The Lost Word

by Traci Harding

  Contents

  Cover

  The Lost Word

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  Copyright

  THE WOMAN WHO, without doubt, has had the most profound effect on my career is Selwa. If everyone had someone like Selwa in their life, then we would all be successful, famous and oozing with confidence.

  I had finished the first draft of The Ancient Future and had headed straight into an edit without thought for what I would do with the manuscript once I was happy with it. I had an inkling, or maybe just a secret hope, that the right person to help my book to publication would come along by the time it was complete.

  As I mentioned earlier, it was my mother who first set me on my path to being a published author by passing my script to Lynny Rainbow, who in turn passed it on to Selwa.

  The scenes in The Cosmic Logos that tell the tale of my road to finding an agent are as true as I can recall them. There was an author friend of Lynny’s, David Sale, who generously recommended me to Selwa — despite not knowing me from a bar of soap — and I thank him kindly for placing this last brick in the bridge that led me to finding an agent.

  I must confess that at the time I didn’t even know there was such a thing as an author’s agent; along with most people, I just assumed that you sent your script off to a publisher and then waited a couple of years to get a response.

  Before I heard back from Selwa about the manuscript, I was chatting with a friend, who just happened to have once worked as a sales rep for a major publishing house. When he heard that Selwa was reading my script he nearly did a backflip he was so excited. ‘She’s only the most influential agent there is to be had in this state and possibly this country!’

  I smiled, quietly saying to myself, the Universe always provides.

  It was the day of my tenth wedding anniversary when Selwa phoned me to change my life with the news that she loved my manuscript. Words cannot describe the wonder and awe I felt at that moment regarding the powers of creation, fate and destiny. After my misadventures in the film industry, I’d been suppressing an underlying fear that I’d been kidding myself about ever being able to write for a living. Selwa dismissed that fear for good, and guided me out of the murky regions of being an aspiring writer and into the magical realm of being a professional author.

  And God knows there were many obstacles to overcome during this transition — finding a publisher; getting promotional photos; negotiating contracts; edits, edits and more edits; designing a jacket; launching and promoting the book. By the time the book hit the shelves I was very thankful to have discovered that there was such a thing as an author’s agent and that they are an absolute must-have if you want to get taken seriously and actually get published. Who, in their right mind, would want to negotiate all of the above alone and without any idea about what is a fair thing? Not this little black duck, that’s for sure!

  My relationship with Selwa has gone far beyond the normal agent – author business dealings. I call her my fairy godmother as she is like a second mother to me. I have been privileged to see a side of this wonderful lady that very few people get to see. Most who have met Selwa professionally would probably consider her a rather charming, powerful and very focussed businesswoman, but she has a deeper, spiritual side that many may not be aware of.

  Numerologically, the name Selwa belongs to a ‘Perceptive – Bewitching personality — a magnetic person with a keen sense of knowingness or sixth sense, who has the ability to attract others without trying and has many friends.’ Never a truer assessment was made. Selwa has on several occasions shown a rather uncanny psychic ability, as I know on a personal level — she successfully predicted the birth of Lisa’s first babe, Chloe, who was due the week after the Popular Writing Festival held at the NSW Writers’ Centre in Sydney. Having exhausted herself organising it, Selwa didn’t want me to miss the festival. As I had promised to be one of Lisa’s carers for the birth, I was concerned that my private and my professional life were set for conflict. Selwa, who had never met Lisa, told me there was nothing to worry about because the babe would be born the weekend before the festival, and I would be free for the festival. This would mean that the babe would be two weeks early and, silly me, I doubted the forecast. I should have known better, as late in the weekend before the festival, Chloe was born.

  With her wonderful inner wisdom, Selwa has never attempted to suppress my esoteric style of writing. In fact, she has always done her best to encourage my research and private investigations into the greater mysteries, and into the exponents of these secrets present and past. And thus I am able to present such a book as this to my readers: something a little bit different, that might be a bit hard to categorise; a bit left of centre for some and food for thought for others.

  So, you see, Selwa really is a fairy godmother with magical powers that are showered on all her authors to further the righteous cause of Australian popular fiction both here at home and abroad.

  Originally I had planned to write Selwa into a computer-ghost story, as Selwa detests technology, but as I researched ‘The Lost Word’, the story took on a completely different slant.

  As a young woman Selwa was a great traveller and quite the man-magnet. When I spoke to Selwa about her young bachelor days the character for this tale began to take form. I saw her as a rather self-assured and fearless adventurer, much like the Lara Croft character from Tomb Raider — without the guns. Selwa also detests violence.

  In the past and present many archaeological expeditions looking for information about the secret mysteries have been funded by secret societies such as the Freemasons, Rosicrucians, Illuminati, druids, Gnostics, Hermetics, alchemists, and the personality of this character was bold enough to deal with such people. Thus, the search for ‘The Lost Word’ was conceived.

  A special mention and thank you: The name of this character, Karita, was actually drawn from one of the regular contributors on my message board, who is currently in the UK investigating sacred sites there. Her name was so perfect for the character that I asked if I could use it and Karita kindly agreed.

