Voices of the Living Grail

 “The Greek books are written in a secret code that describes the hidden history of Christ and his disciples. You can only understand what they really mean if you understand how they were written,” Parsus said.

“But how can you know that?” Martyn asked.

“There are scrolls—secret scrolls that explain what the code is. They were hidden away in the Holy Land to keep them out of the hands of the Roman armies after Christ’s crucifixion.”

“Truly!” Martyn said. “Have you seen them?”

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“The Old Ways do not seek enlightenment as a means of escap­ing the wheel of rebirth,” Saramontus said. “Instead, they seek acceptance of life as an expression of the Divine. As life is embraced, so the Source is embraced. Manifest Divinity knows itself through us and is constantly creating itself through our experience and through the experience of the entire universe. The cycles of the Great Cosmic Wheel bring us closer and closer to the One, the Source of all.”

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He turned again to the cardinal. “But you, Penzinar—the Church—denied even yourselves access to God, because you robbed God of the feminine face of the Divine.

“You have enhanced your priestly power by heaping layers of guilt upon the hearts and minds of your bewildered congregations. The devout come to you now because of their fear of Satan, not because of their love of God.”

Saramontus leaned forward and addressed Penzinar in whispered tones, “But the bloodline didn’t end with the murder of Dagobert, did it, Penzinar? His son, Sigisbert the Fourth, survived, didn’t he? The Church knows, doesn’t she, that the bloodline of Jesus the Christ still exists. She’s living with that awful secret, isn’t she, Penzinar? She knows.”

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Alphania didn’t hear him. She was sinking into the dance now, moving with the drums without conscious perception of the rhythm, first spinning, then turning with sweeping steps, her eyes following her graceful arms and hands to tell the sacred story, one element flowing into the next. She didn’t smell the dense fragrance of the incense. She didn’t see the golden glow of the myriad candles in the great hall, nor did she feel their gentle warmth. She had become the dance, the story, the message. The divine message, connecting her with the formlessness of the Kosmos. She was conscious only of motion itself. She let herself sink deeper into the velvet pool of perfection, thus allowing those watching to enter it, too.

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“Seize him, you idiots!” Chibiro shouted again. He ran toward Magathard, bringing his sword in a mighty downward arc toward the base of Magathard’s neck. Magathard met Chibiro’s blade with his own, hilts locking as mighty beasts lock antlers with thunderous ech­oes in dark forests.

They spun apart, and Magathard came at Chibiro with a sweep­ing two handed swing at his midsection, which surely would have cut him in two. But Chibiro dropped to one knee and put his full strength into his own weapon to block the blow. He spun off Magathard’s blade and delivered a chopping downward slice toward Magathard’s hip. Magathard couldn’t recover fast enough . . .

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“We need to be aware why humans so readily go to war,” Sara­montus said. “Why is war so appealing to humankind?”

“Because war unites a nation,” Alphania said. “Each soldier, each citizen becomes part of a single force that gives life greater meaning. Since we also perceive the enemy as pure evil and our own side as pure good, war imparts a mythic quality to our lives that re­lieves our otherwise humdrum existence.”

“The irony, of course,” Saramontus said, “is that a contempla­tive practice does the same thing for us. It imparts meaning to our lives. It builds a bridge between our ordinary existence and Divine Unity. The difference is that war leads to our projecting the hostility, anger, and fear within ourselves onto our fellow creatures who happen to live in a nation opposing us, while a contemplative practice leads instead to compassion and love as the natural way of regarding our fellow creatures.”

“Then why don’t humans adopt contemplative practice as an alternative to war?” Merovech asked.

“Because war is easier, Father,” Alphania said. “It takes effort, intention, and time to develop a contemplative practice. Going to war just takes determined leaders and money.”

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“You unholy whore of Satan!” he bellowed toward the win­dow where he knew Alphania to be. “You’ll wish it were Vultaras ripping your flesh from your bones!” He tore the leather epaulet from his shoulder and threw it, along with his leather gauntlet, over the side of the wall. They fell past Alphania’s window and he could see her lean out and watch them spin toward the ground. He knew she could hear him. “Instead of me!” He moved in long, angry strides across the rampart and hurtled down the stairs in a raging rush toward the dun­geon hall.

The door behind Alphania crashed open, and she turned to face the soldiers as they burst into the room.

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Lilenthia pause