Temptation - Excerpt from FIFTH GOSPEL - A novel.

TEMPTATION

T

HE man Jesus walked through the crowds on the shore swaying and stumbling, while the God in him saw the world as foreign and unknown, a distortion of faces and loud noises, of heat and sun and overwhelming smells. In the body, the muscles strained, air rushed in and out of the lungs and the heart pounded in the chest while in the mind thoughts flitted past like shadows. How painful it was to cram his mighty power into that mind and that body! A power that could harness nature and cause miracles so that his mere presence would seem to men like a world of marvels a tempest of splendours. It was not his purpose to enrapture and bewilder, to dazzle and astonish, so he directed Jesus into the wilderness in search of a quiet place wherein he could guard the birthing of his new forces.

That is how he came to be in the old cave situated high above the vast mountainous wasteland of Judea. From its lip he could observe the sun falling into the night, and partake for the first time in the splendour of colours that are separate from the self. Above Christ looked to the home of his heart, now distant and detached from him. From beyond those stars he had come, descending downwards aeon after aeon. Men had seen him in their mysteries and had worshipped him in their rituals and given him many names and now he would walk among them – a God extracted, separated out from heaven and born into the body of a man - and how many would recognise him?

His conception on earth was to his Fathers in the heavens, like a death. He was alone. 

He heard a lamentation. He listened. It came not from heaven but from the sleeping souls of the world. They were reaching out to him in their supplication as they had always done. And this reminded him of why he had come: to make this earth his heaven and rescue it from the maws of hell.

Jackals called as the moon made a rise. He had never seen such a moon nor heard such a sound and an intuition drew his attention to the shadows of the night. From them came the vision of a red-winged angel, falling from the sky and landing at the lip of his cave.

It thrust one sad, melancholic eye at him, and said, ‘If it isn’t the favourite come down from his high perch to visit his poor relations!’

‘What are you?’ Christ asked it.

‘Where are your manners, brother? Did no one tell you that this is my kingdom? Come, before you step across my threshold you must first recognise the master of the house!  Bend low before me and our little quarrel shall be forgiven…perhaps I’ll even share some of the riches and power I have gained from this wretched world with you? You have to concede this is more than you did for me!’

A vision came then of Jesus standing before a man who was running from the Devil on his shoulders. This was that Devil, he realised. This was Lucifer, his brother who was cast down from heaven.

‘Lucifer,’ he said to it now. ‘Look into my face! I see you haven’t changed...You think you can lure me with power because this is your weakness, but listen carefully to me…I have not come into this world to rule it, nor have I come to serve you, I have come to serve the rightful gods!’

Lucifer’s gloomy eye turned to white and a shiver passed over his wings. ‘The rightful gods…yes…what do they know of the world? Do they know anything about thirst? Well? Do they know that human thirst is unquenchable? You are a God, you need not thirst for puny human knowledge, when you can be an angel, like me, an angel is wisdom itself! Throw yourself from the lip of this cave and you will see, as the Psalms say, God will give his angels charge of you, and you will be among them, and they will bear you up with their own hands, so that your foot will not even strike one stone!’

But there was something more in the cave with them. From out of the shadowed corners of the cave came a blur of blue wings, desiccated and clawing and the world stirred to make way for it.

Another voice came into his ear:

‘Son of God! Do as your brother says, let us see? Jump! What can happen to you? Fear is something only mortals feel, angels are above such feelings!’  

What was this thing called fear? He felt it now, when he thought of jumping from the cave to that great distance below. He was not an angel. He was now birthed inside a man! If he jumped, Jesus would die and his task would die with him.

‘Listen to me, Lucifer, your arrogance is made weak by your companion who has just pointed out that fear is perfectly right for a mortal man! I am a mortal man and fear has given me wisdom! Again, it is written–do not tempt the Lord thy God, to whom you should surrender yourself!’

Lucifer cried an anguished cry, and flew off towards the moon, defeated. But that crawling malignant thing entered into Jesus now. He could feel its blue wings furl and unfurl inside his soul and he plunged in after it.

