Summoned by Silence
Omens swarm my psyche, as does the dark corona which looms, stalking my shadow. I hide in between the shade, damning the eternal sun. Summer never seems to end, it only gets increasingly vicious. Before me is a great tree — resembling the Kabbalah. Nobody lives here, I’m utterly isolated. The only company I keep is a golem, stout and squat. Occult symbols decorate my medicine bag, and sigils swirl about my consciousness.
My sigh of relief is symbolic of an opening ritual. I shuffle the tarot and place my cards atop a crag. The ocean air billows below my archaic altar, and I close my eyes. After the reading I collect my things, wrap them in a bindle and start toward a location even more remote. I’d hate for a ships appearance on the horizon to interfere with my concentration.
I have fasted for a time, watching the moon cycles alter in the never ending skies. The gods watch over me from beyond, like keepers. Sorcery consumes me fully, as the inanity of everyday life does the cities far far away. I’m termed a bogeyman, living outside the lines. No one dares approach my invisible throne, despite their desire for riposte.
The emptiness invites a sanctity few know but many seek. Although the holy grail has been sought, betwixt the cup and the lip is a gulf as wide as the Universe itself. Outstretched and prostate before the pagan gods, I invite their intercession. The blasphemy is sacred as I utter it from depths unknown.
Lightning flashes across the sky and thunder follows behind. A stray mare having lost its band appears before me, and I take it as a sign. Gently, I move toward it with my hand outstretched, and although uncertain of my intentions, it gives in to my touch. I commune with this spectacular being, and show it affection.
Shortly thereafter it gallops off, and as I return to my ceremony I receive visions of those who’ve gone before me. It occurs to me that external factors are obstructing my true will. And no matter how far I run, I know civilisation is on the other side of the hill. I sit with my thoughts beneath a tree and consider them all. Each one appears before me like a life review. I won’t wait for providence to determine my fate.
The jinn arrive, and tempt me with a banquet. As far as I’ve come I’m not about to turn back, and sabotage my efforts at the banishing ritual. I’m here to rid myself of the blemishes on my soul, and I can’t do so without cleansing my physical vessel. Hark, I call on al-Lat, al-’Uzza and Manat: the exalted gharaniq! And as I do, three cranes fly over the palm I sit beneath.
They circle me in the skies above as I pummel the earth with both hands in sheer excitement. Oh, the satanic verses have served me well! Each crane lands before me, three in a single file. They begin to speak. I’m elated and confused simultaneously, as they speak a tongue I’m unfamiliar with. And why would they not? After all, they are the embodiment of Arabic antiquity.
Eventually, we begin to understand one another, as they utilise their wings to convey concepts to me in signs. I comprehend fully, but I don’t understand how. It could be the hunger and thirst talking, but I develop a knowing in my heart. I’m informed of an encounter I must have with my Holy Guardian Angel at Ghar Hira. I know the journey would be impossible for simple human faculties.
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But I’m able to remote view the location after the three cranes depart. And here’s where the light comes in: teleportation, of a spiritual nature. As lightly as I’ve travelled, with all ties to the physical possessions I’ve left behind now cut, I’m able to bi-locate, and meet with my Holy Guardian Angel. Not Jibreel, for I’m no prophet, least of all that prophet. Not in a previous life, not in this one.
I engage in all the preparations necessary to project myself to the cave. I undergo a ritual state of invisibility first, then switch to a resting position in which I am half conscious and half asleep. This allows me to slip into a complete zizz, and begin exploring the heavens astrally. I won’t be in Ghar Hira physically, but I’m unable to make the pilgrimage with limited physical energies.
It’s no coincidence that Ghar Hira is the location in which I’ll be met with my higher self. It has a rich history of visitations from the spirits, and this is no different. As I scan the meadows below me, flying high through the clouded skies, I see flocks of sheep and their herders, carrying staffs to guide them. Shortly I’ll be in the presence of an awesome spirit, the other me that is attached to my silver cord.
As I arrive, the cave seems empty, but a voice makes the interior shudder. All things big and small stand to attention, then bow to its greatness. Even in the spirit I fail to “see” my Holy Guardian Angel. But I have no body, no eyes, only vision and seven points of light radiating off me. I spend a time with my Holy Guardian Angel, and much is imparted to me. Back at my physical location the messages are being fed to me too.
What I learned from the experience, once I came to is not anything I can put into words. Spirit talks and one listens. But there are things we just can’t know or express in human terms. This transformative experience will live with me forever, and for this I’m most grateful. I wouldn’t recommend anyone else try it because there are hidden dangers the likes of which are impossible to impart.
I return, and I’m awoken to a pitch dark sky. Shining shyly are a few stars, but beyond that I have reached as far as I can go as a human being. I wouldn’t want to be a sage on a mountaintop revealing any of the secrets of the spirit. Everyone has their own Holy Guardian Angel, secrets and gifts that are specific to them. Chances are my guides will not enlighten the next man. Stumbling through the darkness and physically weakened, I walk toward a river, and drink from it.
No one can take away the joys I’ve experienced by connecting with the most high. And there’s a reason the three deities I called on are avoided like the plague. It’s been termed devil worship, another lie. Jinn and human beings have been in close quarters since time immemorial. We are the fallen, they are the fallen. And if God wishes to banish me to the depths of hell for doing exactly what his son did, that’s a chance I’m willing to take.
Spirits have been cast out — or so we are told, throughout history. An egregore is only an invention of the mind, they’ll say. However humans have the power to give life, to breathe it into the inanimate. Most won’t, because it’s culturally frowned upon. I return to my golem. I look it in the face and it scowls back. My talisman is not far behind. I watch my golem do a little dance, and it questions me into the dawn about my visit.
Little do men know the power we wield. They are too afraid to face the tools of the occult, due to stigma, and pressures from the church. I’d be told I’m fooling with devils, but what of it? If it’s my fate on the line, why should it concern anyone else? These are the questions nobody asks. Rather, they prefer to pile up riches on an earth where its entire system is built on sinking sand.
I sink my teeth into my first meal in days, and spirit begins to make less sense. While I’m not a disciple of prayer, I can’t dismiss its use. The clasping of hands together and the saying of rosaries might save you from the eternal fire. But I’d rather go down in flames enacting real change.
