Soul Matters, Book 2: Wrath of the Goddess
Chapter 11

Phil didn’t know what to do to prepare for this test. It had the potential for a complete disaster. Therefore he thought it best to send Betty off for a visit with the children at college. She would leave on a flight back East at Friday noon and not return until the following Monday. It would provide Phil with the whole weekend to complete the test.

On the other hand, since God was playing with time, the entire event might only take an hour in his study. But maybe not. He couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t want Betty to find him in some kind of catatonic state and have him institutionalized. Such a situation would be a hard-to-ignore signal of his insanity.

He made a final visit to Sandy for clarification on the whole past-life question. Phil wished he knew others with Sandy’s knowledge, and with Sandy’s discretion. It seemed somehow wrong to have Manuel and Sandy as the primary sources of knowledge in what had once again become a dangerous game.

The sad, inescapable fact was that there were no others, he acknowledged as he carried his offering of a half-rack of beer into Sandy’s house. Phil was isolated in a way that he had to also acknowledge was of his own choosing. His only real connection was to his kids. All other human connections were superficial at best. While not new information, Phil was only now feeling the loneliness.

Phil told Sandy about the results of the meeting with the Council of Punishment. Sandy thought for a long moment before he spoke. Today they sat in the living room before the giant, but silent, TV. A misty drizzle made the patio an inclement place.

“Did you know the research on birth marks led researchers to postulate reincarnation?” Sandy asked. “They found birth marks were the physical sites of serious injuries sustained in past lives.”

“Really?”

“I shit you not. It’s fascinating reading, but most Buddhists and Hindus will tell you remembering past lives is just another distraction. Better to deal with this life.”

“Then why this test?”

“The test is ingenious. Although, I have no idea how you could pass it.”

“Thanks,” Phil grunted. “But what’s the theory behind reincarnation? How does it work?”

“Your essence is indestructible, and it’s trying to find its way back to the Source.”

“Essence is different from personality and ego?”

“Yes. You have an ego, a soul and a spirit. Your soul is your creative potential. Your spirit is kind of your inert essence, the hidden battery powering all you are and all you do.”

“But why is it so hard to find our way home?”

Sandy laughed, “Good question. Think of it as rainfall. Each raindrop is trying to get back to the ocean. Some will have longer and more difficult journeys than others.”

“And karma?”

“Yeah. It’s an obvious factor. But each lifetime we have the opportunity to clear it all.”

Phil downed his beer and slid back in his chair, “Why does it have to be so hard?”

Sandy smiled at him, “I guess, so we appreciate it.”

Phil chuckled, and his self-pity dissipated. “It’s just a difficult concept -- reincarnation.”

“You believe in life after death. Why not life before birth? It takes the same leap of faith.”

“Maybe. The problems are the karma, genetics and environmental questions. Nature, nurture and karma, or nature, nuture with karma. It’s a confusing mess.”

“The more immediate concern is how you could influence someone you were long ago. He is also pre-determined by those three forces.”

“Yes,” Phil sighed. “How will I do that?”

“The philosopher George Santayana, who was an avowed atheist but also described himself as an ‘aesthetic Catholic,’ once said, ‘Waking life is a dream controlled.’ You’ll need to find a way to get control.”

Friday night came to his empty house. Betty didn’t sense Phil’s unease as he drove her to the airport. She was excited about her trip. He dropped her off and returned home. He sat for a long moment in his car after he parked it in the garage. Then he marched into the house with some trepidation. From the garage entrance, the kitchen was across a hallway to his left. Before him was the dining room. To his right was a spacious living room that led to an equally spacious deck beyond sliding glass doors. Next to the wall with the garage was a staircase that curved to the second floor and the bedrooms. Beneath the stairs, beyond the garage space, was the door to his study.

Phil approached his safe-harbor study with mounting anxiety. Stoically he sat on the black leather cushion and arranged himself into a full lotus -- a position he knew would keep him from falling over and getting injured. It had taken some doing to gain the flexibility to even sit in the full lotus, but it was one of his achievements when he practiced yoga many years ago. He began his meditation.

Once the singular door opened, he bounced into Manuel’s patio and announced, “I’m ready.”

“So am I -- I guess,” was Manuel’s reply.

Without any grand speeches or fond farewells, Manuel placed a hand on Phil’s shoulder to initiate their joint flight. They flew towards the Compound of Evil. Around this vast Compound was a mile-high black Wall. The Wall held endless scenes of wickedness, and similar to Manuel’s magic-wall, the black Wall was alive with real people acting out their iniquity along the bottom. Phil felt the familiar cold sapping his strength as they got closer. The Wall had that effect. It was a living, breathing monument to evil.

