Marina, as her accent gave away, was from Boston. She was in her late thirties or perhaps early forties. Her unnaturally blonder-than-blond hair reached the middle of her back and was in bad need of shampooing, let alone conditioning. She wore Jesus sandals under a multicoloured dress that resembled a tunic or a sarong. The outfit was very unflattering to her ample figure. She had a ring at each chunky finger, on both hands. And she suffered from eczema. From the ego-stance of my flawless skin, shiny locks and perfect figure, my first reaction was one of pity. She was formerly a typist who then became a personal assistant: yours. You two had met five years previously, at the start of your artistic career. She had worked magic to help you promote your work in Massachusetts. Then she took your exhibition to New York. The rest was history. When she finally reached you, she hugged you.
“This is my best friend, Marina,” you said. “And this is Cassandra, my new friend.”
She scanned the very soul of me. “Oscar’s friends are my friends,” she said.
Something was out of alignment in the situation. The affection she was displaying towards me came across as phoney. I knew she wanted to keep you all for herself, like a mother wants to protect a baby from growing up. There was also something out of balance in your interaction with each other. A co-dependency which didn’t seem very healthy from the first time I saw it in action. You were behaving like a guilty schoolboy who’s been found playing truant. She was the benevolent headmistress ever ready to turn a blind eye. Puzzling stuff.
We left the stone and went to sit on one of the benches. We could see an area which had been cordoned off from the public. Inside that precinct there was a lot of commotion: film scenes were to be shot there later that day and throughout the night. People moved to and fro, carrying cameras and lighting equipment. They’d pitched a big marquee with changing rooms, a hair and make-up point for actors and extras, and a chill-out area. Marina pointed to the set. “I’ve already been to see the lovely Layla.”
She said that name as if she were pushing a dagger through my heart. As though she wanted to hurt me and rejoiced in my pain. I didn’t know why back then. At the time I think I assumed she felt threatened by me. I wasn’t too far off the mark.
You went to talk to someone from the film crew to arrange for me to go in, to see the set and meet the cast. Layla McIntyre was the star of the movie and you personal friend; but Alex Montgomery, the celebrated film director, would be there too. You thought it’d be cool if we’d all meet and talk about the Templars on one of their ancient training grounds.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes. Marina, don’t slag me off while I’m gone!”, you said.
“The boy’s completely unpredictable, I’m telling you,” Marina said. “Says he’s going for ten minutes and may come back in ten hours... But maybe not this time because you’re here, and he likes a pretty lady!”
She didn’t laugh: she roared. Was she trying to be nice to me or to insult me? She went on to investigate the whereabouts and every detail of how you and I had met. I gave her a glossed-over account. She kept insisting that you were a bit of a skirt-chaser. I didn’t like to hear that. My dislike of her had become fully blown by then.
“I hope you have a strong disposition, my dear,” she told me, “and a firm sense of self. Oscar is a bit of a Casanova, you see, and the champion of heart-breaking.”
I blushed and hoped she didn’t notice.
“He’s just a fun-loving spirit who can never say no to a bit of that! For all of his passion though, he gets bored very quickly. Thought I should warn you, you seem to be really fond of him and he obviously likes you, pet.”
She touched the tip of my nose and giggled. “I don’t want to put you off him, far from it. He’s a wonderful, wonderful man. But he has very big issues. They’ll become noticeable as you spend more time with him. Though there is a fabulous reward that he brings to the lives of his friends: pure magic.”
“I have seen his magical side...,” I said. “As far as the rest goes, well, it doesn’t really matter or apply to me.”
Your voice called out from a distance, stopping the progression of my paranoia. You were waving at us from the barrier, indicating that we should come over. In the marquee, we sat with director Alex Montgomery at a richly laid table. He was a handsome man in his late forties who could have easily been an actor himself, solely on the basis of his chiselled looks and sophisticated charm. The impressive wealth of knowledge he possessed on the Templars surprised and impressed me. He had researched the Order not just in depth but also through the most unusual channels. His account of the life and deeds of Joan of Arc was true to the esoteric tradition. He remarked how that the Maid of Orleans had learnt her battling skills from the Knights of the Temple of Solomon stationed in Scotland. His movie was inspired by a legend that reported how Joan was the custodian of the Baphomet, an object which was the source of her knowledge of secret teachings and the reason behind her success in battles.
