Mooniana: And the Secrets of the Lost Chronicles of Sophia

By Miranda Moondawn

In every epoch and age there are a handful of souls who hear the Earth's voice, hearken to the Muses's song and drink from the font of the Goddess of Wisdom. These are the poets, artists and visionairies of our world: the creative geniuses like Dante, Milton and Blake, whose inspiration and insights have shaped our cultural memory.

Unhappily, with the advent of the modern age the Muses's song has become silent and the font of the Earth's Wisdom has begun to dry up.

To redress this precarious situation, six of the nine Muses have descended from Olympus to take birth upon the Earth. Their purpose is to re-awaken humanity to the inspiration of the great arts and restore the broken links between gods and men. But, the six Muses are not just daughters of Zeus, they are also the daughters of Mnemosyne, the Goddess of Memory, and the granddaughters of Gaia, Mother Earth herself. And when the Muses discover that their mother and Gaia have a totally different agenda for them than their father Zeus, well it is at this point that their loyalties become divided and everything becomes very bloody and messy.

Find out how in this dramatic and spellbinding new novel by Miranda Moondawn "Mooniana and the Secret of the Lost Chronicles of Sophia."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mirador Publishing
• Release date: Feb 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781910530351

Book preview

Mooniana

And the Secret of the

Lost Chronicles of Sophia

By

Miranda Moondawn

First Published by Mirador Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 by Miranda Moondawn

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First edition: 2015

Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflect the reality of any locations involved.

A copy of this work is available though the British Library.

IBSN : 978-1-910530-35-1

An Introductory Note:

Miranda Moondawn is a writer residing in Copenhagen Denmark. Her novel Mooniana and the Secret of the Lost Chronicles of Sophia was first written a number of years ago under the title of The Mnemosyne. The original narrative was written in the novella form as a kind of fabla rasa, concluding with a dream-play performed by the main protagonists, the six daughters of Mother Memory. The original tale drew heavily upon the imagery of Greek and Nordic mythology, early Christian Gnosticism and the performative character of ritual theatre as process of psycho-spiritual transformation.

After it was completed, The Mnemosyne was left to stew for some time and was finally rewritten from 2012-2014. The original characters of the six daughters of Memory were kept and the basic structure of the plot remained intact. However, during the re-writing process the personalities of the main protagonists took control of the plot, and the original fabla-rasa form of the novella was greatly expanded to incorporate deeper psychological studies of the six sisters, along with many important political, cultural and world events from the time and place where the original novel occurred: i.e. Northern Europe and Scandinavia during the ten year period between the first Gulf War in 1991 and the 9-11 attack on the Twin Towers in 2001.

Elements of Hindu lore and iconography have also been added to the Greek, Nordic and Gnostic elements of the original novel. In particular, the ancient lore of Devi-Ma and the Tantric Shakti have been interwoven with the original Gnostic imagery of Sophia, the Greek Goddess of Wisdom and the Mnemosyne, the Mother of the Muses. In this way, the reborn novel, Mooniana and the Secret of the Lost Chronicles of Sophia, functions as a universal saga of the Goddess, bringing together the collective feminine archetypes of both East and West and fusing them in the Rites of Passage of the central female protagonists, who now double as both the six Muses of the Goddess of Memory, as well as the six incarnations of the Maha-Vidyas or Wisdom Goddesses from the Tantric Shakti tradition.

In fact, due to its innovative themes, iconography and complex narrative structure, Miranda’s novel is one which neatly fits into the new cultural and spiritual tendencies slowly emerging in the 21st century and the new millennium. Indeed, while most authors and the publishing industry remain rooted in the stereotypical narrative forms, characters and themes of the 20th century psychological novel, Miranda has taken the plunge to explore archetypal characters, plots and motifs drawn from the animus mundi and the collective group soul of humanity. For those who want to leave the predictable world of Hollywood script novels and enter this new epoch of human Wisdom with Miranda, then this book Mooniana and the Secret of the Lost Chronicles of Sophia is definitely for you.

Miranda Moondawn: Copenhagen, 2015.

"It is I who am you

And it is you who are me

And wherever you are, I am there,

For I am sown in all

And you gather me from every place

Of your desire...

And when it is that you gather me,

It is your own self that you collect."

(The Gnostic Gospel of Eve)

Dedicated to my beloved son Tristan Leo and to Shimba, our cuddly little Bichon Havanese: without whose love and support this work would not have been possible

Book One

Klothos

The Maiden

The One Who Spins the Thread...

Dramatic Personae

Liv and Pia von Sommer – teenage sisters attending Albatross Kostskolen, an alternative boarding school near Lake Vattern Sweden.

Ravn Kirkegaard – comrade of Liv and Pia.

Christiane Wulff – professional harpist from Verona Italy.

Marliz Wulff – Christiane’s sister and filmmaker for Achamoth Productions.

Franz Abel – lecturer at the Department of Indology at Heidelberg University, staunch admirer of Christiane.

Joanne Voegrin – amateur dancer and performer from Copenhagen Denmark.

Pernille Brahmsen – colleague and friend of Joanne.

