“Yes, I need,” Plato answered. “I need … School of Mysteries?” he said in broken Egyptian. The boy’s eyes opened wide, and in one swift motion he ducked past the shoulder of a fig seller and ran away. Plato called after him in disappointment.
Deep in thought, Plato continued his walk through the noisy bazaar and purchased his daily bread. Plato munched the hard, dry loaf and sipped tea before he made his way to the largest of the nearby temples. Sweat ran in itchy streams down his back. The high columns and ornate structure of the temple were borrowed from another time, and they had begun to crumble and falter in disrepair. Plato entered into a vast stone courtyard.
“I wish to see the high priest,” he requested of a nearby boy wearing temple robes. The boy hurried away and returned moments later demanding an exorbitant fee, a donation of gold from the foreigner. Plato was appalled and refused the boy’s request, sending him back to his master empty-handed. The Greek was leaving when, from a nearby corner, a boy emerged. Plato recognized him instantly. It was the boy from the marketplace who had run away.
“The high priest is bad man. I take you to Mystery School,” the boy said in choppy Greek, stepping back into the shadows and beckoning Plato to follow. The beautiful green and blue glow of the young man’s aura pleased Plato as it mingled with his own, and he felt sorry for the masses, blind to the glowing energy hovering around every person.
“How did you find me?” Plato asked when they were outside.
“Everyone who seek Mystery School go here, so … high priest rich and fat, but he don’t know where is school. He torture me if he think I know. I still not tell. He not worthy.”
“How do you know I’m worthy?” Plato asked.
“You not pay,” the boy answered, smiling openly. Plato admired his logic, though he himself would have required more evidence.
The young boy’s name was Amnut, and he was older than he had first appeared—about thirteen years. Plato soon learned that he and his uncle had led many deserving, and some not so deserving, seekers to the site of the secret institute. Apparently Amnut’s uncle was not quite as discerning as he.
Plato followed his guide adeptly, scurrying through the maze of alleys and carts. The smells of cooking and urine assaulted Plato’s nostrils. Laundry hung overhead in colorful strips, and bells and metal clanged and chimed around them chaotically.
Amnut came to an abrupt halt. There was no grand portico, no signs. There was a steep stairway leading into a cellar beneath a two-story, grey stone building that had been built and rebuilt in the same spot many times. A cart almost blocked the access completely, and without his guide Plato would surely have missed it.
A mother hollered from above them, and he heard the sound of children running while a baby cried for food or sleep. At the base of the stairway there was a thick wooden door, above which Plato looked for the carving of the right eye of Horus inside a gold circle. Marcus knew the symbol well and had seen it in other times and cultures, always referring to the great third eye or “eye of protection.” It was the sign of the Mystery School within.
Plato overpaid Amnut and sadly bade the grateful boy farewell. Marcus guessed that the young man’s sole purpose in this lifetime was to lead travelers to the School of Mystery. Amnut had never entered the rooms himself.
Arriving at the Mystery School was exciting. Plato’s Marcus-brain revved with anticipation. There had been no secrecy in Atitala—there had been no need—but now there was a password. Plato knew the sacred statement that would identify him as a friend and would open the school to him. It was catalogued with every other significant and insignificant detail in his Marcus-brain.
As expected the door was locked. Plato knocked on the thick barrier. Nothing. After a few moments he knocked again. This time the door opened a crack and a middle-aged man in a colorful robe peered out.
“Anima mundi,” Plato whispered quietly, though it was unnecessary. The village was so loud around him he could have shouted. The words meant “world soul,” the energy that unites everything.
“Anima mundi,” the man repeated, stepping back so that Plato could slip inside. The door swiftly closed and locked behind them.
Plato immediately searched the faces of the men and women, girls and boys all looking at him curiously. The room glowed with the indigo hue of the Emissaries, but none of them was Theron. Marcus was disappointed and retreated deeper into Plato’s consciousness, despite the abundant warmth and friendship of the place.
The small space was lit and sweetened by beeswax candles that were placed on each of six rough-hewn tables. The seats were simple wooden benches, grooved and polished from centuries of use. The floor was dirt and sand that was often swept and neatly raked. There were twenty people huddled in cozy study groups in the quaint front room. The stone walls were unadorned and were dark and grey. Small sporadic holes up high near the ceiling allowed for airflow but let no light in.
The cleric who had opened the door welcomed Plato and listened intently as the newcomer accounted for his arrival. Plato was led further into the school to meet the high priest. He entered through a low doorway and came soul to soul with the familiar and powerful karmic energy of Red Elder. He was elated.
“Good high priest, I am known as Plato. I come to you a humble student,” Plato said, lowering his head. His Marcus-brain was at full attention, sending him waves and zaps of information through past-life memories and images.
“Marcus,” the high priest said cautiously. “I am happy to greet a familiar soul from ages old.”
“Red Elder? I cannot help but wonder how you know me,” Plato replied suspiciously, his mind reeling. Red Elder had memory. Could Red Elder have been the cloaked director in the caverns with Helghul on the night of the exodus from Atitala? Was it possible?