Alex was also interested in the other popular belief that Joan was a witch who had the gift of prophecy, the privilege to talk to invisible Beings and who was a sort of high priestess of a very ancient naturist religion based on witchcraft, magic and the art of healing. Mainstream books don’t talk about that at all. But he understood the symbolism behind the gestures of the Maid of Orleans and their deeply initiatory meaning.
The real Joan of Arc was kin: she was one of us, a pioneering spirit whose attempt at turning into an angel had been distorted by the era in which she had landed and the customs that characterised it. I was delighted to meet Mr. Montgomery in the flesh. He was fulfilling a very important role in the Plan, bringing secret knowledge into mass consciousness. In years to come, he would become a spokesperson for the Transformation Movement.
Layla joined us half an hour later. Getting out of her character’s armour was a time-consuming activity. She looked like Joan of Arc in real life. Her red hair had been cropped and dyed black for the part. The Maid was renowned for her athletic built and strength, and at six feet she towered over most men of her time. Layla’s body was also statuesque and powerful, and her features were androgynous. She looked much younger than her twenty-two years of age, with a splash of freckles on her nose, and with kind, innocent eyes. She had the endearing mannerism of a clumsy young man. Alex’s casting had been impeccable. She was beautiful in an unusual way. I could see why you had been drawn to have an affair with her.
She still held a torch for you, it was obvious, whatever had since happened between you. You went to great lengths to ensure that door stayed firmly closed: you held my hand all the time and caressed my hair often. How could I believe anything Marina had told me when you were treating me that way?
Chapter 5
A LOVE OUT OF THIS WORLD
______________
Springtime had arrived light-footedly. The day was approaching when you would leave me to go to Mexico for four weeks. Up to the second week in May, we’d spent every waking hour together. We’d walked every inch of Edinburgh following the not so random path our hearts had set out on. I showed you all my favourite places, and you made them yours. Now we were going to be apart for a while. I kept sweeping this looming fact back to a remote corner of my mind. The information had somewhat not quite registered even on the day before your departure, which happened to be a warm and sunny Sunday. We met in the New Town and decided to go for a walk in the Botanical Gardens. Falling in love with you was inevitable that springtime.
If I close my eyes I can recall that day in detail, with its scent of cherry blossoms and freshly cut grass. Sunrays streamed through the foliage above us. A soft breeze was blowing. The wonder of spring filled the air around the lawn. A dim melody played in my head. Creation was serenading us. Hand in hand, we stopped in front of a blackberry bush. You fed me its fruit. Its sweetness hit my palate as soon as it touched my tongue. Your fingers lingered on my lips: I half-licked them. Was that the sugar from the berry I was tasting, or the anticipation in y
our fingertips? I followed your movements with trepidation. We were merging with the atoms in the air, breathing them, becoming one with them and them with us. I’d been waiting for your kiss for days. For my entire life, it seemed. Another opportunity had presented itself and again you didn’t take it. You kept me waiting. I ate the berry. But most of all I wanted to suckle on your soul. I wanted to taste your tongue. I wanted to drink the life sap that animated your cells. I was yours. I was losing the boundaries of my very being in you.
Memories of that perfect May afternoon fuse my soul to this day. I was drawn to you like a moth to a flame. What would my life be like without you from then on?
“I’m leaving, Cassandra.”
I looked away from your face. A part of me thought it was impossible for you to separate from me and go away. You explained the reason for your journey. Your voice seemed to come from far away.
“I’m going to Teotihuacan.”
A shadow entered my mind. The journey you were about to embark on was unavoidable. It had been planned before our paths crossed.
