tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25022966730635983462024-03-06T12:01:52.520-08:00Terra Umbra - Empire of Shadows<a href="http://shadowtheatre13.com/"><img src="http://shadowtheatre13.com/images/blog/terraumbra_blog_banner-01.jpg"></a>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-50737554505117236152012-10-05T15:50:00.000-07:002013-01-09T12:48:21.141-08:00THE OTHERWORLD – SHOOTING DIARY PART TWO : THE SECRET OF RENNES-LE-CHATEAU<br />
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“<i>When I drew nigh the nameless city I knew it was accursed</i>” -
H.P. Lovecraft</div>
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Some forty kilometers south of Carcassonne, not far from the Narouze
gap that separates the eastern Pyrenees from France's central massif,
the tiny Languedocian village of Rennes-le-Chateau abides, crouched
atop an oddly rounded plateau that rises like a spectral hump from
the rolling green and umber fields of the haut Razes. Even from a
distance its huddled roofs and narrow windows seem to exude a curious
watchfulness as if the village is awaiting fresh blood, fresh prey to
fuel the mystery industry that has fed it's civic coffers and
provided enough material for a string of international best sellers
ranging from Lincoln, Baigent and Leigh's 'THE HOLY BLOOD AND THE
HOLY GRAIL' to Dan Brown's 'DAVINCI CODE'.<br />
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It is not my place here to enter into a retelling of the strange
saga of the Abbe Berenger Sauniere who,in the dying years of the 19<sup>th</sup>
century allegedly unearthed a mysterious treasure hidden beneath the
foundations of his church, a discovery that enriched and blighted his
life and which has been driving hordes of grown men and women
crazy ever since. Over the course of the last few decades any number of folk have claimed to have 'solved' the Rennes enigma although, oddly enough, no-one has ever been able to
definitively prove what Sauniere really found beneath the church or indeed if he really found anything at all. The Ark of the Covenant, a genealogy
charting the sacred bloodline of Christ, a space time portal to
beyond infinity, even the body of Mary Magdelene or the tomb of
Christ Himself have been variously suggested. Certain iconoclastic
souls have insisted that the Abbe's prodigious wealth, can be readily
explained through trafficking in masses and extorting donations from
wealthy parishioners but this more prosaic view fails to take into
account the sheer demoniac fervor of the Abbe's restoration work, the
overpowering density of esoteric detail in the design of his domaine
and the curious, some would say downright malignant, atmosphere that
seems to rise from this isolated hamlet's narrow streets, as if the bedrock of the plateau and the very gorse and stunted ilex oaks
that cling to its tawny flanks breathe an unsettlingly occult air.</div>
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Marcel, the former grave digger, once told me that the real problem
with Rennes is that there are <i>'little people</i>', literally faeries or
elementals, living under the plateau that play tricks with people's
minds. Other folk, like Uranie, our unit sorcerer, who has lived
beneath the plateau himself for a good three decades now, are
convinced that the village is built over one of the seven dreaded
gateways to hell. In a public spirited gesture Uranie initially tried
to alert bypassers to this possibility by pinning boxcovers of Lucio
Fulci's 'GATES OF HELL' (1980 ), 'THE BEYOND' (1981 ) and 'ZOMBIE FLESHEATERS' ( under it's French release title 'HELL OF THE LIVING DEAD' ) to the fence bordering his property. In the course of the
twenty odd – indeed very odd – years since I first set foot in
Rennes I have come to believe there may be some truth to his theory.<br />
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Saint John's Night – June 23 2012 - Rennes-le-Chateau</div>
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“<i>I dunno, man,”</i> Karim shakes his head, gazing at the
distant outline of the village, the somber, crumbling ramparts of the
Chateau Hautpoul and the castellated, neo-gothic spire of the Tour
Magdala that even now seems to oppose the fiery sunset like the
jagged teeth of a skeleton key. <i>“There's just something about
this place that gives me the vibe every time. Really bad news. Bad
News Brown.</i>” Karim bears his teeth at the plateau in a silent
snarl. <i>“I can feel it from here.” </i>
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“<i>Yeah,”
</i>I nod slowly. <i>“But
it's one hell of a sunset though. And it's ours!”</i></div>
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I return my attention to the Canon C-300 which is currently pointed
due west towards Rennes capturing the fading, effervescent light in
all its high res, widescreen glory. Behind the plateau flaming,
vaporous clouds coil like a nest of multi-hued serpents,
twisting, turning and fading slowly into nothing.
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As above, so below: The daemon Moag directs...<br />
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For once our timing has been impeccable. It probably didn't hurt
bringing my personal daemon Moag with us on this leg of the shoot.
Certainly I wouldn't have dreamed of taking on Rennes without him.