As they landed before the Wall, Azazel oozed through it to greet them.

Azazel was a desert devil they had outfoxed in Phil’s first adventure with Manuel. The devil was strikingly beautiful in an androgynous sort of way. He could be a handsome boy, or a sultry teenaged girl; his appearance suggested both. Lithe of body, even featured, with shoulder-length black curls, he exuded sensuality. His black robe even swayed to an unheard but provocative rhythm.

His voice was a husky tenor as he spoke, “I’m so glad you came. I asked for the honor of escorting you to your new home. Just follow me.”

Azazel put his hand on Phil’s shoulder. The touch deepened the cold Phil was feeling. All three of them flew towards the top of the Wall. The scenes here were frozen scenes rather than moving. They still depicted debauchery but appeared to be ancient acts performed by men and women long dead.

“Here we are,” Azazel cooed as he stopped to hover. “Just merge with that one.”

The devil was pointing to a fat man who was attended by young girls. He sat on a pillowed seat, and he was eating grapes.

“I was this guy?” Phil asked.

“About 2500 BC,” Azazel answered. “You’re a satrap for the Egyptians in Mesopotamia. Your challenge, though, happens before his rise to power. Get him to refuse what we offer, and you win the game.”

Then Azazel laughed, and it was not a sultry seductive sound anymore. Rather it was pure diabolical enjoyment. The laugh ended abruptly as he pushed Phil into the Wall.

For Phil it was as before when he merged with Virgnous. He felt like he was inside a videotape with the rewind button on. Images blurred and voices sounded backwards. He was in a seemingly endless free-fall. After an interminable amount of time, it stopped.

Phil was inside the man, but he hadn’t acquired the bulk he displayed in the Wall. He sat in a cushioned chair on a covered veranda overlooking a broad road that led to a ziggurat. In the background of that was a wall that encompassed the town. The air was hot and dry. The town’s colors were sandy, dusty and bland. It was all dust colored, including the sky. It was a depressing monochrome of a place, except for the clothing of the people. They were gaily dressed in brighter colors. All colors, he noticed, except purple and red.

Camels and donkeys jostled in slow rhythm with their burdens. Men and women were moving heavy sacks of grain and sheaves of bundled wheat. Some took their loads to the ziggurat; some headed for this building. Someone was fanning the man Phil merged with, and he held a goblet of wine in his hand.

His thoughts were all about wealth, and about those who could take it from him. An anticipated assassination plot bubbled to his mind, and it was a well-formed plot that included distractions and misdirection. He worried over the details of how to kill a rival chieftain and claim his lands. In sum, the man’s mind was over-full with scheming and double-dealing. It was a mind that was ceaselessly looking for leverage to enhance his position.

Phil was having trouble fully merging. It was much easier with Virgnous. Although, Phil realized, since he didn’t really want to merge with this monument to human greed and murder, perhaps that was why he was having trouble. He returned to assessing the town’s structure.

To either side of the road between the veranda and the ziggurat were narrow side streets off the main road where apparently the people lived. The houses were mud brick and squat. Filthy children played in the trash-lined lanes.

Along the building, next to the veranda, were stalls where artisans worked at their crafts. Yet they, along with the others Phil could see, carried themselves with a sad kind of reserve. These were not free people. They were serfs, bound it seemed to the city, the satrap, and probably the uncaring and brutal gods of the desert.

Phil could read the man’s mind, sense the emotions, have access to his memory, but it was as if he was peering through a thick window. Merging required Phil to climb through the window and share psychic space with him. It remained a revolting thought.

There was a commotion on the stairs leading to the veranda, and an armed guard brought Azazel and Manuel into the man’s presence.

“Lord Balbira,” Azazel said and inclined his head in a perfunctory bow. Azazel was dressed for the desert in pantaloons, turban and dark cloak. His dress looked expensive. “I offer you a new slave. He was once a servant of Ptah, but he has lost favor in God’s eyes.”

Balbira was the man’s name, Phil thought. But it was about all he knew at this point, other than his revulsion of the man’s huckster personality. He wasn’t picking up any other biographical details about Balbira at all. He could read his thoughts, but could not plumb the man’s depths. All Phil could tell at this point was he was repulsed by the man.

Balbira’s high-pitched voice answered, “You have been too long from my company, Azazel. Please stay for a visit. I have new girls who must be broken in.”

