to life is warmth. Love in a human mind is the warmth that can liberate the art. It is for that reason I tell my students to Love that which they want to paint or model first of all. Without this Love it is impossible to turn stones and clay alive. You must disregard the way the old did it - break all conventions and let Love for the objects come out alive to shape its own form according to what is natural for it. Not created through external force or conventions, but from its own internal strength - not from without, but from within.

He took Sakera’s ivory lion and lifted it up, so we all could see it, and then he continued: See this little figure - there is no trace of old traditions, but such a harmonic interplay between the lines - such a unification of grace and strength - that it can only have been formed as a result of Sakera’s Love for the animal. The very first raw material you must obtain when you begin a project is Love for it.

I am not even sure Sakera heard what Thotmes said, for when I looked at him, thinking that he would be happy about such praise, I saw that he was only looking at me - it seemed that he had not even noticed that it was his figure, Thotmes had shown to the rest of us. It wasn’t right not to listen to your teacher, but it made me happy anyway - I liked that Sakera looked at me so he forgot to listen.

A little later Thotmes took a box from a shelf and handed us a piece of glass each. The pieces had different colours, and we were to look through them and tell what we saw.

Meran got a piece of yellow glass and he said that when he looked through it the room turned yellow - as if there were no sunshades for the windows and the sun was shining in here.

I had gotten a red piece of glass, and when I looked through the windows all the trees - and every leaf on them - turned red. All the flowers got the same colour - even the white lilies - and the sky too was red as if the sun had just set. That, then, was what I told.

Sakera told that all he saw was blue like the Nile or the sky. We were all seeing different things according to the colour of glass we had been given.

Be aware, Thotmes said, that we all have our own piece of glass in the eye of our mind. It is coloured by the thoughts and feelings in the mind. If you hate the world, the glass turns dark as if it was darkened by smoke, and the whole world turns sad and grey. If you Love the world, the glass takes colour of that too, and that is a colour which will turn everything beautiful and good.

When we were to go home I would rather not have had Nefthy picking me up - it would have been much better to walk home with Sakera. But there she was sitting in her sedan chair in the courtyard, fanning herself energetically, for it was hot that day. The bearers lay curled up on the ground a distance away - seemingly sleeping.

Nefthy jumped up and woke the bearers when she saw us coming. I often wondered how she could move that fast, considering how stout she was. There was no way around it - I had to go sit next to her - but to my great pleasure she leaned over as soon as we got started and pulled Sakera onboard too. Oh - you blessed children she snuffled. I did not understand why she snuffled, for it was such a nice day. We spoke about the new little sister, whom I had not seen yet. Nefthy said that she looked like the little Nefer, and probably would have the same colour hair. Sakera proclaimed with delight: "Oh, the little Nefer-Aten has hair that looks like gold when the sun shines