Carmina Lahkarani – Joanne and Pernille’s former theatre teacher and principal of Albatross Boarding School.

Chandramukhi Mukherjii – music teacher at Albatross.

Paul Vallidin – teacher at the Yoga Nidra School of theatre and spiritual development.

Laerke Wind – professional singer and editor of New Age magazine Freya’s Cauldron.

Pernille Anastasia Kirkegaard – friend of Laerke and leader of feminist communal property Shield Maidens in Bergen Norway.

Kjersti Lo Ariel – friend of Laerke and Pernille.

Franz Wulff – father of Christiane and Marliz Wulff.

Gauri Lakshmi – mother of Christiane and Marliz.

Tara-Bharavi – casteless aghori from Bengal, servant and comrade of Marliz Wulff.

Special Guest Appearances:

IRIS – Goddess of the Rainbow accompanied by her apprentices, the fairies Oberon and Titania.

THE MNEMOSYNE – Mother of the Nine Muses

HERMES – Messenger of the Gods and Patron of Medicine and Alchemy.

HECATE – Queen of the Underworld and the Nix and Goddess of Witchcraft.

HERA – Queen of Heaven and Consort of Zeus.

SHADE OF HYPATIA– Ghost of 5th century female Philosopher from the Library of Alexandria.

ZEUS – The King of Heaven and the Ruler of men and the immortal gods.

SOPHIA – Muse of the Philosophers and the Gnostic Goddess of Wisdom.

VENUS/ASTARTE – Goddess of Love and Fertility.

Lake Vattern Sweden.

May Day 1991.

(I)

The early morning sun cast its golden bow across the snow-covered Swedish pine forest. Liv von Sommer and her sister Pia rode their adopted horse through the solitary avenues which opened up before them. The breeze from Lake Vattern pierced the pine needles and toyed with Liv’s hair, spinning its golden whiteness like silken threads from Heimdal’s bow. Its angel watched Pia with a dumbstruck expression, before it settled on Liv, playing with her, as if she were a naked pearl churned in Freya’s milky cauldron.

The two sisters rode together until they came to a clearing in the forest. They left their horse and spread a blanket out upon the carpet of pine needles. Liv sat herself upon the blanket and crossed her legs. Pia took a carry bag which they had brought with them and emptied its contents on the blanket. There were a dozen or more crystals and stones, moonstone, amethyst, lapis lazuli, rose quartz and turquoise, which spilled out. There was also incense, a bell, a book of poems and incantations, as well as other objects, such as Liv’s flute, which the girls needed to perform a ritual for Mother Earth.

With eyes half closed Liv meditated for several moments on the sunbeams which reflected through the avenues of pine trees. And as Pia lit the incense and consecrated the spirits of the four directions with incense and water, Liv took up her flute and began to play various musical scales upon it.

The flute was a seven holed Indian bansuri flute, crafted from a single hollow shaft of bamboo. Liv and Pia were both students at the nearby boarding school, Albatross Kostskolen. Liv studied music at the school and her music teacher Chandramukhi Mukherjii came from Bengal in India. She had been teaching Liv the bansuri flute for the past year and had informed her that the instrument possessed a three octave range and had been used by Indian musicians all the way back to the time of the Hindu God Krishna.

Krishna was apparently something of a playboy and, when he played his bansuri flute, all the gopi girls immediately abandoned their household duties to come and dance with him in the moonlit forest by a beautiful river called the Yamuna.

As Liv played her flute, Pia invoked the power of the awakening Earth with a haunting poem by the English Romantic poet Percy Shelley:

"Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth,

Thou from whose immortal bosom,

Gods and men and beasts have birth.

Leaf and blade and bud and blossom,

Breathe thine influence most divine."

As she intoned the words, Liv tried to capture the lyrical music of the poetry in her flute. As she played and the tones of her flute drifted up and echoed melodiously in the clearing, Pia contemplated her elder sister’s beauty with rapt attention.

Liv had long golden hair, like fragile sunbeams falling to her waist in shimmering waves and curls. Her lotus petal eyes were blue like a field of cornflowers and her complexion was pinkish white like a magnolia blossom and almost transparent. And when she smiled to you, it was like you were suddenly caught in the hypnotic spell of her sparkling blue eyes and the pretty rows of jasmine flower teeth, peeking out from her rosebud lips.

For Pia, Liv was like all the princesses from every fairy-tale she had ever read rolled into one. And the best part of it for Pia was that even though Liv was a thousand times prettier than she was herself, she was never boastful or conceited about it. The fact that she was not even aware of how beautiful she was probably made Liv even more radiant and irresistible than she otherwise would have been. And only very small minded and envious people could ever be jealous of her.

Pia smiled with profound satisfaction as she recited further:

"Mother of this unfathomable world,

Favour my solemn song,

For I have loved thee ever and thee only,

I have watched thy shadow and the darkness of thy steps,

And my heart has ever gazed on the depth,

Of thy deep mysteries..."