‘Son of God!’ the creature breathed. ‘Let me tell you something of hunger. Hunger is a terrible torment for a man; capable of driving even the most pious to sinful acts. But you need not suffer hunger, for you can so easily turn stones to bread merely by saying a word! Say it to impress us!’ 

Christ tasted ashes and felt the thickness of the bones under his skin, and the mind, imprisoned by a skull, found a memory of the leper…this malignant spirit had tempted that poor man and had eaten him alive. This was an archangel, and he was far mightier and more dangerous than Lucifer, his brother.

He knew his name.

He cried out to the ancient creature, ‘Satan, you father of lies! Leave me alone. It is written: man should not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from out of the mouth of God!’

‘That is what they say,’ whispered the creature, ‘those gods who know nothing of men. But men have turned a deaf ear to them, naturally, since they know that the belly must be fed, or the body dies! You see how I love men more than you? When you made life and death a law and left human beings to their own devices I showed them how to turn stones to coins, and coins to bread so that they could live. And so, as there are stupid men and cunning ones, there are also the rich and the poor. One man can feed his hunger while the other cannot, and each trespasses against the other, grasping for the daily bread. If you have come to preach love and eternal life to these animals called men, you might as well go back to that starry home from which you came, Son of God! Brotherly love is impossible while there is death! Over this mystery the will of the heavens cannot rule!’

Christ understood. These backward angels, Lucifer and Satan, had caused human beings to swing like a bell from one extreme to the other. But he had come to show how it was possible to overcome pride and arrogance through wisdom, and death through love. And here in Jesus’ soul he discerned a dual nature, a weaving of wisdom and love so endearing that it worked like a great power of attraction for him and he united his forces with it and became one with Jesus.

He felt a sting, a sudden gnawing in his bowels!

The blue archangel Satan gave a mocking laugh.

‘Now you’ve done it! Feel the tearing of hunger in Jesus? That is why men must live by the rule of the daily bread, and walk side by side with me…the archangel of death!’ The whisper came closer, ‘Listen to me, I am like you, I am stubborn and full of longing, I am eternal…and that is why I can wait. When the time comes, I will return for what is mine!

And he was gone.

Christ Jesus let out a gasp and fell to the earthen floor of the cave. Above him he sensed warmth; the love-radiant thoughts of the stars were making a way into his heart to comfort him.

And so the orphan from heaven closed his eyes then, and slept his first earthly sleep.

Epiphany Part I.

Epiphany Part I

I

T was the fifteenth year of the rule of Tiberias, on a day when Venus stood in Aquarius that John the Baptiser awoke, feeling his muscles and sinews taut, his mind awake and alert and his heart calm.

The sun had popped up out of its desert crib to cast its fiery eye over Israel and to beat upon the brows of men and the backs of beasts. Each day he faced this sun, standing waist deep in that freezing river, observing with an unfaltering eye the whirling tumult of dead thoughts and sins that were discharged into the river from the souls of those whom he baptised. Each day he wondered where the strength would come for his work and each day he was given the forces necessary. But this day something was altered. In himself he felt it, the nearness of the fulfilment of his task, accompanied by a strange bewilderment…since he found himself desiring to forestall it!

In this mood he left his hut of rushes to say his prayers to the God of Israel and to perform his ablutions before taking himself to that little bend in the river near Bethany, situated in the lower Jordan. 

Large crowds came to be baptised and he worked for hours without pause, looking into each soul to determine its measure and value, dividing the lambs from the vipers. Near the midpoint of the day the leaders of these vipers arrived at the river, a deputation of priests and Levites upon asses preceded by a retinue of guards whose swords caught the bold sunlight and reflected their sharp sting into John’s eyes. They pushed aside the crowds to allow the priests to come to shore.

Well…well…his words had moved across the land, so that even the Temple in Jerusalem had heard of him! He was pleased for the sake of his task.

He said to them, ‘The Masters of the ancient wisdom of the snake, the brood of vipers, the initiates of Lucifer, have come!’

One Pharisee said from his high position, ‘We are here on behalf of the Sanhedrin, to ask you some questions.’

‘Questions?’ the baptiser said, looking about with mockery in his eye. ‘If you come asking questions concerning laws that are written in books, you will not find anything here to satisfy you. I do not answer to laws that indicate this or that to be right or wrong. I answer only to the power that exists in every man to know right from wrong in his own heart!’

