On Writing THE SIXTH KEY

THE FOURTH KEY

The Roman God, Janus, is depicted with two faces staring in opposite directions: one face looking into the past and the other into the future.

The past can tell us a lot about who we are and what we will one day create, or do. That’s why I find it essential to retrace the steps that led me to a new novel and in so doing the fourth key to writing The Sixth Key is closely linked to my love of history and my passion for mysteries.

My love of history began at around age fifteen when I first read Gone With the Wind. I became a lover of historic novels and developed a fascination for history itself. My passion for mysteries was ignited when I saw my first Indiana Jones movie. The idea of lost artefacts, codes, puzzles and unsolved enigmas, excited me so much that I told myself I would one day write thrilling mystery novels based on true history.

Two books later, the protagonist in my historic mystery thriller, The Sixth Key, is Otto Rahn - the living inspiration for Steven Spielberg’s Indiana Jones. Rahn is racing against time to solve numerous puzzles, codes and enigmas to find a lost artefact that actually existed in history and although the book is predominantly set in the late 1930’s, it is interwoven with other historic time-lines.

I guess we never know what influences will work on us strongly enough to become actions. The best we can do is to look back every so often, like the God Janus. We might then better understand the present and even prepare ourselves for the future. In this case – a sequel!

On Writing the SIXTH KEY - The Third Key:

The Third Key to writing The Sixth Key has to do with the fact that some people belong to their time and others do not. What do I mean by this? Like Otto Rahn, my protagonist, I realised at an early age that I didn’t belong to the Australia of the 1970’s but to the America and Europe of the 1930’s and 40’s.

I didn’t fit in at all. While my friends were listening to the soundtrack of Jesus Christ Superstar, or the music of Jimi Hendrix, I was enjoying old recordings of Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole and Billy Holiday.  Skirts were getting shorter, hair was becoming straighter and longer and the shoes were growing chunkier, but I wanted to dress in flowing silk gowns and beautiful stiletto heels like Ginger Rogers, with my hair short and curly, like June Allyson. And when my generation was flocking to movies like Mash or The Godfather, I snubbed my nose at them, preferring to stay at home to watch The Maltese Falcon, Frankenstein or Alfred Hitchock movies on TV. I even recorded them with my little cassette tape recorder, so that I could practice the lines. I was such a dork!

So when the time came to write The Sixth Key, it is not so hard to see why I was drawn to set it primarily in the late 1930’s, with a protagonist who is a mix of all the sensitive male heroes to have ever graced the silver screen, partnered by a heroine who has the moxie of Katherine Hepburn, the intelligence of Lauren Bacall, and the vulnerable, ethereal beauty of Louise Brooks.

I know my parents worried about me in those days, when I wanted to spend half my life in ‘hot rollers’, trying to speak with a husky voice like Greta Garbo. But as you can see, not belonging to your time can sometimes come in handy!

WOMAN WITH THE ALABASTER JAR

  

S

INCE that experience in the field, beneath the shading tree, Mary had carried her mother’s jar with her wherever she went, and it was with her now as she snuck out of the rooming house, and made her way to the residence of Simon the Pharisee.

Months ago, when Mary and her sister heard Lazarus’ retelling of his experience at the Baptism of Jesus, they had felt a sense of destiny, and had begged their brother to take them to Capernaum, to the place where Jesus taught and healed the people.

Mary’s only fear had been, what she might see, hovering over him. But she had not seen anything but light, and love, and life. A life so abundant that she understood instantly, she must offer herself up as his disciple. And yet, she hesitated, for her malady continued to plague her, and the words of the rabbi at Magadala still echoed in her ears, even after all these years.

The courage to go to Jesus had only come this night, when she heard him say these words to those who needed healing:

Come unto me all who are heavy laden, all of you who are burdened and I will give you rest.

She thought of these words now, and warmth entered into her heart as she walked resolutely, clutching that jar made from cool translucent stone, which held her mother’s oil.