The notes of Liv’s flute continued to follow the rhythm of the poetry. And as they did, Liv felt herself drifting out of her body as she floated irresistibly with them into the wind’s embrace. The wind’s angel had heard Liv’s playing and Pia’s melodious recitations of Shelley’s invocations to Mother Earth.

The wind was pleased with Liv’s flute playing and Pia’s readings of Shelley’s poems and she settled herself for a song of deep meditation. She plucked a red anemone from the awakening spring and placed it lovingly behind Liv’s ear.

Liv placed the flute down, listening intently and taking pen and paper in hand. As a rule, when the wind’s angel gave Liv anemones it meant that she was going to recite poetry to her.

She had begun reciting poems to Liv in the last year or so, around the time their grandmother Sofie von Sommer became very sick and eventually passed away in the previous autumn. Just before their grandma became ill, she and their grandfather Klaus, decided to take them out of the local school in Lund and send them to Albatross – Albatross was an alternative school, where the students did not have to study hard disciplines like math, history or science. Instead, each morning from around nine to twelve they did three hours of creative subjects – theatre, drawing, music, film and poetry. They also did early morning and evening yoga and meditation classes. And after lunch, from one to three, they did a two hour workshop – this was usually related to some sort of esoteric or spiritual discipline, like crystal meditation, Rune lore or Tarot cards.

The rest of the time the students were free to do whatever they liked. And Liv often made use of this time by listening to her angel’s poetry – which she would promptly write down in a little book that she got from her travels in India with her grandparents and always carried with her. On the front of the little book was a picture of Mother Lakshmi sitting on a pink lotus and pouring down a shower of shimmering gold coins...

Not for Love. Not for Life. Not for happiness. The wind’s angel began. In the world we can never find it. But out there Liv, with you as my poet to interpret the rhythm and music of the Earth’s song, together, we can sew our cocoon and emerge with butterfly wings.

That is the truth, she went on. The wind which floats above the earth and the earth which settles with the wind: She is the angel who goes wherever she wishes and plays in freedom, untouched by human pollution and smells, and all the noise of their senseless chatter and laughter.

Liv wrote down everything the wind said and handed the paper to Pia. The wind rattled it jealously as if to snatch it out of Pia’s hand. It’s not finished. Liv said. As Pia read, Liv waited and the wind returned, pressing her red anemone lips against her ear.

It’s never finished Liv, she sang to her. You and I have both slept and dreamed a long unhappy dream. And from it, we are finally waking. And when we wake Liv, all the old gods of earth, wood, water and stone will wake with us... And the Earth will know herself again and will no longer be dressed in the customs and lore of a faceless stranger…

What stranger? Liv asked her angel straight out.

The stranger who has been telling the wrong stories to the wrong people at the wrong place and time…For as long as the Earth can remember... Now it is time for you and I Liv to start telling the right stories. The stories the Earth knows. And the stories her children want to hear her tell… They are stories of Magic Liv... Your stories... My stories... And when the world hears them again... The Old Ways will return…Do you understand Liv???

Liv nodded. She had been looking for those stories ever since she was a small child. Sometimes she got glimpses of them in the fairy-tales grandma Sofie used to tell her and Pia. Otherwise, the stories the world told her, the stories she heard in her old school in Lund, were always the wrong stories – they were stories that always ended unhappily. And you just wanted them to be told over and over again until they ended the way they were meant to end...

Liv smiled and began to write some more – she also wrote her own thoughts because they also fitted in with what the wind was saying. Pia’s eyes were looking all around her. I thought I heard small bells. She said to Liv, tossing her plaited hair in the wind’s face.

She and I are an irregular drum beat in a song that has no awareness of itself. Liv sagaciously informed her sister.

I’m not sure that it makes sense. Pia decided upon reading the wind’s newest poem, I mean if the words make no sense to themselves, how can they make sense to the poet?

Liv was catching butterflies, the wind protested. Pia was strangling them. Can a dream exist without a dreamer? She shouted and spent her anger and frustration in the tops of the pine trees.

Grandma always used to tell us... Before she passed on... Liv instructed Pia. "That you can’t know who you are... As long as you are who you know. You have to find the part of you that you don’t know.. She called it your Kore…It is the deepest and most secret part of you…Deeper even than your own soul... And when you find that part buried deep inside you, then you’ll understand everything in this poem and all the other things that the wind and the Earth are saying."

Thinking fondly of her grandmother Liv began to play her flute again. This time when she played, she could clearly sense the presence of her grandmother in the clearing. She was now no longer old and crippled and bedridden, like when she had last seen her: she was young, vibrant and filled with vitality and life. She had joined in with the song and dance of the wind and the earth, and she was speaking to Liv in a lovely high pitched voice like the tinkling of wind chimes mingled with an infant child’s mischievous gurgles and laughter.

Do know who I am Liv? She asked her. The wise say that they know me but in truth they are far from me, for I am both the ignorance of the wise and the wisdom of the learned. A thousand leaves fall at the same time. And it is I who scatters them and it is I alone who will also gather them. For are these leaves not my own body to scatter and gather as I will? Dearest One... Do you know who I am now?

