Garden Where Four Rivers Flow

Uriel Hart

Description

"...and when you make male and female into a single one, so that the male shall not be male, and the female shall not be female...then you will enter the kingdom." From 'The Gospel of Thomas' If you were to weave together elements of the story of Jesus, the 'Song of Solomon', the atmosphere and feminine magic of a Celtic fairy tale, it might read something like 'The Garden Where Four Rivers Flow', the first book in 'The Passionate Master' series.Set in biblical times in the enchanted forest of Elnazar, it is a re-imagining of the love story of Mary and Joseph: the song of Rebekah, the weaver, and Heshel, the carpenter. Rebekah, the spider girl, the daughter of Ariadna, her childhood dream to weave the robe of rainbows. Invisible as the wind to her one true love. Heshel, son of the cedars and mortal king of the Fair Kind, his one secret desire to pursue the craft of the carpenter. It is the testimony of the Baal-Azar, the magi from the mountain, of his role in the birth of Yeshua, the Blue Star Spirit. Yeshua, Yeshua, thus named by the wind. Fated to be crowned upon the bitter cross. It is a eulogy heralding the coming of the divine androgyne. 'Tis the ancient, hidden tale of 'The Alchemical Wedding' So listen. Listen. Listen. Listen. To the Voice of the Silence. To the Voice of the Flame. The Prophecy, fulfilled. The Word uttered, proclaimed. For when the red star rises and the blue star descends, when these two have come to be as one, when goat lies with leopard and wolf with the lamb, salvation shall spring forth from the Rock of Horeb.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 16 juillet 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781803133348
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2022 Uriel Hart

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781803133348

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For the New Children, both old and young






Here stands the angel of the golden gateway,
a gateway that shines brighter than a thousand suns,
come from the garden where four rivers flow,
in search of his long-lost but not forgotten love.
This angel who once sang at the beginning of the all,
who shall sing once more at the end of all things.
So be wary you few who would come to this place,
who would walk through this gateway,
who would drink of these waters,
where three ways meet and time stands still,
for only the true heart may bear the rapture of the fair kind.
Yes, be wary of this book which is not a book,
whose words are writ in fiery tongue,
this nugget of gold from the alchemist’s cauldron.
Yet if still so willing, be you wild, wise and tender,
be you silent and still,
and listen to the angel’s song.
And listen to the angel’s song.


Contents
The Golden Gateway
After Today and Before Tomorrow
Neshama
Red Star Rising
Master of the Hidden Craft
Mother of a Million
The Silver Thread
Nocturne
The Valley of Gehenna
She Rides a White Horse
Loom of Ariadna
The Narrow Gate
The Quickening
Where Three Ways Meet
When Beauty Smiles
The Spiral Staircase
Machowl
Weeping Fire
One Stitch Unsewn
The Watchman’s Horn
Hungry Ghosts
Endless Echoes
Yuriko, the Lily and the Covetous King
Thrice Blessed
A Bruised Reed
The Pale Shadow
Quintessence
Wind Dancer
The Sacrifice That Is No Sacrifice


The Golden Gateway
Be still.
Be still now, our children.
Be still now, our joy,
our hope, our love, our light.
Take rest from your labours, from your sport and play,
safe held in our arms in the last light of day.
Come now, be heedful, hear the voice of the angel,
and listen to the David’s song.
And listen to the David’s song.