‘Heresy!’ the Pharisee said, ‘A son of Abraham must follow the laws of Moses!’

The Baptist looked at him with flares for eyes. ‘You make much of having Abraham for a father, but this alone does not make you worthy! Your body of flesh is like the stones at your feet…in the same way that you can pick up any of these stones and make them yours…God can make any man, a child of Abraham.’

Gasps came from the priests. Rants, and raves and astonishment filled the air. ‘You dare to say, any man can be a child of Abraham! Any man can enter the lineage of the blood tree of your forebears, which is sanctified by God!’

The Baptist roared like a lion at them, ‘Why do you call on this dying tree! God has given me the axe–and I will cut it down!’ He pointed to the people and cried, ‘Israel! This tree no longer bears good fruit!’

The delegation was turned over into a rumble of voices. The guards stood at the ready with their weapons.

‘Jerusalem!’ He pointed at the delegation. ‘Your laws and your knowledge were brought to you by way of Moses, but the time of these laws is finished now! Soon, grace and truth will come into the world by way of the anointed one. He will descend to earth so that the blind sons of Israel may see Him! But only those who can hear the voice of conscience in their hearts will recognise him!’  

The rabbis, priests and the Levites talked in an excited fashion among themselves, shaking their heads and distorting their countenances. They could not agree. Meanwhile in the crowds, a man called out to John,

‘But how shall we become good men? What is this voice you speak of, that is in the heart?’

John the Baptiser answered, ‘Do you not shrink to see others cold or hungry? Do you, who have much, not hear a voice that tells you to help those who have little? This voice speaks tenderly in the wilderness of your soul, and it will say to you: he who has two coats, let him share with him who has none; and he who has meat, let him do likewise.’

Then a publican called out, ‘But what of our livelihood?  We have to earn a living, from shelter and food! What will you have us do? Give men a bed, and a bowl of soup for free, to be good?’

‘Listen to the voice, it will say: Do not ask for more than is rightfully yours.’

And the soldiers, who were Herod’s men and had come with the priests and Levites, asked him, ‘How can we soldiers be good men, if we must use a sword and accuse others for our wages?’

John the Baptist told them, ‘The voice will say: do not do violence to any man and do not accuse another falsely. What you do, must be good and right, if you are to take to yourself your wages and be content.’

‘Who are you?’ Another Pharisee called out, ‘Are you the Messiah?’

John knew these questions needed to be asked, to prevent confusion in the people’s minds, and so he answered, ‘Listen to me…all of you…know that I am not the Christ. He shall come after me!’

‘Do you say that you are Elijah, then?’ Another priest said.

John shook his head, ‘I am sent in the spirit of Elijah.’

‘But it is said, that a prophet will come before the Messiah comes, are you not that prophet?’

‘I have told you…do not look at me, look for that other who will come!’

‘Who do you say that you are? We must return to tell those who have sent us, the council of great men at the Sanhedrin,’ that same Pharisee said.

‘Tell them, that I am the voice of the soul, crying in solitude, cut off from the likes of those who hold fast to the blood of Abraham. I am the free voice, without a folk, who seeks Him who comes to sustain me!’

‘Why do you preach repentance and baptise, and make pure men, if you are not a Prophet, or Elijah, or the Messiah?’ A Levite gave back.

‘I baptise with water, but there stands one among you that you do not recognise. He has the forces derived from a higher source than mine! He is mightier than I, for I am not worthy to stoop down to unloosen even the laces of his sandals. I baptise you with water. I do this in preparation for Him, who will baptise men not with water, but with the Holy Spirit fire!’

‘Is he here?’

John’s heart was full with joy, ‘I feel he is among us!’

The priests looked about them.

Each man searched his neighbour.

‘Where is he?’ they asked.

‘You shall not see Him until He makes himself known to you.’

The priests mocked him and said he was a madman. They told the crowds that no man should believe such lies and with their dispositions proud, gathered to them the reins of their animals, and took themselves and their soldiers from the shores of the river. But two members of the Sanhedrin remained behind, and sat among the crowds. John sensed that these men had been touched by his words.