It seemed to her appropriate to use this very oil, in just this very jar, to perform the most humbling act which she knew how to perform: to prostrate herself before him, to anoint his feet, and deliver her soul into his care. And it did not matter to her that her Lord was dining at a house that belonged to a well-known and respected Pharisee, among men of wealth and stature, who would make fun of her and call her to account, for her madness. She did not even fear their opinion, nor indeed, did she worry for her family’s shame!

Something beyond these trivial things moved her legs. A sense of the wonder-working-magic of destiny had taken a hold, and it worked deeper than her doubts and fears, to fire up her limbs, and to guide her up the steps, through the antechamber and through an open door that led to the sumptuous and well-appointed dining hall.

The reception room was grandly lit, music played and servants hurried past, backwards and forwards, carrying food and drink to be laid out on the long table. She was dressed simply and could seem like one of them, and so she slipped in unnoticed. She was not prevented from finding Jesus at the table and from going to him where he was seated on a couch.

She saw that he was in deep conversation with the Pharisee Simon and with the other rabbis, who were scattered here and there among the closest Disciples of Christ Jesus. 

Simon said to him, ‘This evening, John’s disciples asked you if you were the awaited one. You said you were not a prophet, for the age of prophets is past, the age of Abraham is past. You said you were something more. What do you say that you are then? John the Baptist would not eat and drink with us, but fasted and lived in the wilderness…you, on the other hand, are here among us, drinking and eating…is this the conduct of a Messiah?’

Magdalena came from behind him to kneel at his feet. She set down the jar and took out the stopper. She bent reverently to pour the oil but paused, for he had begun to speak.

She heard him say, ‘How shall I liken the sons of Abraham? They are like children who sit in the market place, and say to one another: ‘We have played a happy tune, and yet you do not dance to it! We have played a mournful tune, but you have not wept!

‘You expected quite another Elijah, and quite another Christ – you expected a prophet who was one of you, and a king, who will not be among you for his high mightiness! You say that John the Baptist is no prophet, for he will not eat bread nor drink wine with you, and you say the Son of Man, who eats with you and drinks with you, is a gluttonous man, a wine bibber, and therefore, cannot be the Messiah! But your eyes see only outward forms…and so you do not recognise that what lives within John the Baptist makes him the greatest of the sons of Abraham, the greatest of those that are born of a woman. And you do not see that I am not a king, but I that I am the kingdom, for I am not the son of a woman, I am the Son of God!’

At this point, he turned to look at Mary and in that moment the sun and the stars were his eyes! She saw a darkened chamber and moonlight, and she was once more a bride. For she recognised the bridegroom of her dream!

Her heart fluttered with panic, like a bird caught in the confines of a house. And yet, in her heart’s voice, she heard these words,

When a bridegroom knows his bride, this knowing leads to love. So it is with a teacher and a pupil. I love you because I see the light in your heart. See these men, they are learned, but you possess in abundance what they do not have!

Stunned, trembling, her heart asked him, ‘But I am a sinner…I have a curse!’

You see many things, Mary. In the past those who had spirit sight, carried this power in the length and thickness of their hair, now you must let go of this power, if you are to gain a new knowledge through me.’

He had said this in silence, and she felt the warmth of his life entering into her.

‘If you do so, I shall close your eyes to what is troubling you…’

She began to cry and her tears fell over his feet. Hastily, for she did not wish to defile him, she gathered her hair to wipe them away, and realised, that in so doing, she was laying at his feet all of her old treasures. This affected her heart so dearly, that she found herself bending further and touching her lips to his feet in a kiss! And another! In a moment she was pouring her mother’s oil over them, and while the tears continued to flow, she rubbed his skin and anointed his feet with her mother’s very essence, and kissed them again and again, for he was now her comforter and her guide.