Liv shook her head. She did not know anything except that the wind, with grandma’s assistance was helping her make much better poetry now before.

I am she who is everywhere loved and adored and everywhere condemned and despised. I am virtue and sin, fame and infamy, ignorance and knowledge, I am she whose song echoes in every heart and whose dance is performed in each moment of life – in every lover’s embrace, in every child’s smile, in every mother’s tears. Yet although I am seen by all, known by all and sought by all - every moment of every hour of every day… Still none seek me, none know me and all neglect and despise me

Liv scribbled the words down on the paper as quickly as she heard them, and Pia read them with increasing interest and amazement. She agreed that this was certainly the best poetry that Liv and her angel had ever made together..,

The enchanting mellifluous voice continued to speak its strange and profound riddles.

I am known by many names by many nations, peoples and tongues. Yet I am she who must remain forever nameless to all. I am she who dwells in all the perfect shapes and forms that she has herself shaped and formed. Both the sculpted form of the world is mine as well as the hand that sculpted it. Like a spider which has spun her web and dwells within it, I enter into my own creation and become inseparable from it. I am therefore both the object of knowledge and the knower, the greater world without you and the little world within you. I am logic and contradiction, and the Wisdom of the foolish and unlearned. And in truth I can only be truly found by the one who does not seek me... For such a one has already found me… Has she not? Surely you must know who I am now Liv von Sommer?

Liv nodded and stopped writing.. She looked over what she had read for a minute or so and then whispered hesitantly and slightly awestruck to Pia. I think that the one speaking this riddle to us is the Earth herself...

Pia agreed. Through grandma and Liv’s angel the Earth herself had been testing them and teasing them with her enigmatic riddles.

The Goddess laughed with joy and delight to hear this reply from Liv and her little sister. And to show her enthusiasm over their cleverness and firm resolve, she and the wind’s angel tossed several pine cones in front of them. Liv laughed and clapped her hands with joy as Pia jumped back astonished. The Goddess then kissed the girls fondly and left the clearing as the wind danced and sang in a circle around Liv and Pia, rejoicing in the return of the Old Ways through the Earth’s chosen poet...

Whoosh da da da…Whoosh da da da!

Pia observed the wind’s maenad dance and studied Liv for several long pensive moments. Finally, she picked up one of the pine cones.

I think these cones were dropped here for a reason. Maybe someone is trying to tell us something. she brooded.

Yes... Liv agreed. She had become totally drunk on the intoxicating madness of the Earth’s spellbinding riddles and the knowledge that grandma’s spirit had returned to them through her angel...

This pine cone is a lot like us. Pia continued to speculate gloomily. First it was on the tree in its right place. Then it was taken away and dropped into a place where it doesn’t know itself anymore.

Liv shrugged. She had closed her eyes and was swaying gently back and forth to the rhythm of the wind’s mad irresistible dance. Liv knew that if she didn’t stop herself now, she would fly right out of her body, and her soul would join the wind in her mad maenad dance.

Whoosh da da da…Whoosh da da da...

From above, Liv could even see Pia, who was now conscientiously putting all the pine cones into a pentacle shape and looking very nostalgic.

I remember Liv, last Christmas, just before we went back to Albatross. Grandma had just passed away and we were collecting the pine cones in the forest near the farm to try and celebrate Yule like we always did. Then we all sat around the big fire in the living room moulding clay-clumps with grandpa, putting the cones and candles around them like grandma taught us. But we couldn’t be happy that Christmas without her could we?

Pia pressed up her mouth and sighed despondently.

You know. Just a moment ago I thought that grandma was really here. And the Earth was talking to us through your angel... But now I am thinking that maybe it was all just a way of telling different lies to ourselves.

Liv suddenly came back to herself when she heard this and the wind’s angel, mortified by the words, immediately stopped dancing.

What is? Liv stared at her sister open mouthed.

Everything... Pia exclaimed pathetically. I mean how is it possible to be so happy and fulfilled one moment and so sad and empty the next? Maybe grandma was here. Maybe she wasn’t. All I know is that grandpa is alone and that we may never go back to our farm in Lund or ever see him again in our lives... Not ever...

Liv nodded, gathering up her poems, the flute and even the pine cones into her carry bag. Putting all Pia’s sad gloomy thoughts to the back of her mind, Liv began walking towards the horse.

Liv decided that she really loved this place more than anywhere else on Earth. She loved Vattern. She loved the forest. She loved all the subjects and workshops at her new school. She loved the early morning and evening Yoga classes which they did at the school every day. And she loved her teachers, especially Chandramukhi Mukherjii, who was just like an elder sister to her, or even better, the mother she never had.

And even though grandma had passed away, she was not gone. In some way or other, she still lived in her memories and in her heart and, best of all she had now come back to her through Liv’s angel of wind and earth... Grandma Sofie had been here with them today and Liv had clearly seen her and heard her. So what was there to be depressed about?

Really.. This has been the most perfect day don’t you think Pia?? she laughed and her pretty jasmine flower teeth smiled at Pia from behind her red rosebud lips.