“And I cannot help but wonder … why … unlike your fellow Emissaries … you know me? Your memory was immediate. How can it be?” Red Elder asked. “I feel your mistrust but worry not, I am with the Light.”
“But you have memory?”
“Yes,” the high priest confirmed, wanting to alleviate the Emissary’s alarm. “It is my role to educate and to be the Keeper of Records. It is essential that I have unlimited memory. It is a blessing and a burden in equal measure, as I am sure you have learned.”
“It makes sense. What good is it to have no memory? What good can an Emissary be without memory?” Plato inquired. “I see them faltering, their auras bright and bountiful but their heads foggy and unaware.”
“You are mistaken, friend. The knowledge of the Universe is woven through their souls. It does not leave them. Once learned, the wisdom stays with them and grows stronger as they learn, deep and eternal. It is like the foundation of a great building, forever remembered in every cell and vessel. It is your predicament to remember what you need not, Marcus. How does it haunt you?”
“Theron. Have you seen Theron? I search for her still.”
“I have known her many times and she has made a difference—she is the brightest of an impressive group. You will be tested, Marcus. Your choice to have memory brings much heartache and pain with it.”
Plato nodded, but pressed the priest further. “I have no doubt that you are correct. I hope that by coming here I can move further on my path, but is she here now? Do you know where I can find her?”
“No, she is not here. You must know that to look for her is futile. The soul of Theron is well at work somewhere on this plane or another. Only when it is destined … only then will your paths cross again.”
“I understand,” Plato said miserably.
“How is it that you remember? How is it so? Leave nothing out, I am not your judge.”
“The day of the reckoning I followed Helghul, do you remember him?”
“Go on,” Red Elder said, nodding.
“It is still not totally clear to me, though I know that the images of that day have plagued my dreams and sent me nightmares in many lifetimes … I remember a high cavern and I h
id from view and watched … I can still feel my fear, my overwhelming horror … they murdered the children … smashing them … but I did nothing.”
“They killed the innocent to strengthen the Dark Energy … the Darkness feeds on murder and sacrifice,” Red Elder explained.
“Helghul was there with others, chanting … and there was a person in charge … someone leading them, though I couldn’t tell who it was. Helghul was sacrificed.”
“Helghul? They killed him?” the high priest asked, his eyes wide with surprise.
“No, not dead … he was cut or injured, but something took him … from the inside out. He was consumed and a darkness entered him. I looked away … I cannot speak as a scholar about what I saw, it is too inconceivable … and even now my mind runs from it,” Plato said.
“What happened next?”
“Helghul drank from a vial. I heard it said that the liquid would enable him to remember in future lifetimes. I hid until all were gone and … before I left … as I was leaving I saw it … I retrieved the discarded bottle.”
“You risked dark magic? Were you not afraid or hesitant?”
“I was afraid to forget. I chose to remember,” Plato said defiantly.
“Is it possible that you endure this choice for the love of Theron?”
“Yes, for the love of one,” Plato replied.
“No … for the love of Theron. The love of One is something altogether different,” the high priest corrected.
“You remind me of my mentor Socrates, with your challenging and reorganizing of my words,” Plato said, smiling. His initial distrust had been eliminated and he was calmed by the soothing karmic energy of Red Elder. The men spoke for a while longer, and then Plato was taken to a group with which his needs for learning would be met.
Plato remained at the school for many months. The students were advanced in thinking and understanding and were led almost exclusively by Red Elder personally. Plato read and studied the ancient wisdom of the Emerald Tablet, first expanded into texts centuries before by Red Elder when he was Hermes. The scriptures were always a new lesson, in every word and phrase a myriad of meaning and direction. Each carefully chosen syllable was a beacon on the path to the purest form, to the ultimate Oneness with God, and each time he read the documents Plato gleaned new meaning and understanding.
Plato never saw the actual Emerald Tablet; it was carefully hidden and well guarded. When Plato inquired about the need for such precautions, the high priest explained that the tablet was the key to universal power and balance.
“How?” Plato had asked, intrigued.
“That is not for me to tell. Each soul must journey on its own path to find that answer,” Red Elder had replied.
Plato heightened his spiritual awareness and understanding alongside his fellow seekers. As his Marcus-brain grew clearer in voice, he found himself thinking more often of Theron. Plato remained uncertain about what he should do next in the world. He meditated, wrote, and prayed, but Marcus doubted himself and blocked the growth that he was not yet ready to receive.
Plato wished that Socrates could have visited such a miraculous place and could have met Red Elder. They would have had brilliant conversations, and he would have loved to listen to them. Plato often had questions for the high priest, and Red Elder was always willing.
After a few months of intense practice and study, Plato became restless and sought out the leader of the Emissaries.
“Why are we hiding? Why do we not parade the universal truth through the streets?” Plato asked.
“It is our role to make them think, not to feed them what they have no stomach to digest. Each person must begin a search of their own. Mankind is not ready … is not spiritually developed in this Bronze Age. Those who are meant to study will end up here or at one of the other schools around the world. When the light among men is bright enough, we will open the records and share the wisdom. There are Ages … prophets and development that have yet to occur. We cannot yet reveal the great knowledge and trust that it will not be misused or misunderstood. The magic science could be used for evil, to gain power. As we, the keepers of the Light, are striving, so are the conjurers of the Darkness. If the knowledge was freely given now, it would deepen the shadows into which we are currently descending. We are on the eve of a Dark Age of man.”
