HIDDEN GODS
The Doorway
Anthony Masters
with
Hugh Colmer
Contents
Prologue
1 Destruction Again
2 Glimpses of Other Times
3 Island Visions
4 The Journey Begins
5 Human Shield
6 The Winged Disc
7 Earth to Earth
8 Spirit Guide
9 Egypt
10 The Gods in their Casket
11 Birthright
12 The Portal
Epilogue
Prologue
The Burning
Brent Fitzroy hated the male nurse more than he could ever show or say, and much of his time was devoted to planning a mercilessly slow death for him. Whether Gerald Paxton was being bright and breezy, authoritarian, confidential, commiserating or ‘taking him seriously’ – the attitude he could least endure – Brent’s anger and sense of despair quickened each day.
‘How’s the journal going?’ had been the first comment this morning as he was helped to rise from his bed – a process that he found incredibly painful. To leave the source of visionary guidance was bad enough, to be jollied out of it at the same time was unbearable.
The fact that the routine had been going on for many years did nothing to diminish its hateful intensity.
‘Didn’t see you writing yesterday?’ said the sandy-haired, freckled Paxton, who thought he owned him.
‘At least he’s interesting and industrious,’ he had overheard him telling the shrink. ‘The pick of the bunch.’ Interesting and industrious? He would like to channel all that alleged energy into attacking Paxton with a pickaxe, chopping him into small pieces and boiling them up for dog meat. It was an ambition frustrated only by the lack of the right equipment.
Half an hour later, Brent was sitting at his table in the day-room with the sun pouring in, catching grey stubble on a withered cheek here, a bleary and bloodshot eye there, the fixed stare of the catatonic or the chattering restlessness of the demented. He knew where he was all right – in the nut-house – and he knew why. Brent heard voices, saw visions and clouds of impending disaster hovering over the earth, knew he was Thoth, was responsible for creating Atlantis and was now receiving guidance about how to release the Atlanteans from the Great Pyramid of Giza. All this guidance had been transmitted to his journal for the benefit of his fellow revenants, but the trouble was that the instructions were not coming at him thick and fast but through a haze of intermittent reception and understanding. He could not exactly comprehend what they were telling him, although even a few months ago he had heard and seen with crystalline clarity. This was the first time in years that he had not seen his own history unfolding, and his constant torment was that the transmissions would become fainter, more obscure, and it would be less possible to commit them to his journal.
Could cornflakes be literally ground in the teeth and then intermittently spat into a finger bowl? That was what Peggy Dart did – or attempted to undertake each and every morning. Mountainous, wheezing, overburdened by her own blubbery weight, Peggy tried to induce a slimmer her by selective eating. In the mistaken belief that small meant beautiful, she chewed the cornflakes down to acceptably tiny swallows, while other pieces, mysteriously but meaningfully selected, were spat out, limp and milky, into the growing pile in the finger-bowl – or on to the stained tablecloth, if in her voracious enthusiasm she missed. He had sat opposite Peggy for over six years. But even she, with her selective appetite, was not as bad as Gerald Paxton. Brent would like to be selective by eating Paxton. He would like to hear his bones crunch.
Eventually settled at the desk in the library, he tried to remember, and wrote unsatisfactorily fractured notes in his journal. They were clumsy, insubstantial, and of little use to his future companions.
‘Glad to see you back at work.’ Paxton stood in the doorway, the sunlight catching his sandy hair, helping the intruder. Brent did not reply.
‘What’s today’s adventure?’
‘Piss off!’
‘Now – remember what we said at yesterday’s group meeting. About sharing freely but with courtesy?’ His look was friendly, intense, and he was obviously eager to kick about a problem or two.
‘Piss off,’ repeated Brent.
He wrote painstakingly:
The Law of Reincarnation
Christianity embraced reincarnation for three hundred years before the Emperor Constantine declared it a sin. When the early Christians asked Christ whether he was Elijah who had come before, they were thinking of reincarnation. Christ said, ‘Unless a man is born again, he cannot enter the kingdom of Heaven.’