This is what I have done for you so that will perform a task for me. One day, before my death, you will anoint me with this oil once more and wipe my feet with your hair. Your soul will be the tower that shall bring the God in my soul closer to the man in my body so that I can accomplish my task - the task of dying. Until then you shall be the flooring of my soul.

She would give up her life, she said to him silently, to do this.

He touched her head with one hand, and a spark flew from it and it was as if it entered into her spine. Of a sudden she was a child again and yet wise also. Rest, warmth, love, goodness had entered her to the marrow, and from the heights of this ecstatic ritual of forgiveness and acceptance, she heard the thoughts of the Pharisee and they pulled her down to earth:

If you are the prophet they say you are, why don't you not know what kind of woman this is that touches you? She is a sinner and she defiles you!

She had heard it, but once again, not with her ears, with her heart-sense.

Taking his eyes from her, Jesus said to Simon the Pharisee, ‘Why do you forsake this woman?’

The man was aghast. Christ Jesus had read his thoughts!

 ‘Answer me this riddle,’ Christ Jesus said to him. ‘There was a certain creditor who had two debtors: the one owed five times more than the other. When they had no money to repay the debt, the creditor forgave them both. Tell me, therefore, which man loved the creditor the most?’

Simon did not need to think on it, for he spoke directly, ‘I suppose it must be the man who was forgiven the most. He will love the most, who owes the most. Much for much…little for little.’

‘Shall I apply your principles to this woman then…?’ he looked down at Mary, ‘See how she kneels! How she washes my feet with her tears and wipes them with the hair on her head. When I entered into your house, you did not give me water for my feet, you did not anoint my head with oil. This woman has anointed my feet and kissed them, while you have not even given me a kiss of welcome. You, who have much, have given me little, yet she, who has little, has given me much. Why does she treat me so well, while you show me not even those polite attentions and tokens of respect that one should offer a guest at a feast? It is because in her heart, she has a light that sees who I am, and that is why she loves me! She does not love me because I forgive her the most. It is her abundant love, the light in her heart, which attracts my forgiveness. The little love you show me is a sign, that you do not know who I am, that is why I forgive you less.’

Then to Mary he said, ‘Magdalena…your love is great, and in the same measure, so are your sins forgiven you…go in peace.’

She gathered up her alabaster jar and left the room. Behind her she could hear a great commotion, for those who were present were saying in their hearts, ‘Who is this sinner who can see what others cannot? How can this Jesus of Nazareth, think himself able to forgive sins, when he is only the son of a Carpenter…he is not even a rabbi?’

Magdalena came out into the night, leaving those words behind as if they were dust on her shoes, and looked about at the trees and the air and the sky. She saw no devils, she heard no whispers. She saw only the light of those pinpointed stars above, and she heard only the nudging of the sky onwards in its rounds. There was a solace in this quiet, in this peace, a solace that she could not describe even to herself!

The chill autumn air touched her skin only lightly, as she walked back to where she was staying with her brother Lazarus and her sister Martha.

For within her, radiated a warmth that was like a midday sun.

INCE that experience in the field, beneath the shading tree, Mary had carried her mother’s jar with her wherever she went, and it was with her now as she snuck out of the rooming house, and made her way to the residence of Simon the Pharisee.

Months ago, when Mary and her sister heard Lazarus’ retelling of his experience at the Baptism of Jesus, they had felt a sense of destiny, and had begged their brother to take them to Capernaum, to the place where Jesus taught and healed the people.

Mary’s only fear had been, what she might see, hovering over him. But she had not seen anything but light, and love, and life. A life so abundant that she understood instantly, she must offer herself up as his disciple. And yet, she hesitated, for her malady continued to plague her, and the words of the rabbi at Magadala still echoed in her ears, even after all these years.

The courage to go to Jesus had only come this night, when she heard him say these words to those who needed healing:

Come unto me all who are heavy laden, all of you who are burdened and I will give you rest.