The moment you think you have things the way you want them. Pia shrugged, trying not to be seduced by Liv’s charismatic charms.. The way they should be. It’s like someone comes from nowhere and spoils everything. Just out of spite you know, ‘cos they’re jealous of your happiness.

Liv leant her head on one side and stared for several long moments at her melancholy sister. For a moment she thought she knew who that someone was, the one who spoilt all the moments of pure joy that the universe wants to give to all her dear children. Then the very next instant the wind playfully kissed her cheeks and took the knowledge of it out of her head completely.

Sometimes the way your mouth moves. she smiled glibly to Pia. It’s just like a swan, pecking at the water for food. It reminds me of those wonderful pictures of the Hindu Goddesses like Lakshmi and Sarasvati. It’s just sooooooo beautiful Pia.

Pia laughed and for the present forgot her woes and the two pearls churned in Freya’s milky cauldron mounted their horse together and returned to their rooms at Albatross.

(II)

Christiane Wulff’s northbound train had taken a detour near the Alps.

The ginger-haired woman in front of her was knitting, like some old crone from a fairy-tale, clickety-click, clickety-clack in time with the train’s melodic drone. Christiane could see that the woman was a witch, a rude messenger of the wise old Norns and that her trained bird eyes were watching her aggressively from behind her rimmed glasses.

There’s a rule for trains. the witch said suddenly, using the train as an excuse to make conversation.

A good efficient train, my dear, is our rule for life. It never leaves the tracks. Never arrives early or late. Never stops at unscheduled destinations. ... I think you know what I’m talking about. Yes?

It’s a safe way to see many strange places from a distance. Christiane replied flatly and turned to the window. There was a panorama of valleys, hills and lakes. Like so many picture post cards.

We all seek a nice safe distance from real life. Christiane stood up and reached for her manicure set. That was safe and close. Lipstick, mascara, nail files, small cosmetic powders and perfumes: Just about all of them made from expensive nature products. Christiane after all was a sensitive. For several moments, she glanced in the compact mirror and casually manicured her nails. Nails were such clever and sensitive things...

Do you like flowers? the crone said suddenly.

Roses? Christine nodded indifferently. It was a stupid question. What woman didn’t like flowers, especially roses?

You’ll get roses soon. Christiane was told. From someone you don’t expect. Roses... Red and pink roses. You will know soon what I am talking about, if you don’t know already.

Christiane put her nail file back in her case. Well surprises could be nice. But they weren’t always safe. And sometimes even the stranger bearing gifts had to be careful of the gifts themselves.

Well, I am a professional harpist... Christiane boasted. So getting roses from my admirers after my concerts is nothing new for me.

Christiane opened her case again and dabbed some Opium perfume on her neck and scarf. The particular brand of perfume was her favourite.

Doves, the woman said suddenly.

Pardon. Christiane frowned impatiently.

The woman put down her knitting and began to stare fixedly at a point a little above the crown of Christiane’s head. She was clearly attempting to read Christiane’s aura. Christiane felt uncomfortable and began to nervously play with the expensive pearl necklace beneath her scarf.

I’m sorry. the witch apologised. I know it’s not polite to do readings without prior permission. But your aura is so open, that even when I’m not concentrating, one picture after another appears in my mind’s eye. Now I see a man. No two men. One has been and the other is soon to come... They are both holding a dove over you. It is a very beautiful dove, its wings are wrapping themselves around you like the embrace of the Goddess Venus…You are a very fortunate lady...

Thank you. I’m quite sure I am... Christiane retorted. She was a wealthy heiress and one of the most celebrated harpists in Europe. It was no news to her that she was a very fortunate lady.

I have a feeling that the first man might be your father. The medium blurted out. Does the name Franz mean anything to you?

Christiane turned slightly pale and began to finger her expensive pearls...

Franz Wulff was the name of my father. She reluctantly admitted.

The ginger haired witch smiled triumphantly.

My name is Iris by the way... she told Christiane. In the old Greek myths, if you remember, she was the Goddess of the Rainbow... I rather like that picture...

Christiane couldn’t believe the old woman’s impertinence. Goddess of the Rainbow indeed! She thought it was time to put her back in her place. Well Iris, My name is Christiane... Christiane Hildegard Wulff. I am 37 years old. I will be 38 this coming November. she stated flatly. I am a very wealthy heiress. I have a house, which I share with my sister – it is a magnificent villa, outside Verona, set on 29 hectares of land and surrounded by a walled courtyard of rose bushes, lavender flowers and magnolia trees. They make up the front garden - and apple, cherry, nectarine trees and olive trees are out the back. The villa is situated beside three large crystal clear lakes. Here, my angel of wind on water dances with my fingers on the strings of my harp, making me one of the most famous harpists in Europe.

Iris was suitably impressed by this description and returned to her knitting. Presently, the witch had another insight.

Your sister... She is a very special lady too… She is not offering you roses however… She is offering you white lilies... She took a deep breath and admitted. I must confess that I am slightly disturbed by this image...