“Tlaloc Gomez, a Toltec artist, has invited me to attend a spiritual gathering where I can meet a famous nagual... he has something to teach me...”
You were training to become a shaman, I knew, although you were sworn not to talk about it. I respected that. I wasn’t thinking of the detail of your forthcoming mission: the berry you fed me was still in my mouth. So sweet was it on my tongue I couldn’t bear to eat it yet. A metaphor for where we were in relation to each other.
I took your hand and held it on my face. I kissed your palm. It was my pledge for you to stay. My timid prayer for that shadow to go away, not you. Your silent answer was ‘no’. Your spiritual call came first, even before your art and before me. I loved you even more for that. You were torn. You faltered. Unspoken thoughts grabbed your attention. I kept whispering kisses on the palm of your hand, letting them beg you to hold me. Your body wrapped itself around me as if your soul was melting with mine, spurred by my innocent caress. But the shadow around us was growing stronger and reaching out to envelop us.
Yet your hold felt powerful and immense. There, in the meadow, by the blackberry bush, we entered forever, together, if only for a split second of human time. The shadow couldn’t reach us there. Eternity’s embrace has a vastness and a stillness words cannot describe. We couldn’t hold back so we held each other tightly, in silence, under the dance of the sunrays above us, through the leafy branches and into our hearts. Interwoven by enchantment. Pledged to the everlasting. Me and you, you and me. The early springtime sun our accomplice. Two easy preys to love’s arrows. A long, grave silence surrounded us.
“I don’t really want to go, Cassie.”
The spell was broken by your voice, to my delight. Your tone was deeper than normal but as musical to my ear as nothing else I’d ever heard before our first encounter.
“I’ve never felt this disconcerted before a spiritual gathering. I don’t like the way I feel. I am in two minds. You read me in full... Normally my spiritual and my artistic work would be all I can think of, all I can dream about... but now all I think about is you... And I don’t know if it’s healthy...”
I marvelled at your courage and honesty, and reassured you.
“I agree, it’s not a good thing, Oscar. It’s premature, to say the least. That’s why we feel confused. I have the same problem. I’m with you all the time apart from when I sleep. And I don’t sleep much because I can’t wait to get up and run to you upon awakening. My life is pointing to one direction, revolving around one fulcrum. I’m kind of losing my sense of self, in a way. I feel dizzy, though happily so, and I don’t know what to do. It’s like I’m spinning fast and I’m losing the grip on my normal life. Everything is slipping through my fingers apart from you. Well, now you’re also slipping away... In the end all I do is spend time with you, in conversation or in silence. Nothing else matters, as long as we’re together. That’s my call. And that’s my peace. I am baffled at it myself...”
You scratched the top of your head with the endearing gesture I’d already come to recognise as one of your idiosyncrasies. I drew a deep breath and walked away from you. I sat down under a pine tree, leaning my back on its trunk in search of support and reassurance. You flicked a curl away from your eyes and joined me where I was sitting. After some manoeuvring of your long limbs among the knotty roots of the tree, you squeezed your tall body next to the minuteness and frailty of mine. My sadness exploded into happiness.
“What are we going to do, Cassandra?”
You were afraid of our love, it was obvious. And I was concerned that you feared it. I didn’t know what to answer. A pinecone fell at our feet, missing your right foot by one inch. You picked it up and put it to your nose, letting the evergreenness of its fragrance feel your nostrils. Then you handed it over to me. As I touched it, I realised what I had to say.
“The Universe has answered your question, Oscar. The message from this pinecone is that we are eternal, we are for keeps. When all our fear is washed off our hearts, we will be ready.”
The atmosphere between us became solemn. We entered the Speechless Realm. The air around fizzled and atoms accelerated, refining their Cores, titillating and unifying our senses in the process. The Earth started to speak to us in the Secret Language, which sounds like water, emotions and belonging. You could hear it too. We had become Light and merged with our souls. All the birds in the Botanical Gardens flew over to the tree under which we were sitting. I felt like Snow White in the forest in the Disney movie. A fearless Snow White, mind you. A magic woman. A shaman. In touch with my true animal power, my feathered totem, my primal soul. All flying creatures were my relations. They gathered there to honour and acknowledge that. The words I told you seconds before weren’t the offspring of my rational choice. They came from a natural urge, one without an explanation. Pure instinct. The Earth itself was speaking through me. She had taken me to my first long-lasting timeless experience with you.