After that, he continued with his work until the sun reached its zenith, and the crowds began, as was their custom, to disperse for the midday meal. Now standing alone in the chilling water, he saw a man step forward and come to the edge of the river.

He put a hand up over his eyes to see, for the sun’s rays were shimmering on the surface of the river, blinding him.

He recognised the man’s form and the contours of his face. How bright did the sun shine at that moment! As if it’s body were leaning over to touch the river! John squinted, and still he could not see, and yet he did see. This was a man he knew, and yet, it was not simply that he saw a man he knew, for this man, whom he had met at Qumran, seemed not to be there at all, but in his place was a soul that he recognised in its essential foundations. It was as if he were looking at his own reflection, a part of himself, long lost and forgotten. Did this soul that came towards him not seem like the youngest, and purest, soul in the world? And was this not the opposite of his own soul, which felt to him ancient, cracked, and used up, like an old jug emptied of its contents?

His heart near burst with the mighty impression this thought created, and his eyes filled with tears, and he let go his staff into the water.

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SCORPION~EAGLE - Excerpt from Fifth Gospel - a Novel

SCORPION~EAGLE

T

HEY came into Bethany and Judas followed last of all, his mind full of strange thoughts. The sun began to drop its bruised body into the godforsaken hills as they neared the township, and the men were weary, having travelled since yesterday.

It was now more than three days since word had reached them of Lazarus’ worsening sickness, and all feared that he was by now dead. But Judas was not concerned for it, something else made his brow dark and his eyes aflame. That spirit, which had plagued him these many months, had begun to make a way into his head and he could feel it, rearranging the rooms of his mind. It wrapped around his heart to combine his disappointments, his hate and his lust, into a poisoned leaven for his limbs.

For months now, he had waited for Jesus to bring back the glory days of the Maccabees, but benevolence and kindness, patience and love were all that he had offered. In Judas’ mind, all the deeds of salvation, enacted so inconspicuously by Jesus, whatever they might be, were worthless. Words of compassion and tolerance were not enough to change the world; only the sword could change it. Blood for soil! It had taken him time to see it, but finally Judas had realised that Jesus was not the Messiah. For revolution and war were not accomplished by a man deliberate in his desire to change nothing, but to leave all men free.

The other disciples spoke of Jesus as the Son of Man. They spoke of how he had fed thousands, how he had quietened storms, and produced otherworldly transfigurations of his being. For his part, Judas had seen nothing of it, and yet he had been with them always. How could they have seen what he had not? He supposed that they had seen dreams…only dreams…and even now none of them could see what he could see: that even in his body, once so youthful and strong, Jesus was less vigorous and obviously headed for decay, like a wasted old man.

But something more had stirred his hate, and made his rebellious spirit rip at his soul: a fire-laden desire had grown in Judas for the woman whom Jesus had named Magdalena.

From the first, he had disliked her brother, the Hellenistic youth, Lazarus, whose life was lived in luxury and privilege and whose soul was the opposite of his. However, in Magdalena, Judas had sensed something akin to his own restlessness, a soul full of dammed up passions. But it was not only her soul which drew him. The woman’s unparalleled beauty had stirred his loins–a beauty which time, and again, betrayed her attempts to mortify it, or to conceal it. For no matter how many veils the woman wore, or how coarse was the garment draped over her shoulders, a fundamental note of allure was plucked from the instruments of his manhood each time he saw her, and he would have the song played in full!

Each night, his daily thoughts rose up into the ecstasy of dreams full of the consummation of their mutual passion. In his dreams, she wanted him with a near crazed desperation, which fired his virility and turned the seed inside him and churned the waters of his soul.

During those long months apart from her, when the women were sent to Bethany for their safety, and the disciples were sent out, two by two, into the villages to announce the coming of the Kingdom, Judas’ lust had matured and curdled in the darkness of his soul, so that by the time he returned to the rich youth’s house, with the other disciples, it sought, by any means, to find its satisfaction. What dread force of hate had he felt then, on finding that in his absence, a love had grown between Magdalena and Jesus? A love that others said was warm, and calm of heart, full of wide spheres, and generous pastures, which cared nothing for itself but sought only the welfare of another.