She thought of these words now, and warmth entered into her heart as she walked resolutely, clutching that jar made from cool translucent stone, which held her mother’s oil.

It seemed to her appropriate to use this very oil, in just this very jar, to perform the most humbling act which she knew how to perform: to prostrate herself before him, to anoint his feet, and deliver her soul into his care. And it did not matter to her that her Lord was dining at a house that belonged to a well-known and respected Pharisee, among men of wealth and stature, who would make fun of her and call her to account, for her madness. She did not even fear their opinion, nor indeed, did she worry for her family’s shame!

Something beyond these trivial things moved her legs. A sense of the wonder-working-magic of destiny had taken a hold, and it worked deeper than her doubts and fears, to fire up her limbs, and to guide her up the steps, through the antechamber and through an open door that led to the sumptuous and well-appointed dining hall.

The reception room was grandly lit, music played and servants hurried past, backwards and forwards, carrying food and drink to be laid out on the long table. She was dressed simply and could seem like one of them, and so she slipped in unnoticed. She was not prevented from finding Jesus at the table and from going to him where he was seated on a couch.

She saw that he was in deep conversation with the Pharisee Simon and with the other rabbis, who were scattered here and there among the closest Disciples of Christ Jesus. 

Simon said to him, ‘This evening, John’s disciples asked you if you were the awaited one. You said you were not a prophet, for the age of prophets is past, the age of Abraham is past. You said you were something more. What do you say that you are then? John the Baptist would not eat and drink with us, but fasted and lived in the wilderness…you, on the other hand, are here among us, drinking and eating…is this the conduct of a Messiah?’

Magdalena came from behind him to kneel at his feet. She set down the jar and took out the stopper. She bent reverently to pour the oil but paused, for he had begun to speak.

She heard him say, ‘How shall I liken the sons of Abraham? They are like children who sit in the market place, and say to one another: ‘We have played a happy tune, and yet you do not dance to it! We have played a mournful tune, but you have not wept!

‘You expected quite another Elijah, and quite another Christ – you expected a prophet who was one of you, and a king, who will not be among you for his high mightiness! You say that John the Baptist is no prophet, for he will not eat bread nor drink wine with you, and you say the Son of Man, who eats with you and drinks with you, is a gluttonous man, a wine bibber, and therefore, cannot be the Messiah! But your eyes see only outward forms…and so you do not recognise that what lives within John the Baptist makes him the greatest of the sons of Abraham, the greatest of those that are born of a woman. And you do not see that I am not a king, but I that I am the kingdom, for I am not the son of a woman, I am the Son of God!’

At this point, he turned to look at Mary and in that moment the sun and the stars were his eyes! She saw a darkened chamber and moonlight, and she was once more a bride. For she recognised the bridegroom of her dream!

Her heart fluttered with panic, like a bird caught in the confines of a house. And yet, in her heart’s voice, she heard these words,

When a bridegroom knows his bride, this knowing leads to love. So it is with a teacher and a pupil. I love you because I see the light in your heart. See these men, they are learned, but you possess in abundance what they do not have!

Stunned, trembling, her heart asked him, ‘But I am a sinner…I have a curse!’

You see many things, Mary. In the past those who had spirit sight, carried this power in the length and thickness of their hair, now you must let go of this power, if you are to gain a new knowledge through me.’

He had said this in silence, and she felt the warmth of his life entering into her.

‘If you do so, I shall close your eyes to what is troubling you…’

She began to cry and her tears fell over his feet. Hastily, for she did not wish to defile him, she gathered her hair to wipe them away, and realised, that in so doing, she was laying at his feet all of her old treasures. This affected her heart so dearly, that she found herself bending further and touching her lips to his feet in a kiss! And another! In a moment she was pouring her mother’s oil over them, and while the tears continued to flow, she rubbed his skin and anointed his feet with her mother’s very essence, and kissed them again and again, for he was now her comforter and her guide.