“How will I know when the time is right? When will my work be done?”
“For every soul there is a theme, a path that must be followed, and lessons that must be learned. It is for the Emissaries as for all others in the Grid of creation. Even when in service for the greater good, you must honor your own destiny and complete your own cycle of learning. I know you feel weary, but you are early in this journey. The journey is the reason. The experience and growth are your purpose. Milk each moment for the lesson and experience it offers. Do not spend your days searching for what is not there. See the lesson and wonder in every moment.”
“How can I find my theme or … my personal lesson?”
“It will find you, but you must be open, you must meditate and contemplate and live a mindful life. Your time here in Egypt is finished, Plato. You must move on.”
“I feel it also, but to where? Back to Athens? There is nothing for me there.”
“It is your choice. If you seek answers, you may choose to journey to the Oracle of Amun in Siwa and ask your questions, but it is certainly time for you to move forward.”
Plato contemplated the advice for a moment. The Oracle was renowned, and Plato had previously wondered if it might be a worthwhile journey. It may help him find Theron.
“In future lives, how will I find you?” Plato asked.
“When our paths are meant to cross again, they will. If it is wisdom and comfort you seek, you need only be introspective as you have practiced, and you can join the Universal Web of Energy. You are never alone, Marcus. We are all One,” Red Elder reminded. Though Plato knew it was true, he did feel alone, and Marcus was no less determined to find Theron.
Within days Plato sent word to the young guide, Amnut. Siwa was three days away across difficult desert terrain, and Plato needed experienced guides. Amnut, with the help of his uncle, was efficient and well prepared with camels and provisions, for a price. Amnut’s uncle’s colors were dull and gloomy compared to the luster of his nephew’s, and his surly disposition was obvious.
The journey to Siwa was smelly and uncomfortable. Plato ached from the relentless jostling, but he loved the efficiency of the camel’s physiology. He watched in wonder as the animal’s toes spread and gripped on each sandy step.
Amnut was a joker, and Plato found himself laughing aloud as he had not done since losing Socrates. He would truly have felt light and happy in his adventure if he could only have lived in the moment, if he could only have been a man with one lifetime and no longing for Theron tugging at the corner of his contentment. Marcus was sad to be alone in his past-life memory and wished it were Theron speaking jovially from the camel beside him.
They rode for three scorching days across the vast golden desert. The sameness of the landscape and the slowness of the mounts gave the illusion that they were standing still. It was a different world, and it was hard to imagine that this place existed on the same planet as Athens. On the cold nights they slept under the expansive starry sky, and the moon and stars were bright and close. Plato was happy to converse with the curious Amnut.
“So you say, everything has … soul and moves in patterns? The planets, sun, and moon?” Amnut clarified in choppy Greek.
“Yes, and they are all spheres. They are like a ball, not flat like papyrus. And, yes, they have an ethereal soul and are alive, just like you.”
“How do you know? Why do I believe you?”
“You shouldn’t. You should seek knowledge for yourself, not let your head be filled by others. Your questions are well thought and indicate a strong mind. Have you been to school?”
“My father say … school is for weak and wealthy … and I am non
e …”
“Your mind is like clay. If you shape it and mold it constantly, adding new wetness and knowledge, it will stay malleable and changeable. If you let others form it, never seeking knowledge of your own, it will harden and grow brittle and weak,” Plato replied.
Amnut’s uncle snorted his disapproval from across the fire.
“You disagree? Please share with us your thoughts. I am a man who believes my knowledge can always be improved upon,” said Plato.
“You would have him believe the lessons of his father are worthless,” the uncle said clearly.
Plato was surprised by his mastery of the Greek language. He had not heard more than a few words from the older man thus far. “No disrespect was intended. It is only that I see in this boy a great mind, and I hope that he will continue to question the world around him and learn what he can to improve himself.”
“Who are you to say that he needs improving?” the old uncle groused, and he slumped his body away from the fire, not wanting to offend a paying customer who had yet to pay.
“Oh, Uncle, only this morning you shout loud for everyone to hear, the many ways I could be improved!” Amnut laughed, and his offended uncle smiled despite himself.
The temple of Amun was a lush oasis, rewarding the weary travelers. The sanctuary and its community rested on the bank of a large lake surrounded by thick vegetation and groves of shady palm trees.
The village was bustling and there were many dressed in the robes of priest and monk. The locals regarded the party curiously—always welcoming but cautiously aware of visitors. Amnut accompanied Plato to the base of the main temple.
“This is … best I can do. We wait outside?” Amnut asked.
“No. This is where we part, young friend,” Plato said, climbing down from his camel after Amnut directed it to kneel. “You are free to return to Heliopolis when you wish. I do not know where and when I will go from here.” Plato paid the balance of coins owing for his transit, fleetingly grateful for the continued patronage of his wealthy uncle.
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