A love he did not understand!

He suffered when he saw how Magdalena’s eyes were full of devotion, for a man who would never take her in his arms and ignite her womanly passions.

Even Simon-Peter had seen it, and had asked Jesus,

‘Why do you love her more than all of us?’

‘Think of it like this, Peter: I am the light of the world and your soul receives my light, my love, according to its capacity to see and to receive it. Magdalena’s soul has more capacity than yours, and for this reason she receives more love than you.’

Judas, blinded by anger, schemed and schemed.

Many of the disciples were simple fishermen and they did not know that Jesus had in the past months revealed secrets of initiation to ordinary people. The betrayal of these secrets was punishable by death and it was for this reason that the Pharisees and Sadducees sought vehemently to find witness of it. Judas would use this to his advantage, an advantage that became clearer at Perea, where Jesus finally unveiled his reason for leaving his ailing favourite, Lazarus, behind.

When Jesus told his worried disciples that Lazarus’ sickness was not unto death, but only a sleep, that his sleep was for the glory of God, Judas put two and two together: Lazarus was not dying, but undergoing an initiation, and this was the reason why Jesus waited a day before returning to Bethany, since the initiation must last three days.

Jesus wanted to make a show of his power near to Jerusalem; not those powers that had made possible the raising of the dead boy at Nain, but something more. Jesus would show to all men what lived only in the deepest recesses of the mystery temples:  the raising of an initiate from the tomb, from the underworld of the dead!

Everything now made sense. Throughout their time in Perea, when Jesus spoke of the good shepherd who gives life to his sheep, he was pointing to himself, as the priest, who is the awakener of initiates; when he had spoken of other sheep which were not of the fold, but which the shepherd must bring forth with a call, he had been speaking of Lazarus. But when Jesus had said that he and the Father were one, Judas recognised these as mystery words. Words that meant a priest was ready to use the forces of the Father, that is, to awaken the body of an initiate, and to raise him from his Temple Sleep.

No man came to the Father, that is, no man returned to the physical body from the three-day initiation sleep, except through a priest! 

Jesus was not a priest! This would be enough to destroy him.

When they came now near Bethany, some furlongs from the township, they passed that desolate place of burial, the tombs that were set into the walls of the hills. Here, near what they called the house of rest, many men stood mourning, without their women, as was the custom. The sun was near gone over the land, and made long shadows of those dry hills. The mourners turned to see Jesus, and rushed to tell him of Lazarus. Soon, Andrew was sent to fetch Martha. The woman came in her drab attire of lament and with her face the colour of ashes. She fell at Jesus’ feet and told him that Lazarus was dead. She said that had Jesus had been here he could have prevented his death by performing a miracle. She said her sister Magdalena was full of grief and was sat as still as death in the house, waiting for him to come.

Judas watched Jesus carefully, in his face was written pain for her sorrow and something other, which he did not discern. Jesus told Martha that Lazarus was not dead, for he was the resurrection and the life, and all who believed in him, though they were dead, would live. After that she fell on her knees and affirmed that he was Christ, the Son of God.

He said to her, ‘Tell Magdalena I call her. That she must arise, for I need her by my side.’ 

She took herself away then, and many came to gather around. Judas heard them mumbling, that if this was the man who had cured a blind man and lepers, and had cast out demons why had he not prevented Lazarus from dying? As they speculated on what he might do, from out of the sun’s vanishing luminance there emerged the figure of Magdalena.

Judas saw only her face, gazing out from that mourning veil, streaked with tears. What a face it was! Did her tears seem to him to be tears of joy or mourning? He could not tell. She was inscrutable. His blood made skips in his veins. He was restless. He waited for her to glance his way. He beckoned her to look just once.

The women of the town, who had followed Magdalena’s steps, now came upon the place where Jesus stood with his disciples. They wept and pulled at their clothes, while Magdalena fell at Jesus’ feet – without so much as a fidget of glance in Judas’ direction.

He waited. Quiet fell over the day, save the groaning and moaning of the mourners.