In accepting reincarnation one also accepts the law of compensation, karma, i.e. carrying from one life over to another.
We return a stepping stone instead of a stumbling block. There is nothing left to chance in the Universal Grand Design; reincarnation is an instrument, not an end in itself.
The soul is not lost; only its individuality.
The real purpose of reincarnation is the message of Love.
The times of reincarnation vary according to the state of development of the individual, and to the manner and character of their removal from the material experience. As to their colour, race or sex, this depends upon the experience necessary for the completion.
One incarnation naturally merges into another. ‘As the tree falls, so does it lie,’ said the Maker and Giver of Life. So does the Light, so does the nature of the Individual. The beginning in the next experience is tempered by the sincere purpose of the individual in the life before.
By developing spirituality, we develop the faculty for recollection. When the purposes of the individual are in accord with purpose, then the soul may remember what it was.
Nature does not forget; only man forgets.
But he couldn’t afford to forget. There must be a way through what appeared nowadays to be the static, the blur, the unresonant, the blank screen of his originally fertile, receptive mind.
Though modern theology spurns reincarnation, it has long been considered part of the Eastern religions.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust was not spoken of the soul. It is generally considered if a man lives again, it is his soul that lives. The Bible has many references to rebirth. The Master said, ‘Ye must be born again.’ He repeated it many times and confirmed to Nicodemus, ‘The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but can’t tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth. So is everyone that is born of the Spirit.’ He also said that John the Baptist was the reincarnation spiritually of Elias. The disciples asked Jesus, ‘Who did sin, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?’ And Jesus answered, ‘Neither has this man sinned, nor his parents; but that the works of God should be manifest in him.’
How is it that some people we meet feel immediately familiar whilst for others we have known for years in this life we still feel no intimacy?
Thoth the Atlantean materialized on earth approximately one and a half million years ago. His origins are said to be extra-terrestrial and he is a reincarnate.
Thoth was able to communicate by thought and was able to disassemble and reassemble the atoms and molecules of objects and transport them from one place to another.
Thoth took the offspring of the Lemurians, Orions and Marduk to an island continent called Atlantis where they began to build a highly advanced technological civilization. Thoth and his scientists created a crystal so finely chiselled that it could absorb the sun’s rays and create a new form of energy. Using the crystal they built a huge pyramid in the capital, Poseidon, now seen on the back of the American dollar as the all-seeing eye.
And the all-seeing ey
e sees nothing but blind judgement which is in accord with one molecule’s mounting of action which can only become a corncrake’s eye at best. On the Isle of Tiderace there barnacle heaven –
He knew he was writing nonsense – knew with heavy fatalism that he might always be writing nonsense. His third eye suffered from astigmatism, had the blinds down.
Paxton came back into the library at the worst possible moment, pushing the medication trolley as silently and as ‘discreetly’ as he could so as not to ‘disturb’ him. But it was this very earnest discretion that was the greatest disturbance of the day. Fuck him, Brent thought bitterly.
‘Come on, old son. Have your pill.’
‘One day – ‘
‘One day my prince will come,’ grinned Paxton, all merry and bright and full of liberal understanding. Brent could hear him saying to someone at home, ‘I try and get on with them all, you know. I take them at face value.’
‘Why don’t – ‘
‘Have your pill.’
Brent grabbed it and returned to scribbling nothing at all – until Paxton pushed his trolley away, preferably into some deep abyss, to burn in hell fire.
The nurse was replaced by old Cole. Cole had been at St Clouds forever. Cole talked continuously and spent much of his talking time in the library. But Brent did not mind; he was able to live and write with his gabble, all of which related to a number of imaginary bus routes which he connected and disconnected in regular geographic complexity. He had his hands permanently enclosed in padded gloves because if he could not remember a route to his entire satisfaction, he would injure himself.