Christiane fingered her pearls anxiously. Everything about her sister was disturbing. And lilies were in keeping with her somewhat morbid and melancholy mood...

Well Marliz is more for lilies than for roses... She replied hesitantly, "She is something of the black sheep of the family. You understand… Our mother, she was a Rajasthani princess before she married our father Franz. So India has always been in our blood. But whereas our mother’s inclinations were always towards orthodox divinities like Lakshmi and Krishna, Marliz was into the unorthodox ones, like Bhadra-Kali and Smashan-Tara... The Dark Goddesses that you sometimes meet in crematoriums of the burning-ghats. Crazy people like the aghoris live there... Not a place I would want to be..."

Iris nodded very thoughtfully. But they are places your sister was interested in?

Unhappily, yes...Christiane admitted. "When I was a child, we travelled to India many times, mostly to Rajasthan and Jaipur to see my mother’s family. But sometimes we went to other places. Marliz and I were always given nurses or serving companions during these trips. When she was fifteen, my parents gave her a Bengali servant – one of those dark-skinned, casteless types. The Indians down South are much darker than their Northern cousins you understand. In any case, the girl was apparently an aghori, one of the followers of the dark Tantric cults of Smashan-Tara and Kali... It was all very strange… And I don’t really know you very well do I? So perhaps we shouldn’t speak too much about it..."

As you like, my dear, Iris encouraged her, But I have been told by many that I have a very sympathetic ear. A trouble shared is a trouble halved.

Well, Christiane admitted, I for one will never know what happened between Marliz and the servant girl. But after a few weeks, the two disappeared with several thousand rupees from my father’s hotel safe. She was gone for months and no matter how hard we searched for her, we came up with nothing. It is easy to disappear in India and because of her colour – she was as dark of face and skin as I am fair – she apparently found it easy to blend in with the native element... Eventually we had to go home without her. My father was totally devastated...

And your mother?

She pretended to be sad... But I knew better… Christiane laughed cynically to herself. She often confided to me that if she hadn’t seen Marliz come out of her womb with her own eyes, as black and ill-omened as Kali herself, she wouldn’t have believed she was her own child...

But she did come back? Iris had quite forgotten about fortune-telling and was totally carried away by all this juicy gossip.

After over two years she came back... The veritable Prodigal Daughter... Christiane replied sarcastically, It was like someone coming back from the dead. And at first we were very happy... But then... Well let’s say we should change the subject and think of happier things. I love Marliz.. Our dear mad Marliz... And she does have a kind of career making avant-garde films for her own company Achamoth Productions... Some time ago she did a wonderful satire on Dante’s Divine Comedy…Only instead of travelling through the Inferno to get to Paradise... The heroine Sophia travels through the Hell of the Ruler Ialdabaoth’s Heaven to get to the paradise of the Goddess Achamoth in the underworld... If you ever see that film it will give you some sort of idea of what peculiar thoughts go on in Marliz’s brain...

Yes, the figure of Ialdabaoth, the Gnostic Ruler is from the Nag Hammadi documents isn’t he?...Iris proudly sported her knowledge, Those texts were quite an archaeological and theological find... Sheds a whole new light on the origins of early Christianity…Do you think there might be a grain of truth in any of it?...

Christiane thought that this was a very peculiar and inappropriate question.

Well, the Gnostic writings are interesting from a feminist standpoint with the archetype of Sophia as spiritual guide and mentor... But all that sacrilegious ranting about the tyranny and hubris of the Creator – it can only be justified if you read the texts as allegories about the despotism of the Church of Peter and Paul. Mad Marliz, unhappily, is inclined to read the texts literally, she added condescendingly.

Iris nodded thoughtfully to herself, but made no reply. Instead she returned again to her knitting, the clickety-clack of the needles breaking the silence in the compartment for some time... Then all of a sudden, she returned to her fortune-telling again, My dear, Christiane, I see something else... Children, many children, blessing you, and giving you roses... They are all gifted and creative, who don’t quite fit into the modern institutions of learning. And if I am not wrong, I believe that you have started schools of your own for them...

Christiane raised her eyebrows and gazed at the woman with awe and deep respect.

Yes... she admitted meekly. I have schools. They are my most important project... Under my direction, the Wulff Foundation sponsors alternative educational facilities for teenagers... I call them Shakti or Life Schools...

And she took a small booklet from her carry bag and gave it to Iris... In it one could read the basic principles underlying her schools.

Under my patronage, she went on, These schools have minimised the information and memory based subjects like history, science, grammar and mathematics. And have instead concentrated instead on creative disciplines like weaving, drama, drawing, painting, film and photography, along with music, dance and poetry...