Our totems appeared. A butterfly landed on my leg. A lizard crawled on the trunk next to your head. The first stood for transformation and the second for alertness and protection. The makings of our future were being played out through nature’s symbols. Matter rarefied as if it were air, our physical bodies gave way to the Light, our souls turned to gold. No boundaries, no space, no time, no more words. Just essence. Pure potentiality. As real as we can be.
Your eyes were wide open, staring into mine and into eternity. I could see your soul through them. How long we stayed in that ecstasy, I cannot tell. The music-box-like tune of an ice cream van broke the spell. We came back to our bodies like a shock.
“Fancy an ice cream, Oscar?,” I said, massaging my forehead to ground myself.
You grinned and stood up. In those days we had a tacit agreement not to talk about our merging with the Light. We would shoulder it as part and parcel of our connection. Speaking about it would only detract from the experience. We were a psychedelic dream and the Earth was our dreamer, our dream-maker. Two souls, naked in the sunshine, surrendered to the Life Force. Ready for adventure, whatever that may be. After all, we had managed to keep one step ahead of the Darkness, at least for a while.
“Cassie, I can’t get over how lovely you are, with the sun in your hair...”
Words. Like darts to my heart, target hit. No action yet. Ah, the torture we were inflicting upon each other, and that unbearable longing, bursting like a flooding river in our young limbs.
“I am your mirror, Oscar, I am just your mirror, my magical friend,” I said.
Heavy silence on the grass and, like morning dew, on the jewels in our hearts. I could touch the depths of your love.
I found the courage. “Go, now, before you change your mind. I can’t allow you to do that.”
It was written in the stars. It would have been pointless to try to alter a mere sentence in the Book of Life. Distance means nothing to the Eternal Flame. Time is insignificant for those of us who
can taste eternity. I was sad all the same. I slipped a piece of paper with my address on it in your pocket, put my forehead on your chest and then I walked away without hugging you. Not once did I turn to watch you as you stood tall in the meadow, the sun playing with your hair and your eyes of amber.
It hurt, you know, to let you go. Once you experience completeness in a human form, it’s almost impossible to conceive of separation, and it’s physically painful to go through it. As I walked away from you, my shadow cast its shape ahead in the midday sunshine. The day was turning hot. I wore the sadness that only a requited lover can bear. I found it exciting, verging on the erotic. Your eyes were fixed on the roundness of my bottom. My hormones were dancing in my womb. A cloud in the sky flew by. It had the shape of a dragon. I heard your steps move in the opposite direction. Our time apart had truly started. When was it going to end?
I prayed to the air and the sky: “Please, time, run fast, and help me be strong while my love is away.”
I dragged my steps. I was determined not to cry. Something darted in my peripheral sight. It startled me to the point I had to stop and catch my breath.
* * * *
Shambhala, May 1993
The Earthly outpost of Angel Activity is the beautiful oasis of Shambhala, hovering over the Gobi Desert. That’s where we live. This place is invisible to the human eye. It vibrates to the pulsation of the fourth dimension, a parallel realm of potentiality also known as the plane of ideas. Art and music are the paths to this realm. Here, reality and unreality swap places, and time and motion are recognised as illusions. The Arts originate in the fourth dimension, as do many of humanity’s dreams.
Human beings are vessels for the symbols the Universe conveys in the guise of art. These symbols are what we call the Secret Language. Initiates into the Mysteries of Ascension are always on the lookout for the signs the Earth is sending their way in the form of art. They point them back home while they are in the third dimension, the realm of materiality, duality and separation. By contrast, spirit, potentiality, monism and unity rule in Shambhala.
Star Woman in Love Page 7