‘Had you been here, my brother would not have died!’ she said to him. But her words were spoken differently, for in them, Judas noted a tone of thankfulness that Jesus had not come sooner! Tears fell from her eyes. Were these tears of joy?

When Jesus saw it, he raised Magdalena’s chin with his hand and Judas saw then what passed between them, and this awakened in him a realisation. Rage and discontent surged through him, and he could taste gall in his spit. He wanted to howl like an animal for the anguish of it – not only for its intimacy, which must be clear to all, but also for its complicity, since he now understood that Magdalena was in some way entangled in Lazarus’ initiation.  

His bowels were full of thorns, and his spit was sour.

‘Where have you laid him?’

Jesus’ voice was soft and tender. His eyes were full with tears and Judas knew that he was harnessing a force of love in his heart, a force that would raise his pupil from his death trance.

Even those who were not his disciples sensed it, and said, ‘Look how Jesus loves Lazarus!’

Magdalena showed him the grave, covered with a great round stone.

Would he do it now? Judas leaned his mind in his direction, daring him to do it.

Jesus walked to the grave and paused before it, looking troubled. He turned and his eyes fell on Judas. Judas felt a gasp come, for it was as if Jesus had seen in that moment all of his thoughts.

Jesus turned around again, and said, ‘Take away the stone.’

Martha was alarmed, ‘But Lord! By this time there will be a smell, for he has been dead near four days.’

Jesus said to her, ‘Martha, did I not just say to you, that if you believed, you would see God glorified in Lazarus?’

Martha lowered her eyes, ‘Yes, Lord.’

When the men rolled away the heavy stone, and returned to the crowds, the people immediately put the corners of their garments about their faces to fend off the smell.

But there was no smell.

Jesus raised his eyes, and said, ‘Father, I thank you. That my word is one with you in spirit, and that you hear me always, but because of the people who stand by, I will say it out loud, that they too might hear how the Word, your Son, is in me, so that they might believe, that you have sent Him to me, and that through Him you and I are one!’

Judas knew, that by saying this, Jesus wished to reveal how in himself lived the Word, the Son of the Father, which he would make enter into Lazarus’ soul, to awaken him.

‘Lazarus come forth!’ resounded the forbidden words.

Nature drew a breath. Above, came the sound of a great eagle, making its noises as it rose upwards over the mountains, circling the skies, and falling away into the melting sun of day’s end.  The world followed it, and Judas also followed it as it soared aloft and died away. A thought came then, foreign to his experience: why could he not be like that bird, basking in the light of the sun with hopeful abandon? Must he live always like a scorpion, fearing the sun?

But this self-understanding was short-lived, for upon hearing a round of gasps, his concentration was now returned to see the beloved of Jesus, the initiate, coming from out of the black mouth of the cave, bound with graveclothes.

‘Loosen him, and let him go!’ Jesus told the women.

Martha, shocked, remained behind. Only Magdalena went to Lazarus to help. After that, Jesus, thronged by all those who had come to the burial place, was swept away to Bethany, but not before turning once more to look upon Judas.

That glance made a path clear from Judas’ head to his heart. He was standing upon the soil of freedom, between his hope and his fear. Here, it seemed to him, was his last occasion to love this man; to love him despite his urge to betray him; to recognise his greatness, despite his impulse to follow his destiny.

But he could not.

The eyes, multicoloured and endless-deep, held and held him, until they held no more. Gasping, with his head turning in circles, Judas was let go, and he sat upon a rock to get his breath back. After a moment he rose to make his way to Bethany, his eyes tethered to the ground.   

High above him, the eagle scooped wind with its wings and circled him, its eye ranged the sky…its gaze was upon him, unblinking, open, shut, perfect...

But Judas did not see it. He told himself,

‘The time for pruning has come!’

On Writing in Chaos and other Necessary Habits.

Well, I have just finished The Sixth Key, my latest book, and as usual, basking in the warm, afterglow of publisher approval and editorial self-satisfaction, I turn a little reflective. I do this with every book. I like to retrace the creative impulse; to look back at those early drafts trying to remember  those difficult first pages, those anxieties, those self-doubts and sleepless nights, like a woman who gives birth looks back on nine moths of indigestion, varicose veins, swollen legs, urinary frequency and light-headedness - wistfully and happily. She would do it all again to have that baby in her arms! 