This is what I have done for you so that will perform a task for me. One day, before my death, you will anoint me with this oil once more and wipe my feet with your hair. Your clairvoyance will be the tower that shall bring the God in my soul closer to the man in my body so that I can accomplish my task. Until then you shall be the flooring of my soul.

She would give up her life, she said to him silently, to do this.

He touched her head with one hand, and a spark flew from it and it was as if it entered into her spine. Of a sudden she was a child again and yet wise also. Rest, warmth, love, goodness had entered her to the marrow, and from the heights of this ecstatic ritual of forgiveness and acceptance, she heard the thoughts of the Pharisee and they pulled her down to earth:

If you are the prophet they say you are, why don't you not know what kind of woman this is that touches you? She is a sinner and she defiles you!

She had heard it, but once again, not with her ears, with her heart-sense.

Taking his eyes from her, Jesus said to Simon the Pharisee, ‘Why do you forsake this woman?’

The man was aghast. Christ Jesus had read his thoughts!

 ‘Answer me this riddle,’ Christ Jesus said to him. ‘There was a certain creditor who had two debtors: the one owed five times more than the other. When they had no money to repay the debt, the creditor forgave them both. Tell me, therefore, which man loved the creditor the most?’

Simon did not need to think on it, for he spoke directly, ‘I suppose it must be the man who was forgiven the most. He will love the most, who owes the most. Much for much…little for little.’

‘Shall I apply your principles to this woman then…?’ he looked down at Mary, ‘See how she kneels! How she washes my feet with her tears and wipes them with the hair on her head. When I entered into your house, you did not give me water for my feet, you did not anoint my head with oil. This woman has anointed my feet and kissed them, while you have not even given me a kiss of welcome. You, who have much, have given me little, yet she, who has little, has given me much. Why does she treat me so well, while you show me not even those polite attentions and tokens of respect that one should offer a guest at a feast? It is because in her heart, she has a light that sees who I am, and that is why she loves me! She does not love me because I forgive her the most. It is her abundant love, the light in her heart, which attracts my forgiveness. The little love you show me is a sign, that you do not know who I am, that is why I forgive you less.’

Then to Mary he said, ‘Magdalena…your love is great, and in the same measure, so are your sins forgiven you…go in peace.’

She gathered up her alabaster jar and left the room. Behind her she could hear a great commotion, for those who were present were saying in their hearts, ‘Who is this sinner who can see what others cannot? How can this Jesus of Nazareth, think himself able to forgive sins, when he is only the son of a Carpenter…he is not even a rabbi?’

Magdalena came out into the night, leaving those words behind as if they were dust on her shoes, and looked about at the trees and the air and the sky. She saw no devils, she heard no whispers. She saw only the light of those pinpointed stars above, and she heard only the nudging of the sky onwards in its rounds. There was a solace in this quiet, in this peace, a solace that she could not describe even to herself!

The chill autumn air touched her skin only lightly, as she walked back to where she was staying with her brother Lazarus and her sister Martha.

For within her, radiated a warmth that was like a midday sun.

THE FOURTH KEY

The Roman God, Janus, is depicted with two faces staring in opposite directions: one face looking into the past and the other into the future.

The past can tell us a lot about who we are and what we will one day create, or do. That’s why I find it essential to retrace the steps that led me to a new novel and in so doing the fourth key to writing The Sixth Key is closely linked to my love of history and my passion for mysteries.

My love of history began at around age fifteen when I first read Gone With the Wind. I became a lover of historic novels and developed a fascination for history itself. My passion for mysteries was ignited when I saw my first Indiana Jones movie. The idea of lost artefacts, codes, puzzles and unsolved enigmas, excited me so much that I told myself I would one day write thrilling mystery novels based on true history.

Two books later, the protagonist in my historic mystery thriller, The Sixth Key, is Otto Rahn - the living inspiration for Steven Spielberg’s Indiana Jones. Rahn is racing against time to solve numerous puzzles, codes and enigmas to find a lost artefact that actually existed in history and although the book is predominantly set in the late 1930’s, it is interwoven with other historic time-lines.