  With this character I feel I have captured the essence and allure of Selwa — the fearless, the psychic, the mediator, the creator and the adventurer. There is so much magic in this lady it seemed only fitting that her ghost story should lead her into realms otherworldly.

  The Lost Word

  1. The Guardians of Secrets Past

  Long ago, a doctrine was parted,

  half was published, half was shrouded.

  The truth was hidden underground,

  by a Brotherhood, duty bound.

  Crucibles, war and strife would pass,

  before the hidden doctrine would surface.

  Any clue as to the secrets lost,

  must be pursued at any cost.

  IN THE CHAPTER ROOM the Brotherhood gathered, as it had done regularly for centuries, to discuss issues of the world that were of interest to their secret organisation.

  This evening it was a young, prominent art collector who had something to share with the Brotherhood. ‘Grand Master, fellow colleagues.’ He raised himself from a lush throne-like chair, which was positioned in a circular formation of thirteen chairs, twelve of like design, for only the Grand Master’s seat stood apart from the others in splendour. The art collector extracted a print from a large cylinder and carried it across the floor featuring the insignia of their order, and placed his offering in the hands of his superior. ‘This is a print of an original painting that an art dealer in Australia thought I might be interested in.’

  The Grand Master, a business tycoon, opened it out and was immediately struck by the subject matter of the painting.

  ‘This piece was painted by one of our Australian breth
ren, Master Collector?’ he asked.

  The art collector cocked an eyebrow, for this was the conundrum. ‘Neither the artist nor the dealer belongs to our order, Grand Master. The art dealer knows I have a passion for ancient symbolism and, although this piece is not antique, he thought the striking imagery might appeal.’

  ‘Indeed it does.’ The Grand Master had paled, and he passed the piece in question to his most trusted advisor, who was seated on his right.

  ‘Good heavens,’ uttered the historian as he viewed the work. ‘This is an almost exact replica of an illustration found among the tattered remains of the ancient scrolls, which we have recently unearthed?’ He looked at the art collector, his face shrouded in confusion and worry.

  ‘Indeed,’ the young art collector confirmed, and his restrained pleasure was in vast contrast to the mood of his older colleagues. ‘And only this copy of it is in full colour and is complete, the pillars being inscribed with hieroglyphs.’

  ‘Have you checked these glyphs against the original work?’ the Grand Master wondered out loud.

  ‘Yes, I have.’ The art collector paused a moment to heighten the suspense. ‘The glyphs on the pillars are exact in every detail.’

  All present in the chamber gasped and whispered among themselves.

  ‘But … see here.’ The historian pointed to the archway that connected the two pillars in the picture. ‘There was nothing written here in the original.’

  ‘Yes, that is true, Master Historian,’ granted the art dealer. ‘But if you would be so kind as to translate this addition to the brethren, you might consider the message to have merit.’

  The old historian adjusted the glasses on his nose and examined the tiny symbols depicted in the print. ‘Whosoever seeks The Lost Word …’ he read and then paused, stunned, as he looked up to his breathless colleagues to convey the rest, ‘… shall find it herein.’

  The Grand Master appeared to be very perplexed by this. ‘Who is the artist? What is his name?’

  ‘Her name,’ the collector ventured, again shocking his entirely male audience, ‘is Karita Torelle.’

  ‘A woman!’ gasped the historian, outraged. ‘How can this be?’

  ‘Well, I have a theory,’ the art collector offered, and his superiors, eager to hear it, indicated he should proceed. ‘She could have found a copy of ancient texts that our excavations are currently unearthing both here in America and in Scotland. Or maybe we have the remains of a copy and this woman has found the original? The house in Sydney that this woman occupies was owned by one of our brethren early last century. His name was Tristan de Scott, and he rose through the ranks of our order before his insights into ancient doctrine made him of some interest to our brothers of the Inner Order.’

  ‘The Rosicrucians.’ the Grand Master stated and the young art collector nodded in confirmation.

  ‘Apparently, de Scott had started channelling information from a spirit claiming to be Francis Bacon, Roger Bacon, and Christian Rosencruz amongst other renowned forefathers of the society.’ And as you know there is speculation that Francis Bacon could well be the unknown creator of the original picture we have just unearthed in Scotland at the Rosslyn Chapel.’

  ‘I have read about this case.’ The Grand Master frowned as he recalled details. ‘I believe de Scott was blackballed from the RC and excommunicated from our order for disrespect to senior members.’

  ‘That is correct, Grand Master,’ the art dealer said, and although he knew his view might be frowned upon he voiced it nevertheless. ‘The senior members of that time had deemed de Scott’s channelling to be fraudulent, which perhaps might explain his condemning outbursts. However,’ he continued before anyone had the chance to counter his view, ‘if de Scott was channelling the identities he claimed he was, these famous brothers were likely to have seen the lost texts before they were hidden, and then lost.’

  ‘And you think de Scott is now somehow channelling through this girl?’ the old historian scoffed.

  ‘Well, de Scott was a rebel, and how better to offend the Brotherhood than to channel our sacred doctrine through a woman?’ suggested the collector. ‘There does seem to be a certain irony to that.’