   Conception in all its manifestations is the result of a creative impulse from the father and a receptive gathering up and a combining of this impulse by the mother, with the germ that is inside her. In the physical sense one generally knows when one conceives and who has contributed to this magnificent creation. But for an author, in fact any artist I would dare to venture, it is by and large a mysterious, magical process. Inspiration enters in and then one conceives - 'the Idea'. It bubbles up from some strange fount and one has to have the presence of mind to combine this 'idea' with one's abilities and skills in order to create the 'ideal' or else it dries up and dies, like a seed that falls on barren ground.

  Every author will tell you that he or she has developed little habits over long years of practice,  mechanisms proven to help in the conjuring forth of those magical words and those brilliant sentences. Habits which, they will tell you, must never be altered or dispensed with, lest terrible, unthinkable consequences befall them. In fact many writers are as superstitious as old sailors. Break a ritual, change a routine and who knows what calamities may be unleashed upon the fragile little vessel sailing through the wide and turbulent sea of inspiration? Bad luck, you see, is waiting just around the corner in the form of Writer's Block' personified as a grim-reaper holding a scythe, barring the way to that paradise that awaits every writer over that dreaded threshold known as the 'Dead-Line'. On this side lies a ruined reputation, a nervous breakdown and the inevitable return of an already spent advance, on the other  side is the possibility of recognition and perhaps, who knows, even financial independence? Ha ha!
  I have  always been fascinated by how writers write and before I divulge my own writing secrets, I thought I would share some of the habits of other writers.
  Stephen King has his own 'Den' which is off limits and in which he writes at least ten pages a day without interruption.  Earnest Hemingway wrote in the early hours of the morning when everyone was asleep; Vladimir Nabokov wrote standing up; Truman Capote lying down; Richard Powers in bed; Junot Diaz in the bathroom perched on the edge of the tub with his notebook; Hilary Mantel of "Wolf Hall" fame jumps in the shower if she has a problem (something I also do!); while Victor Hugo wrote naked and William Wordsworth composed out loud to his dog - if it barked he knew a revision of his work was necessary!
  What about me, where and how do I write? Well, Temple of the Grail and The Seal were both written while my children were very young and so I wrote in my husband's study in the early evenings or when my son was at school and my daughter took her nap. I wrote on a very old lap top but in those days there was no internet as such and so when my daughter was a toddler she spent a lot of her waking hours in libraries! Whether through necessity or ability I've always been able to write in the midst of the chaos of family life, that is, before and after P and C meetings, around car pooling, piano lessons, HSC exams, parent teacher interviews and concerts, house renovations, helping with homework and while cooking dinner sometimes!
  When it came to writing The Sixth Key things had to change - or so my husband told me. I had a new publisher and a tight deadline to meet - a deadline that he called 'mission impossible' with a grin on his face that could have led to dire marital discord had it not come with a dose of practical help. He bought me a very compact lap top and suggested that we go to our little boat tethered to a good marina in order to escape the drudgery of house work and the obvious distractions that had always plagued me. Why not? He said. After all, the children were now older and independent. 
  I wasn't totally convinced - but thought I'd give it a go.
  So each morning I packed a dozen or more books into a bag gathered up my laptop and our dog and a coffee on the way and we set off for uncharted territory - the territory of silence and inspirational bliss. It would be my own Nepal, a tranquil paradise of unlimited contemplative surrender.
  Actually, for a time it was just that. I spent the cold winter months on our sunny boat working to the sound of the gentle lapping of waves, the calling of sea gulls and the sounds of boat engines chugging over the bay. Sometimes I listened to music - soundtracks mostly, writing solidly for about seven hours only breaking for lunch. My only distractions were the odd friendly boating neighbour, who, upon walking past would call out either, 'How many pages now?'  and 'What's the book about?' or 'Is it about boats because I would buy it if it was about boats!' However sooner or later life does have a way of pulling you in, and chaos, my old friend, returned via technology - Mobile phone and emails - at all times of the day! I'll leave it to your imagination!
   But setting that aside, How do I write, what is the process you might ask? Well every book has been the same in this respect, it usually starts out with a question. In this case it was: What is the connection between the Apocalypse of St John, the Templars and the Cathars in the South of France? It then evolved into what did Otto Rahn have to do with them and with the mystery surrounding Rennes-le-Chateau? When I have my question I set out to answer it. I write in one large block without looking back. I don't formally plan anything, just small sketches of ideas. I do a lot of doodling and one day I'll show you just how much! Of course I do know who my characters are going to be, roughly, and what the story will be about but I allow the characters to tell me what to do next and that way each chapter leads into the next one and I never really know the story so its fresh. In fact in my office at home, which looks out to sea I have a note taped to the wall which says: 
  'This book must be written in the same way an organism arises: one thought grows out of a previous thought, a chapter out of a previous chapter.'
  I usually write the end first, strangely enough. The end is usually at the beginning and it meets itself again at the end - somehow - but I never know how! This means that what arises in the middle has to connect the two - and it always miraculously does! For the Sixth Key I had three concurrent interweaving time-lines and I only had to do some minor tweaking at the end! My motto is to stay open minded and to not allow habits to alter my flexibility. Perhaps that is my habit!
  To sum it up, every writer has his or his own way of getting through the various writing stages until finally we are all faced with that inevitable, nerve racking moment when our words say goodbye and walk out of the house to live in the hearts of readers who may or may not be kind to them! 
  I do miss my characters and I often go to my bookshelf to pull out The Seal so as to visit with Etienne or Jourdain, or else I pull out Temple of the Grail to listen to Christian and Andre arguing about heresy. When I do, I have an added bonus - I recall exactly what was happening at the time I wrote something. I remember that at a particular point in my writing my son was composing a piece of music for his final exams and that my daughter was rehearsing for a play. I will always remember where I was in The Sixth Key when my daughter called about her orthodontist appointment; when my son rang looking for the Teriaki tuna recipe; when a fellow 'boaty' came aboard for a cup to tea and a chat or when I helped to organise a petition. 