I guess we never know what influences will work on us strongly enough to become actions. The best we can do is to look back every so often, like the God Janus. We might then better understand the present and even prepare ourselves for the future. In this case – a sequel!

On Writing THE SIXTH KEY

THE SECOND KEY 

I’m often asked how long it takes to write a book and I have to restrain myself from answering: ‘How long is a piece of string?’ 


There is so much more to a book than those hours  a writer sits plying the craft in glorious abandon. But I’m not talking about those nights one can’t sleep because a particular plot line isn’t working, or a character just isn’t developing. I’m talking about the deeper influences that long before one puts pen to paper or finger to key, mould the thoughts and feelings that will one day surface as the epiphany I spoke about in my last blog.

I was born in Brazil where Catholicism mixes easily with magic and the occult. Some of my earliest memories include lying in bed listening to the sounds of the Macumba drums while my grandmother told me stories of the martyred saints; they include hearing whispers about people who attended these magic rituals in order to debunk them but returned forever changed. 


My atheist father was always looking for conspiracies and rejected all religion and superstition with a passion. Conversely, my mother was a religious seeker and exposed me to a cornucopia of faiths. At one stage, I had a mother who was not only sanctioned by the Catholic Church to conduct exorcisms, but who was also, incidentally, a Freemason. Interesting!

As you can expect, this mystical milieu did have an effect on an impressionable child: I was very afraid of churches and anything atavistic for a long time, but it did have the effect of stimulating my curious nature and opening my mind. It is not so hard to see how all of the above would come bubbling out of me when I began to write The Sixth Key: a book about a man who is afraid of churches and is unwittingly drawn in the world of occult conspiracies, corrupt priests, heretics, black magic rituals and secret masonic societies.

As Sherlock Holmes would say, ‘Elementary, dear Watson!’

SIX KEYS TO WRITING - THE SIXTH KEY

THE FIRST KEY

My latest novel The Sixth Key is published and in bookstores and now, as I bask in the warm afterglow of past labours, I find myself turning philosophical. You see, it's my habit to retrace my steps, to search beyond those numerous drafts, sleepless nights, moments of self doubt and, of course, the usual last minute panic, to find the impulse that led to the book: the epiphanic moment – the birth of the idea.

James Joyce was the first to apply this word epiphanic to literature – a moment of insight which briefly illuminates the whole of existence and makes time stand still. For me these moments always come in the middle of life: while I’m on the way to driving my daughter to the mall or when my son is physically moving the house with music - everything is normal one moment, and the next - Eureka!

So what was the epiphanic moment that led to The Sixth Key? It came the morning I had a meeting with my agent and publisher. I was locked in dense Sydney traffic, and all at once the world faded away and three things popped into my head: Hitler, the Grail and the Apocalypse - I had my book!

In reality such a moment is only the tiny peak of an enormous iceberg and the very first key to what lives in an author just waiting to bubble up as an epiphany. As a literary device I will say there were six keys to writing The Sixth Key and in the coming blogs I will explore them with you. Are you ready for an adventure? Bring your rope and your flashlight, because as my protagonist Otto Rahn says, one has to dare to travel to hell if one wants to find heaven – I dare!

AKASHA - excerpt from earlier version of FIFTH GOSPEL - a novel - (ETERNAL GOSPEL)

IN THE BEGINING, in the fine airs of heaven, was written the Eternal Gospel, and the Gospel was with God and the Gospel was God. All things were written therein and without it there was not a thing written that was written. It speaks of the life, the life that is the light of men. This light that shines into darkness and is not understood by men is Christ, the true light, which enlightens every man. Christ came into the world and Christ is the Gospel and the Gospel was made by Him. But the world has understood it not.