Iris nodded thoughtfully... She had found something in the pamphlet of interest and told Christiane that she wanted to read it to her. "I like this, Christiane. Listen... The students are encouraged to see the world, at all times, with the openness and curiosity of a child. It is the belief of the Shakti Life Schools that every child has the potential for true creative genius as long as this openness and curiosity for life is maintained. The poet Goethe once said that the artist creates as the small child creates. And the child in turn creates with the same purity as Nature herself creates. Unfortunately these creative traits found in childhood generally disappear in adulthood due to the indoctrination, regimentation and unhealthy competition found in our modern schools... It is no coincidence that all creative and artistic subjects at the conventional schools are more or less abolished during the time of adolescence... Along with Yoga and meditation, which are essential practises for every child approaching the harrowing time of puberty, the Life schools continue to work with the creative and artistic side of the teenagers, thus creating a balanced and holistic sense of individual identity and achievement - one which can last the student the rest of his or her life."

Iris nodded, Dear Lady... What wonderful words…Of course, I am entirely in agreement... Correct me if I’m wrong but wasn’t it Einstein who said... It is a wonder beyond all belief that any free thinker or person of creative genius should ever emerge from our present day institutions of education...

Christiane was very pleased to hear this and thought that the quote might be a suitable motto for her schools. She was just about to speak in further detail on the subject, when Iris interrupted her for the purpose of giving her a bit of critical feedback.

The lesson of creating as both the child and Nature create, she said, Is definitely something you can use in your artistic career...

Christiane was more than a little put out by this bold and unsought for criticism.

I’m sorry Iris but I have no idea what you are talking about... she replied coldly.

Well, forgive me for being presumptuous Christiane...Iris continued undaunted. I know that technically you may be one of the best harpists in Europe... But, alas, Erato the Muse of the Lyre and the Harp has not fully descended upon you yet, or made her permanent abode in your heart. It is from your heart, not your head that the Muse must stream forth into your fingers... My dear lady, but you have no idea of the gifts of genius which await you... And the world, when this wonderful event occurs...

Christiane had a dozen or more replies to this impertinence on the tip of her tongue but for the present, however, none of them could escape her mouth. Instead she simply asked the obvious question.

And when will this great and momentous event occur I wonder?

The ginger headed witch laughed and her eyes sparkled with a strange exuberance when she saw Christiane’s moral suffering. It is occurring now…Christiane... And in the next few weeks, the universe will arrange everything in your life so that you will be ready to become the vessel of your divine Muse...

You mean it will be like an initiation...Christiane frowned, trying to take in what the old woman was telling her.

Yes... Let’s call it that.. Iris replied sardonically. But of course you have to prepare yourself... The universe will give you gifts... But, at the same time, you do have to earn them...

Hmmpphh. Christiane snorted contemptuously. Well if I have to earn them... Then they are not really gifts are they?

You know how the game works, dear lady... Iris replied tersely and returned to her knitting. Christiane watched the rhythmic movements of her old gnarled hands, and the clickety-clack of the knitting needles, and was oddly comforted by it all. She felt like she was in the presence of one of those kind old fairy-godmothers in the fairy-tales.

Try and see without looking… Iris suddenly blurted out. Not look without seeing… Any dunce can do that...

Christiane blushed as red as a sunburnt zebra when Iris said this. But she swallowed her pride and tried to do as the old woman bid her - to see without looking. After a little, she complained that she had no idea what she was meant to be looking for. Iris replied that not knowing what to look for was an integral part of the recipe of seeing without looking. When the time came for her to see the very thing that she wasn’t looking for at all, then she would know that the enterprise had worked and that she was well on the way.

All this was just so bizarre, Christiane decided. And a part of her was totally sure that the crazy old woman was making the whole thing up just to make her look like a complete and utter fool. However, she recalled that before she began her reading, Iris had been looking at a fixed point just a little bit over Christiane’s head. Clearly, she used this technique herself of seeing without directly looking at the object you were trying to see.

Christiane tried this and finally she seemed to get the recipe right, because all of a sudden, she saw the most beautiful glow like a multi-coloured rainbow around Iris’s head and body. The rainbow-like glow danced and played around her for a minute or so and then, as it settled, Christiane saw something even more wonderful: there were two small cherub-faced children sitting to Iris’s left and right. The children were very small, probably no more than five or six years old. They were winged like two small cupids, beautiful beyond imagining and in possession of the most unusual colouring and complexion. One of the winged cherubs had a colouring like dazzling molten gold. The other had a complexion like sparkling quicksilver. Christiane had the feeling that the silver child was a boy and the golden one was a girl, although such gender considerations in this case seemed superfluous: like when we call the Sun male and the Moon female...

Neither of the children showed any emotion in their face when they met Christiane’s gaze. They just stared at her fixedly with a totally serene and neutral expression.

They did this for several minutes and then Christiane heard the loveliest and most musical voice imaginable. To her complete amazement and disbelief, the voice quoted an extract from the Gnostic Gospel of Mary Magdalene – one of Mad Marliz’s favourite texts:

"And Jesus loved Mary more than all the other disciples. And he used to kiss her many times on the mouth."

"And the disciples said to Jesus. Why do you love Mary more than all of us?"

"The Saviour replied, When it is dark, neither a blind person nor one with sight can see. But when the light comes, the person with sight will see the light. But the blind person will remain in darkness."