  I look back at fifteen years of writing and I can honestly say that not a lot has changed! I'm still writing around the chaos of life with all its minor disasters, joys and frustrations - and I admit that I wouldn't have it any other way!

Pentecost - Excerpt from Fifth Gospel - A Novel.

‘And the Pentecost?’ I asked.

‘Well, pairé, as you know, on the tenth day after the Lord’s ascension, His disciples were assembled again at the cenacle to observe the ancient festival of Pentecost. The celebrations had lasted all night and it was near sunrise when a wind entered the city. This was that ancient wind called Ruach and it moved over the colossal bridge, sweeping through archways and forcing its way through the streets until it made a rise to the upper room where they were gathered.

‘Ruach, Elohim, Aur! Breath, Elohim, Light!

‘This is the Holy Spirit!’ I said.

‘Yes, pairé, and the disciples had heard the roar of it before, on the night of their Lord’s sacrifice. When it entered the room it swept over the mother of the Lord, and she became a pillar of fire before their eyes; a fire whose cool flames swathed them in good will.

‘Yes Lea! This is like our consolamentum, this is the consoler!’

‘It came through the mother because it was her task to unite even those who were not kin by blood…this is the community of the future, pairé, which Christ Jesus had said Peter would lead.’

‘I remember now! How the water had tasted of wine at the marriage of Cana…yes…a marriage, where the husband and wife were not kin! I remember now what he said about the fish swimming together as one!’

‘You remember well, pairé, but do you know what it means? It means, that it does not matter what blood a man possesses, what nation or race he belongs to, if his soul has married the spirit, then he can unite with others who have done the same.’

I took a moment to understand it. ‘Why does the church of Peter not recognise this spirit of the Pentecost, then? Why do they persecute us because we have a reckoning of it?’

‘Because they fear it, pairé.’

‘Why do they  fear it?’

‘Because if all men believed they could come close to God without a priest or a church…they would fall into error.’

Yes…this was the same reason why the church of Rome would not allow the translation of the bible into the vernacular; why only priests could own a bible without incurring punishment.