I am the Akasha, the ancient breath of the spirit. Upon my airs is written the Gospel. I am the guardian of beginnings and endings; the possessor of the eternal knowledges and intelligences; keeper of hidden things. In future times, when wisdom has ripened in the soul, what I embody shall be seen and heard and known by every human heart. Now I give it only to those who are mine, and I will make them who see and and hear it to swear an oath, by heaven and earth and fire and water and the seven rulers of the substances and the creating spirit in them, that they will guard these things, for wrath will come to each one who violates it.

  It begins before the remote first making when the purest essence was lifted out from Adam and the purest essence was lifted out from Eve and taken to the sun to be tended and nurtured and loved. Inwardly luminous, morally chaste, unmixed with knowledge and worldliness and untouched by sin, this dual life creation, waited. Now did the sun gods know the earthly Eve and she begat Cain. The moon god, the Lord Jehova breathed life into the earthly Adam and separated him from Eve and man and woman created he them.

Thus was Paradise.

But Eve desired more than this eternal bliss. She was inquisitive, she sought a wisdom that was promised only by Lucifer and fell into his waiting arms. Adam who loved her followed and Lucifer opened both their earthly eyes to the world made by wisdom’s working…and at the same time passed a veil over their spirit eyes. 

Thus was the down-fall of man and woman.

On earth now Adam knew Eve and Eve through wisdom begat Abel and from that time onwards, Cain and Abel, sun and moon, fire and water, knowledge and wisdom, king and priest walked the earth, side by side.

Generations passed and the light of the spirit, which yet shone beyond the veil of darkness, grew dim. Forgotten were the fathers in the heavens, deserted were, therefore, the great sanctuaries of the mysteries in India and Persia in Memphis, Delphi and Eleusis, their altars lay broken and forsaken for the priests of the ancient oracles were no longer able to evoke the forms of the true gods.

Darkness of night held sway.

Selfishness ran free.

But the spirit light of the world was descending.

The mystics dreamt of a saviour.

In Egypt and Israel prophets foretold His coming.

In Chaldea astrologers began to calculate His arrival.

In Greece Sibyls, drunk on sulphurous fumes, swayed and danced to the portents of the last age.

Those who still remembered the echoes and the shadows of former days drew together in austere circles and waited with hope for the plague of deafness and lifelessness ravaging the earth to end.

What had long ago been taken from Eve-Adam and kept from the fall was male and female and the male formed a body garment for the coming God while the female part, descended to earth to prepare a womb for his birth.  

The world held a breath.

The task fell on the people of Abraham, those chosen by God to prepare this perfected body, the vessel for the Messiah.

When fourteen generations had passed, a king called David had two sons: to his first-born son Solomon, he gave the Kingdom; to his second son Nathan, he gave the Priesthood. And so those who yet possessed spirit sight presaged the birth of two children. The first child would be a wise, old soul, destined to enter into the womb of the oldest woman, Eve, from the lineage of Solomon. This child would be born first and would be known as the King of Kings. The second child would be a young soul untouched by sin, preserved from the fall and destined to enter into the womb of the youngest woman, a heavenly Eve, from the lineage of Nathan. This child would be called the Priest of Priests.

Because both children were destined to be the salvation of their people, they would be called Jesus; their fathers who would be lifted up by God would be named Joseph and their mothers, who were set to suffer a harsh fate, would be known as Mariam or Mary, according to the law - she who will suffer bitterness.  

Through the centuries successions of old Magi noted the skies with dreamy eyes, looking for the sign that would herald the birth of the Kingly child - a great conjunction of planets in the constellation of Pisces – an effulgent star.

In the depths of their souls generations of young Shepherds dreamt of the birth of a Priest, whose coming would be announced by the great choirs of heaven intoning melodies that would set a seal upon their souls in the image of a lamb.

At the turning point in time the Akasha, the imperishable substance upon which all things are written, spoke out from the heavens and into the heads and hearts of men. It rang out this word:

Awaken!