Christiane was about to ask the children who they were and why they had quoted this obscure apocryphal work to her, when the girl put her finger to her lips, bidding Christiane to keep her peace… She then gestured to her companion, who immediately fluttered up from his seat, and in one swift movement, flew over to Christiane and pressed the pointer finger of his right hand firmly against her forehead – at a point just above the top of the nose bridge.

Christiane immediately felt a strange burning sensation around the area of her pineal gland, as she felt her Third Eye opening. In the iconographical art of India, and in the representation of its deities, such as Durga, the Third Eye is often depicted in a vertical position, unlike the other eyes, which are always horizontal. Observing that Christiane’s Third Eye had appeared and was opening, the boy gently wiggled his finger slowly into it, until its subtle action gradually melted into the bone of her forehead, eventually entering the deepest recesses of her brain.

Christiane immediately experienced a stream of light like countless sun-beams dancing around her Third Eye and Crown Chakras. There, the light streamed downwards into her Heart Chakra and from there spread throughout her entire body in waves and waves of uncontrollable ecstasy and bliss. Christiane’s two eyes turned upwards in her head towards her Third Eye, and she began to laugh giddily to herself and rock gently from side to side with the rhythm of the knitting needles and the train.

Now, how do you feel sweetie... Christiane plainly heard Iris’s voice speaking inside her head. She replied giggling with delight. I feel like a little girl again, a small playful, curious, loving and sensuous little child, who is in love with everything in the universe and who knows that everything in the universe is in love with her!!!

And, in the mood of the playful and curious little girl, Christiane began to play and suck at the ends of her fragrant honey-brown curls, and nibble sensuously on her finger nails and lips, as she mischievously placed one foot on top of the other one.

Nothing could interrupt her ecstasy and bliss, not even the train tooting and stopping at its scheduled destination. Christiane had a vague sense that she had to disembark here. So she took her luggage and having no idea of where she was going, or how she would get there, she began to walk.

You will get roses, the voice informed her again... Yes, roses are nice, Christiane agreed, as she stopped giggling and began to hum dreamily to herself. At first it was a simple and familiar tune. But after a short time, the music in her mind became more and more beautiful and sublime. She found a park bench and sat there listening to the power and majesty of the music playing inside her. She had no idea of where the music was coming from or why it was coming. All she knew was that it was coming to her: the most beautiful harp and lyre music, played with orchestral accompaniment, was streaming down from the universe and bathing her entire body in its bliss and loveliness.

The sublime and unearthly music was a gift to her from her guardian Muse of the Lyre, Erato. As Iris had predicted, and probably arranged, Christiane’s Muse had begun her descent, making the harpist’s earthly tabernacle her special place of co-habitation. Christiane’s life would never ever be the same again. And no matter where she went or what she did, she would hear that haunting and spellbinding harp and lyre music, resonating in her body, mind and soul.

And the very minute that she picked up a harp and started to play, that mesmerizing heavenly music would stream out of her fingers like a cascading waterfall.

(III)

Liv and Pia led the horse towards the school’s stables. Liv was at the horse’s right looking into its eyes which were pinkish in the setting sun. Pia was in front. She swung open the wooden gate and they went inside.

He might belong to the school. Liv told Pia. But he’s ours. Whenever we go on our special journeys together, he’ll come.

Pia gave the horse fresh straw. She was still in her heavy melancholic mood.

You understand. she petted her. You’re a prisoner, same as we are. You get food and bed, but you aren’t free to come and go in that big dangerous world out there. That’s what it means to be tamed.

Liv kissed him goodbye on the nose and Pia bolted the stable door.

Maybe that’s why you talk to the wind. Pia quipped sardonically. It’s just about the only thing people can’t tame or find a prison for.

At least we can think about why we’re here... … Why we’re tamed. And who tamed us. Liv shrugged optimistically. That’s more than our friend here can do. Unhappily he has no language to conceptualize his experiences…And the pictures going on inside him...

Maybe that makes him freer in his own way than we are, Pia suggested…

Liv smiled and was just about to reply to Pia, when from out of the shadows emerged a young boy. Liv had noticed him in Music and one or two of their other classes several times. Unlike traditional schools, Albatross was not divided into grades and age groups so much as into areas of mutual interest. Therefore, it was not unusual for elder children to sometimes find themselves in the same class or workshop as younger ones.

The boy’s name was Ravn. He was around sixteen or seventeen.

Pia was twelve and turning thirteen in the middle of May. Liv was thirteen and turning fourteen in June. She had a feeling that despite Ravn being older, she and Pia were more mature in many important ways.

Ravn was also not very pleasant to look at. He had a long drawn pale face, uncombed mousy coloured hair and large protruding red lips.

They say if you trap a deer, its heart bursts. the boy curved his lips into a cruel smile. Sometimes I feel ashamed that my heart’s not like that.

Pia took Liv’s hand and looked for a moment into the boy’s eyes but, feeling uncomfortable, she began to gaze absentmindedly at his shoes.

Have you been eavesdropping Ravn Kirkegaard? Liv frowned at him.

I didn’t mean to. the boy replied evasively. "But I like to look at the horses as well. But there is a difference between us you know. If we put our minds to it, we can get out of

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