There once was a carpenter who lived in a clearing by the side of a mountain. And by the side of this clearing, by the side of this mountain, there stood a great forest of cedars. A mighty assembly were they, tall and majestic, all garbed in ancient coils of knotted bark and sea-green moss, vestments more wondrous than the robes of King Solomon. Like sentinels they stood, the vast girth of their trunks pulsating with power and vitality, their branches held high in endless prayer. To hear the voice of these cedars filled some with dread and some with joy, a sound of wind and waterfalls and crackling fire. Of demons that muttered. Of angels that whispered. Intoxicating too was the sublime scent of its fragrance, perfuming the distant valleys, pastures and plains, as alluring as the Queen of Sheba in all her splendour. Varied and many were the tales of those few, those few who dared enter the dark forest depths. Mysterious strangers unexpectedly met, drifting down pathways like morning mist. Shafts of iridescent light, dancing and shimmering high above the treetops, rainbows emanating from a source unseen. Tales of how the forest gave rise to strange thoughts and uncanny visions, stirred long-forgotten memories, both sad and ecstatic, of things somehow sacred and set apart. And as the eyes of many fell upon this unearthly gathering, rippling like waves upon an emerald ocean, some wondered whether it was not the wind that caused the trees to dance, but the trees that did cause the wind to be.
As for the age of these trees, none truly knew for sure. There were some who said they were a hundred years old. There were some who said they were a thousand years old. There were some who said they were as old as the mountain, and some that they had stood here since the beginning of the All. The Davids, the storytellers of the tribe, would sing to the children of this forest’s great beauty, exquisitely fashioned by some unseen hand, filled with a presence that caused tongues to be stilled and spirits to soar. And it was said that hidden somewhere in the dark forest depths, lay a grove no map could either trace nor find, for only the true heart could come upon it. An enchanted place, a magic place, at whose centre there stood a golden gateway, whose light burnt brighter than a thousand suns. The children would listen, their eyes glazed in wonder, their mouths hung wide open, bursting with curiosity and overflowing with questions, yet heedful of not breaking the storyteller’s spell. From whence had it come? To where did it lead? What manner of miracle shone beyond its twin pillars? And as they quietened their thoughts, sat as still as they were able, the words of the Davids sounded out ever more clearly. For this was the gateway to the heavenly garden as spoken of in the holy scriptures. The Garden of Eden. The Garden of Paradise. The Garden of Great Delight. The Garden Where Four Rivers Flow. This garden from whence we all once did stray.
How this carpenter loved the forest, this great family of cedars. He loved them as his family for they were his family. He loved to smell their fragrance upon the wind, to hear the music of their leaves, to see their roots delve deep into the earth, his mother, their branches reach high to his father, the sky. As a boy he had climbed them, always content to be held in their clasp, unyielding as a mother holding a newborn babe.
“Look. Look how high I have climbed. Look at me all you winged ones, for behold, I can fly with you. Look at me, my friends, in the village far below. Look at me if you can, for I am as invisible as the wind. I am as tall as a mountain. As high as the clouds. I can sail upon the moon. I can reach out to the sun and clasp the stars in my hands.”
His eyes would grow wide in awe and great delight, huge distances and limitless panoramas spreading out before him, far to the mountains, across the valleys and wide-open plains, all the way to the city and sea. And sometimes when he rested, enveloped in silence, he wondered if the great artist had seen such a vision when beholding earth and heaven upon the seventh day. For ever as such are the thoughts of our children.
When he was sick, his mother would make medicine from their leaves and bark and he knew wellness would return like spring after winter. Like dusk after dawn. Its taste was sweet and fragrant upon his tongue, upon his lips, for the ancient trees also loved his family, his tribe and circle, and so gave freely to them of their bodies. They loved to feel the tickle of the young walking ones upon their branches, to hear the songs of the old ones as they walked towards the shining beyond. Deeply they felt a timeless kinship, these trees of remembrance, forbidden to be felled by the axe of any man, except by the hand of the one they had chosen.
Here this carpenter lived with his wife in their abode of stone and cedar, and with her he knew great happiness. Through many seasons their love was forged and tempered, through lightning and thunder and arching rainbows, through the heat and the chill, the light and the dark. She loved to bathe in the merry green fire dance of his gaze and to look upon the lines etched upon his face. Some spoke of the times they had shared: of how they had laughed and smiled when they were still young, chasing the leaping salmon where the two rivers meet, of secret kisses beneath a high summer moon, of fierce arguments and frowns transformed as if by magic into shining smiles. Sometimes she would laugh with him, saying, “Oh, my love, my sweet man of green, filling my hearth with the scent of your mistress. How fortunate you are not wed to a jealous wife, for truly I know you share your good heart with another. Do you not know I see another has captured your heart? That I see the way you look at her, the tender touch with which you hold her, how you gaze upon her as she dances in the mist and twilight, the dawn and in the glow of a moonlit night? Shall I ever have to share you, my beloved husband, my willing servant and master?”
When still young he feared he would lose his love, for who could live with one so consumed with their craft? But now he saw the slight curve in her beautiful mouth, curved in an inward smile and felt only peace. For how he loved to carve the wood the trees had gladly given. These trees that taught him the inner mysteries of their very being and essence, that he might carve in knowing. And his craft was exceedingly beautiful and he did make for many: for his family and tribe,