Then he squealed in delight and clapped his hands. Azazel smiled as he replied, “My manners are too boorish for your exalted highness. I do appreciate your offer, and I’ll return soon. I must still check on the progress of our project.” sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Find ɴøᴠel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Yes,” Balbira sighed. “Our project. You promised me many things when I annex my neighbor’s lands. Are you still prepared to pay what you promised?”

“Of a certainty, my lord. Our resources are substantial. We should enjoy a long and profitable partnership.”

Well, Phil thought, at least he knew what offer he had to refuse.

As Azazel left, Manuel stayed on his knees. He was dressed in a simple colorless robe, belted with a rope. He moved his body, as if praying, but spoke English, “I will be lost in the Flesh soon. Take heed to what I’m permitted to say. There is power, and there is Power. There is immortality, and there is Eternity. There is sacrifice, and there is the sacrifice of the self.”

Balbira addressed Manuel in a squealing, petulant voice, “What is this gibberish? Stop it and stand up.” As Manuel stood with bowed head, Balbira continued, “Well, you have the look of a man of God. What did you do to find your way to me?”

“They say I desecrated an idol, my lord, but it was a lie,” Manuel responded. “Others were jealous of my friendship with powerful people and accused me of crimes I didn’t commit.”

Balbira grumped, “Well, don’t desecrate anything here. The rabble is superstitious. They will kill you for sure. Now, go to the temple and do whatever it is you do.”

“Yes, my lord,” Manuel said and left with his escort.

Phil watched as they led Manuel along the road to the ziggurat. Eventually, Manuel disappeared into the warehouse at its base. Phil was really on his own now.

Balbira rose and stretched. Then he ambled down the stairs as well. Out of his peripheral vision, Phil could see the palace behind him. The veranda fronted a two-story building with sculptures of magical creatures adorning it. Adjacent to the building was another warehouse. Phil knew from the man’s mind, which was now focused on his wealth, that it came from taxes. The satrap and the priests shared the tax bounty brought in from the neighboring fields.

Phil also gleaned from Balbira’s mind that this was the city of Ur before its heyday. Warka was the regional power, and it was a two-day travel to the northeast. Balbira’s plot was aimed at one of the provinces controlled by Warka.

As Balbira surveyed his town, Phil could see how it was laid out. There were actually three temples around a central courtyard. Each temple was carefully placed in a symmetrical pattern and balanced around a central axis. The courtyard, though, was filling in with the narrow paths and mud huts lining them. Ur was growing.

This was a business, cultural, and political center on an order that surprised Phil. If this was 2500 B.C., things hadn’t changed that much over the millennia. Now Phil felt grounded enough in his surroundings to attend to the problem of fully integrating with Balbira.

Before Phil could jump into Balbira’s personality, the scene fast-forwarded to a dark star-studded night. Balbira was in his lavish bedroom. It held a monstrously large bed, which was open to the stars. He was frolicking on the huge lace-trimmed silk bed with three girls. None of them could be much older than thirteen years. Each was dressed in sheer gowns of different colors. They smelled of perfume, but Phil couldn’t identify the scents. Around the bed were lit braziers casting a flickering light.

Balbira was only mildly drunk at this point, and he was fully naked. He grabbed each of the girls in turn and laughed as he wrestled with them across the thin sheets.

Phil’s mind recoiled at the sight, and he shouted into Balbira’s mind, ‘Stop! They are only girls.’

Balbira’s mood abruptly turned to anger. He sat up stiffly and looked at each of the girls. Then, instead of stopping what he was doing, Balbira became enraged and struck one of the girls. As he did so, he snarled at her, “You will enjoy this or I’ll have you killed.”

Not knowing what happened, the girl fought back tears and hurried to rub Balbira’s shoulders.

Phil didn’t try to stop the man again. Instead he retreated into himself and knew there was no way he would be able to influence this man’s mind. It was already twisted into a set pattern. Phil’s objection, which apparently rose as a condemning thought in the man’s mind, only served to enrage him. Phil was powerless to help the girls, powerless to influence Balbira, completely powerless.

Withdrawn from Balbira, Phil reached out -- or up -- to his Higher Self. He knew from his dabbling in metaphysics that there was such an entity. He wasn’t sure what it represented, though. Perhaps it was the interface between the ego and God, but he wasn’t sure.

He found a ‘presence’ above the conscious mind and merged with it. The presence exuded compassion in an omni-directional way. Like a lighthouse on the beach, it provided a passive beacon of light and warmth.

Phil asked, “Are you my Higher Self?”

The answer was less than distinct. It was more a sigh that signaled an affirmative.