‘The 4, the 2, and the 3 produce the sum of nine, which is the natural number of man and also the lower worlds. The 4 represents the ignorant man, the 2 the intellectual man, and the 3 the spiritual man. If the no. 16 were the no. 28 it would go by way of Barniton, stopping at Honeysetts, Great Lichens, Argos, Two Drains and the River Crossing. But if the 28 were the 14 or better still the big one – the 19 – for Greyshott then it’s sanddunes all the way up to the island and first stop the cliff road where it might be the no. 16.’
Brent looked up curiously. This was different from his usual spiel which was so familiar it was Muzak all the day and most of the night.
‘Number 16 will run up to the first stop. Pyramid Halt.’
‘What?’
Old Cole stopped in mid-sentence, amazed at a revolutionary interruption.
‘Did you say pyramid?’
He looked at Brent astounded. There was going to be a conversation. ‘Pyramid Halt and into the Giza. Up to Atlantis garage and route terminated. But if that route becomes a no. 14 and divides into no. 16’s territory – ’ He shambled slowly out of the room while Brent received an intriguing thought. If the old man was a transmitter – no, a reflector of his visions, or had only temporarily become a reflector – then what was the message? He saw again the habit the old man had got into, of holding his padded gloves aloft. Now what did that mean – for there was clearly a message in everything. Could it mean that if his own transmitter had become disconnected there was only one solution? To shock it back into action? To use pain to see like old Cole did with his bus routes?
Without further thought, Brent got up and walked over to the old-fashioned radiator – a form of heating that the hospital on its limited budget still could not afford to change. He felt its heat, saw its knobbly, scarred surface. Then he went back, got his journal and pen and moved over to a nearby table.
Placing both hands on the white-hot radiator he felt the instant, all-consuming pain but he kept them on the surface until they stuck to the metal as the flesh seared.
Brent Fitzroy was rescued by the ever vigilant Gerald Paxton and rushed to hospital with severe burns to his hands. After months of intensive treatment and skin grafting he was returned to St Clouds where he was able to dictate more immediately realized material into his journal. He no longer had a block. Old man Cole had been sent to him by the gods.
Thoth foresaw the destruction of Atlantis and found his power weakening while the Crystal Pyramid began to sink into the earth. Desperate to preserve and contain Atlantean magical power he designed the pyramid of Giza – his gateway into the physical world, into the third dimension. Thoth then selected Hermes and Aphrodite to supervise the construction.
The Great Pyramid was built in limestone to keep it from eroding and to house the secrets of man since the beginning of time before the last geophysical shift. Its calendar is implanted within the measurements of the steps leading to the so-called King’s Chamber. The frequencies of the planets are built into the stone and tempered with crystalline devices that can communicate with the galaxies.
The passageways between the two chambers record the ages of man upon earth and predict the total number of years remaining before the next revolution of the earth’s axis.
The pyramids are part of a cradle of a universal grid of ancient religions, political and oracular sites linked to monuments of other star systems.
The pyramid’s focal point is placed in the middle of the earth as a living model of mankind’s destiny to a higher evolution.
The secret codes of Atlantis are protected by the winged Disc of the Brotherhood of Light. The child is father to the man – the man is father to the child – and so the reincarnations continue throughout the centuries. But the Atlanteans must leave. Their work on earth is finished. I trust Hermes and Isis to ensure their departure.
‘All right, old son? Glad to see you working on your journal again. Keeps you busy, doesn’t it?’ said Paxton one afternoon.
‘Busy enough,’ replied Brent mildly.
1
Destruction Again
Belfast, November 1989
The bomb exploded as Hugo and Jaime were driving down the Falls Road. The dull thud was followed by a dust cloud that hung in the gathering darkness. Traffic skidded to a halt and alarms sounded up and down the grey afternoon street with its boarded-up shops and loitering children. There had been no official warning but Hugo’s informant had told him that Declan’s was to be the target.
Pedestrians either flung themselves to the pavement or burst into a stumbling run. The blast blew out the bar window and with the shattered glass came the headless body of a man. There was the stench of shit and beer and burning.