  ‘De Scott was born in Scotland and perhaps he knew of, or even saw the text we have uncovered at Rosslyn, before he moved to Australia? Thus, it seems more likely …’ the Grand Master headed off an argument between the youngest and eldest members of the circle, ‘… that this woman has found whatever de Scott was referencing to get his information.’

  Now the old historian was shaking his head, looking as if he was about to have heart failure. ‘Well, we’d better get someone down under to find out, quick smart!’ he snapped, at his wit’s end.

  At a pat on the hand from the Grand Master, the historian calmed. ‘Go to Australia immediately, Master Collector. Buy this work and every copy or print ever made of it.’

  The art collector nodded. He understood that money was not an issue in this case.

  ‘I shall inform the Imperator of the Inner Order of your findings and shall pass on to you any further instructions they may have via our network in Australia,’ the Grand Master concluded. ‘You have done well in bringing this emergency to our attention, Master Collector. Now, I trust you will head off a crisis by delivering this work into our hands … and the source of Ms Torelle’s inspiration as well. She must not be allowed to go public with this.’

  The art collector nodded. ‘Fear not, dear members. I have already told the dealer that I plan to make a substantial offer and have asked him to withdraw from the marketplace all prints, copies and promotional material associated with the work. He assured me that this was unnecessary as he contacted me first and was awaiting my bid before promoting the work further.’

  All in the room gave a sigh of relief, although the Grand Master was still wary. ‘Be very sure about that,’ he cautioned.

  The collector gave a slight bow in parting. ‘I shall.’

  2. For the Love of Spirit

  In the twilight hours, when she lay sleeping,

  a soul from yesteryear came creeping,

  to whisper wisdom from another age

  to splatter across her empty page.

  No great harm could come of it,

  he only ever wished her profit.

  He knew the work would be recognised,

  by those who saw through ancient eyes.

  As the cab drove off, Karita turned to admire her house, the exterior of which she’d had cleaned during her absence. She noted that the two tall chimney stacks on the roof looked rather more pitted now than they had before they’d been cleaned. ‘I must get them painted,’ she decided.

  The ringing of the phone urged her to haul her luggage on to the porch and she fumbled through her bag in haste to find the front door key. ‘Who could be calling me? Everyone knows I’m gone until the end of the month.’ She managed to unlock the door and in the middle of pulling the suitcase into her house, the phone ceased to ring. Karita was tempted to swear but resolved to wave it off. ‘I don’t feel like talking anyway.’ She flung the door closed.

  Her mobile phone rang and startled the life out of her. Karita retrieved it from her pocket, annoyed to be so jumpy. ‘It’s the jet lag,’ she decided, flicking a button on her mobile. ‘You’ve found me,’ she announced.

  Her art dealer, Aldo Azzi, was heard to cheer on the other end of the phone. ‘Just thought I’d take a chance. I was going to try email next. You’re home early. Didn’t you like the Middle East?’

  Karita groaned, disenchanted by the question. ‘I don’t know why I bother travelling any more —’

  ‘Sorry, sweets, you’ll have to speak up,’ Aldo interrupted. ‘You know what my hearing is like.’

  ‘I said, I don’t know why I bother travelling any more … since I moved into this place, I am more inspired here than anywhere. Maybe I’m just intimidated by everything I’m absorbing when I travel?’

  ‘I think I’ve sold “The Lost Word
”,’ Aldo announced as Karita had started mumbling again.

  Karita gave an excited screech. It was one of her major pieces, which her dealer intended to sell for a small fortune.

  ‘Please, darling, my hearing.’ Aldo requested a little restraint from her.

  ‘Sorry, Aldo, I had to get that out. So, who is the interested party?’

  ‘An art collector from the US, who has a passion for Masonic symbolism,’ Aldo informed her, sounding impressed by his own efforts.

  ‘Why would a Mason be interested in my picture?’ Karita didn’t know anything about the society, except that it was all male.

  ‘I don’t know that he is a Mason.’ Aldo was quick to correct her misconception. ‘I only know he has a passion for their symbolism.’

  Karita hadn’t really considered that her rather ethereal dreamlike work would interest such an audience. ‘And he has seen the painting?’

  ‘Yes, indeedee,’ Aldo assured her. ‘And get this, he wants to buy all the prints, copies and promotional material as well.’

  ‘What?’ Karita found this news rather disturbing. ‘Why? Does this mean that my amazing work will never be seen by anyone else?’

  ‘Some private collectors are weird like that,’ Aldo brushed aside her worries, ‘but I don’t think you’ll care once this gentleman makes a bid.’

  ‘A big spender, hey?’ Karita joked, and her amusement was momentarily choked as she sensed the great expectation in her dealer’s voice.

  ‘Let me put it to you this way. He’s just hopped on his private jet and is on his way to take collection as we speak.’

  ‘He’s that confident of buying it?’ Karita’s voice had gone all squeaky and weak.

  ‘Put the bubbly on ice, my precious,’ Aldo said confidently. ‘I trust you’ll make yourself available to meet with us this evening?’