“Have you been with me since the beginning?”

“Always,” was the mute response.

“Can’t you do something?”

“I AM.”

“No. I mean, can’t you influence this version of me so it can get on the right track?”

“I AM.”

Phil grumbled in frustration as he realized what all mystics realize at some point: the Divine Within is not an active partner in the illusion of life on Earth. It was, rather, a passive presence, calming showing the Way. It was up to the ego to choose to follow it, or not.

Letting his frustration drain out, Phil settled into the abiding compassion and tried to ignore what Balbira was doing.

Finally, the scene blurred forwards again, taking him to the next day.

Balbira sat in his chair on the veranda once more. Before him was a stately matron of some rank. She wore fine muslin, and her dark hair was braided with beads. A golden necklace encircled her tanned neck, and bracelets were on her wrists.

She was saying, “The people need your support, Balbira. They have provided you with wealth so you might help them. It is for you to build aqueducts and dig wells; to provide them with teachers, physicians and priests. It is your duty to do these things for the people.”

Balbira stifled his anger and answered, “I do what I can, but the people need to look to their own welfare. I can’t have all of them dependent on me for everything.”

“The power you have is the power we give you, my lord,” she said with respect, but it was obvious she wasn’t going to back down. “You must complete the circle and use your power to benefit the people.”

The anger boiled stronger in Balbira. The thought running through his head was, ‘Who does this bitch think she is?’ He managed to subdue his anger somewhat and replied, “You dare talk to me of things you have no knowledge of?” It was a question in form, but an indictment in tone.

He calmed himself further and continued with a conspiratorial air, “I am preparing for war. The heathen has come too close this time, and I need all I have to conquer this threat to us. Go back to the temple and pray for victory, priestess.”

She inclined her head in a bow, but hesitated a moment before offering, “There need not be a war. I know the priests and priestesses of your enemy. There can be peace.”

“Ahhh!” Balbira shouted and stood. His wine goblet clattered to the stone floor. “You go to far this time. I will see you flogged for this treason. I will see you dragged by horses --”

Phil was frantically trying to calm Balbira down, but it wasn’t working. The man’s mind was too filled with hatred and fear and anger. He was convinced the war he was planning, coupled with the assassination plot, would bring him all he ever wanted. Azazel had helped him plan it, and Balbira was convinced this was his one road to power.

Phil tried to center himself to avoid letting total defeat roll over him. If that happened, he knew he would be sucked into Balbira’s emotional maelstrom and his soul would be forfeit. The game would be lost.

The priestess was speaking, even as she backed away from Balbira, “The Goddess speaks through me, Balbira, but she always finds another voice.”

Phil started at the priestess’ words. Could he do it? Could he channel Morrigan while inside this man? In this time and place, which was long before she even existed? Could he do it?

Deciding he had nothing to lose, he blocked out the man’s mind and centered himself again in the compassion of the Higher Self. He brought the clear image of Morrigan to his mind. Once the picture stabilized, he shouted to the mute statue of her. He shouted her name. And she awakened.

“Virgnous,” she smiled at him. “What do you seek?”

“I need you to be in my mind,” Phil said, still fighting back the panic he was beginning to feel. “I need you to fill me up with you. I am in terrible trouble.”

Still smiling, Morrigan pulled him to her. Phil could feel their beings blending. He lost his sense of location in her embrace.

When his consciousness settled again, he could feel her in his mind, like they were sharing brains. Phil opened himself to Balbira once again.

The veranda swam into focus, and Balbira was continuing to berate the priestess as he advanced on her.

Morrigan asked, “Whatever are you doing in this dreadful place?”

“It’s a long story,” Phil said. “I need you to awaken this man to Spirit. He is now in the clutches of Typhon.”

“He’s worse off than you think, Virgnous,” Morrigan said. “He has mistaken gold for God’s grace.”

Balbira had cornered the priestess and was threatening her with his fist raised. She had fallen and was holding herself up with one hand, while using the other to fend off the coming blow.

“Do something,” Phil pleaded.

“Of course,” Morrigan replied.

The presence of Morrigan in his mind expanded to a bright, condensed ball of yellow-white energy. Phil wasn’t sure what kind of energy this was, or how Morrigan created it, or for what purpose. But then she dropped this energy-bomb into Balbira. It seared through all his emotions, thoughts, habits, and prejudices, stunning them with taser efficiency. Balbira’s mind, body and emotions flash-froze right where they were.