They clambered out of the Suzuki and began shooting film, their cameras clicking hungrily at the ravaged exterior of Declan’s Bar and the mutilated thing on the ground. Further along the smashed concrete of the pavement, someone ran.
A long period of silence was broken only by the sound of their camera shutters. Then a young boy emerged from the bar, walking hesitantly, a beret pulled down over his head from which a rusty river was pouring, splashing on his scuffed trainers. He looked down in surprise, curiously detached, as if he could not think where the stuff was coming from. Hugo took a shot of the gathering horror in his face while Jaime concentrated on the crimson lake that was flowing into a pile of dog-shit. Then the boy fell, rolled, twitched – and the blood started dribbling out of his mouth as well. He looked up at Hugo and tried to say something, but only made a bubbling sound.
The wail of the rescue services was louder as Hugo stepped amongst the smoking debris. Scattered human remains were everywhere, smudged against the fallen roof, a torso embedded in a wall, a hand under his foot.
The barman seemed unscathed and was leaning against the rubble-strewn bar as if he was ready to serve the next customer, but Hugo ignored him as he focused his camera, taking shot after shot of the charnel house. As the smoke cleared, a small fire shot tongues of flame under a pool table on which lay a body, its fluids seeping into the green cloth; the barman still watched expressionlessly as Hugo shot the grisly image with relentless, clinical application, as if he was a surgeon in some satanic operating theatre. Like Jaime he was a perfectionist who had been at the top of his profession for a long time. That was why they hunted in a pair. Their photographs of destruction appeared all o
ver the international press and their images of violence had been elevated to a position far beyond photojournalism.
‘How did scum like you get in?’ asked the paramedic. There was contempt on the man’s face but it had no effect on Hugo; he was used to it.
‘Lucky strike. We were driving past.’
‘Bollocks.’
Jaime joined them, running off more film while other paramedics, firemen, a couple of policemen and a military sergeant in a flak jacket also filed in; those new to the job looked revolted at the slaughterhouse while others, who had seen it all before, were merely cynical.
‘Fucking media,’ said the sergeant. ‘Piss off.’
Hugo and Jaime ignored him, running off more film as the paramedics gently led the barman away.
Hugo lay on his hotel bed, the twelve-year-old Glenlivet at his side. It was just a few minutes to six and he was thinking of Lucy and Brent in Cornwall, seeing their faces clearly now although he had hardly thought about them in weeks. Belfast was no different from South Africa or San Salvador, much the same as Afghanistan. He was paid considerable sums for his pictures and because he was the best – and needed to maintain the position – his life mainly consisted of airports and bloodshed. There was nothing he would not do to get a good shot; nobody he would not bribe. As long as he was leading the pack, Hugo felt safe; if he was not, an abyss would open up in front of him.
In the abyss he saw inexplicable visions that had recently begun to convince him he was having DTs. Either that or he was on the edge of some kind of breakdown. That was why he was anxious to keep so busy: partly to assuage his guilt for the neglect of his family, but mainly to stop having waking dreams that he could not understand. They had begun two years ago and were increasing, relentlessly assailing him every time he tried to switch off. What was more, Hugo remembered them in minute detail: a great space, a bronze gate springing shut behind him, priests and winged serpents, underground rooms with murals depicting men and women harnessing the energy of the sun, becoming free of self-indulgence, of the cumbersome restrictions of their own bodies, moving towards a chamber where a secret was hidden – and then up towards a rooftop portal through which came a vast sunbeam. The fragments rarely followed one another in any recognizable sequence, and were never all together in one vision; he almost wished they were. Sometimes they occurred when he was asleep, but most often when he tried unsuccessfully to relax. He saw flashes on the television screen, in a dark cupboard, against a wall, through a rain-soaked window – even reflected from a car windscreen. They were momentary – subliminal – but they were there. Sometimes Hugo wondered whether they had any connection with his son’s obsessive and clearly deranged journal. More often, however, Hugo suspected that he, too, was on the edge of madness and that he and Brent had the same genetic problem.
Hidden Gods Page 1