Then Morrigan spoke to him, her alto voice ringing with the incessant effect of a temple gong, “Power, my lord, is an illusion. True Power comes from knowing Me.”

The house-of-cards structure holding together Balbira’s fear-based world collapsed. Balbira dropped to his knees. His mind was now empty, except for the golden-white radiance and Morrigan’s words echoing through the halls of his consciousness. Phil could tell the man was going into shock.

The priestess recovered quickly, bounced to her feet, and hurried to support him.

“Are you all right, my lord?” she asked. But he couldn’t speak. Others hurried to support Balbira and help him back to his chair.

Morrigan continued with a piercing voice, “My daughter will guide you. She knows my true name. She can lead you to my embrace. Rise, now, and remember only the Goddess can give you eternal bliss.”

Balbira staggered to a standing position and let the priestess and the servants guide him to the chair. As he settled himself somewhat, Balbira looked at his hands, which were shaking.

Phil could sense or feel a cascade going on within the man’s mind. Morrigan’s words shattered his beliefs about power, and those shards were falling to some deep unconscious ground. Phil followed them to where they stopped. At the bottom of the chain reaction was abject fear -- fear of his own death. It was this fear that organized all of Balbira’s life. The golden-white light shattered the structure Balbira built from this fear; it collapsed when Morrigan quelled the fear. As she transformed the fear to compassion, she brought Balbira to a new ground of being.

Fear of death, Phil knew, was the instinctual ground of being for all humans. Consciousness had to deal with it or be paralyzed by it. Balbira dealt with it by building a structure of beliefs about how to attain safety. Gold, power over others, and an indulgent lifestyle, he convinced himself, could keep death at bay.

While it was true fear was the emotion that announced there was a threat to one’s safety, death was an illusion. The flesh did die, no doubt, but the spirit lived on. Morrigan spoke to that inner truth, one that Balbira couldn’t reach on his own. This deeper truth, once triggered into dominance, acted like a flash flood through Balbira’s consciousness, washing away the fear and its structures that provided the illusion of safety.

Morrigan turned her attention to Phil and answered his unspoken question, “It is true for all humans. You hope for a life of eternal bliss, but you settle for sex, gold and murder. Don’t make their mistake, Virgnous.”

“No, my lady, I won’t,” Phil said. “But please accept my gratitude. Thank you. Thank you for answering my call.”

“It is my duty.”

“I understand that now. I found out that you and Green Man are my true parents,” he told her with some trepidation.

“Well, then, when this ordeal is over, you must come for a visit to your true home.”

“I would like to, but I don’t see how that would be possible.”

Morrigan paused, and it was as if Phil could hear her breathing in his mind. Then she spoke, “When this nasty test is over, you’ll be returned to the angel's patio. We will just detour to Eire. It won’t be noticed. The bigger problem is me. You activated my retired aspect. I’ll need to alert my active aspects that I’m merely on a sight-seeing tour.”

“You have many aspects,” Phil commented.

“That had to do with continuity. The Celtic people recycled everything, including their gods and goddesses.”

“There’s not much known about the ancient Celts. They left no written histories.”

“Then our visit will give you a window into our culture. That is only fitting for one who is the true son of the Lord of the Elements and the Sovereign of Ireland.”

Phil returned his attention to Balbira as his fear collapsed into the magma of God’s grace.

Balbira was not only recovering from his shock, but also from his internal realignment. Without his fear, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

His confusion led Phil to prompt him to take the priestess’ lead.

“Priestess,” Balbira stuttered. “The Goddess spoke to me.”

“She is always present for those who need her,” was the answer. “What does she wish for you?”

“To follow your advice.”

The priestess smiled wryly, “You know, my lord, the wrath of the Goddess has everything to do with refusing her love. Hell is the place that receives those souls, and it’s a punishment they bring on themselves.”

The comment caught Phil unawares, and his mind hiccoughed on its implications. Balbira wasn’t the only one whose life was based on fear. Phil’s life, which revolved around the security of his job, his marriage, his advancement up the corporate ladder, was also a fear-based structure that confined his existence.

He recalled that during the Sixties Revolution, the main theme was to drop out of a society that required just that kind of fear-based existence, the exact type of existence that brought the world to the brink of nuclear holocaust. It fueled the greed that defined American expansionism. In essence, it was the same plotline as Balbira’s story. This was the timeless choice each man and each society had to make: choose to mitigate the fear with the sacrifice of one’s soul, or choose to see beyond the fear to one’s true self.

If one chose fear and the structures built from fear, the punishment was certain – the satans would eat your soul. It was also a fate one brought on oneself.

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