Moag is currently perched in the crook of the stick I carved for him,
looking avidly on as Sylvain and Chloe Roberts, the new camera
assistant, set up a second angle and Corinne carries the pizzas up from
the car to the low hilltop where we have set up for the evening. We're well into the second
week of the shoot now and have had quite a day for ourselves. Not
only that but the best part of it, Saint John's night, a night of
magic and mystery is still ahead of us.<br />
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The
day got off to an inauspicious start when, despite my best efforts to
shoehorn myself into a suitably funereal suit and tie and get over to
'<i>Le Jardin</i>', the thriving esoteric bistro, just across the lane from
Sauniere's domain, to meet with one of the surviving authors of 'THE
HOLY BLOOD AND THE HOLY GRAIL', the creator of the original 'DOCTOR WHO' yeti monster, Henry Lincoln himself , we find ourselves given
the cold shoulder, having apparently arrived too late and 'missed our
chance' despite the fact that we had plainly rolled in with due time
to spare. Henry is notorious for playing
these sort of games with prospective treasure hunters and mystery
hounds who take the trouble to try and seek him out. Setting a
possible rendezvous with him for tomorrow we head for
Rennes-les-Bains to speak with local author Jeanne d'Aout. We had
intended to interview her at a location on the Salz river known as
'l<i>e font des Amor</i>' but the Saturday afternoon traffic at what is
effectively the local swimming hole is too hectic for our purposes.
Instead we repair to a site a short walk from Rennes-les-Bains where
a shadowy ring of trees surrounds an ancient source and a curious
seat hewn into a boulder commonly known as the '<i>Devil's Armchair</i>' or
the <i>'Seat of Isis'.</i><br />
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No-one knows how old this imposing granite throne
really is, a few centuries perhaps. The eight pointed star carved on
the back of the boulder appeared relatively recently, the product of
the same unknown hand that has been carving the <i>'star of Isis'</i> ( or
<i>'Rosette of Inanna'</i> ) into key points in the local topography (
Bezu, Peyrolles, Bugarach and here in Rennes-les-Bains )
corresponding to the points on the vast natural pentagram described
by retired British surveyor David Wood in his 1985 book 'GENISIS'.
Wood is just one of many voices over the years to propagate the idea
that the area as a vast natural temple built by the Gods rather than
by the hands of their human worshippers.</div>
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Jeanne is most co-operative telling us at length about her
experiences in the area that she views as a sacred valley, a gateway
to another plane of consciousness. It is impossible to ignore the
talisman about her neck, a replica of the 'Venus of Brassempouy, a
neolithic fertility goddess that we photographed only a few days ago
among the artefacts in Fabrice Chambon's collection back in
Montsegur. Reminding us how our English word <i>'sorcerer</i>' comes from
the French <i>'sorciere'</i> or one who can divine the future in sources or
otherwise draw on the magic of water Jeanne leads us back down to the
riverbank, to a place where the old, unpaved road fords the stream
and wends its way up through the trees towards a striking natural
rock formation known as <i>'Serbairos'</i> – a name redolent of both the
three headed guardian of the gates of hell and Bernadette Soubirous,
the young woman who famously saw the apparition of the <i>'white lady'</i>
in the grotto of Massabielle at Lourdes in 1858.<br />
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Sauniere dreamed of
turning Rennes-le-Chateau into another place of pilgrimage and,
working single handedly, gathered countless stones from the bed of
the River of Colours that he hauled back up the plateau in the
stifling heat of the meridianal sun to build a Lourde's grotto
outside his church,(above) a construction that has subsequently been all but
torn apart by successive waves of treasure hunters trying in vain to
second guess the Abbe's motives.</div>
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An ancient hermitage overlooks the ford where a large slab of rock
bears an enigmatic carving that we have come to know as the
'<i>dragonfly stone'</i>.<br />
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As above, so below: The secret of the dragonfly stone<br />
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The motif shows two dragonflies, joined at the abdomens as if in the act of mating, their bodies forming a spiral and what appears to be the head of an ankh. Each dragonfly has four wings – adding up to a total of eight – a symbol that will be familiar to anyone who has seen the '<i>The Mother of Toads</i>' segment of 'THE THEATRE BIZARRE' or has been following the ongoing debate over this curious artefact on the 'TERRA UMBRA' facebook page. Once again we find ourselves confronted by the symbol of infinity, of two worlds touching and the stepping stone to carry us across the river. It is no coincidence that this symbol, the figure '8' also appears on the blazon of the Blanchefort family, the noble house that once dominated this area.<br />
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The body of each dragonfly is made up of two circles with a cross in between, recalling the phrase <i>'X marks the spot'</i> and the confluence of two streams. It bears pointing out that one of the key texts associated with the Rennes mystery is a cryptic thirteen stanza poem entitled 'LE SERPENT ROUGE', whose three credited authors are alleged to have perished in a bizarre suicide pact in 1967, the same year the original manuscript was deposited in the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris. This enigmatic text explicitly describes Isis and the Magdalene as two faces of the same timeless divinity, referring to the 'white lady' of the Pyrenees by Her title Notre Dame des Cross. The cross is a sign – analogous to the rune <i>'Signe'</i> and the constellation Cygnus ( or the <i>'swan'</i>) which includes the Northern Cross, one of the most prominent and instantly recognizable asterisms in the summer and autumn skies. Curiously enough this same rune, SIGNE, is depicted in the lopsided cross held by the statue of John the baptist in the church at Rennes-le-Chateau.<br />
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As above: 'By this Sign (SIGNE) you will conquer him'!<br />
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The statue of the baptist, which is directly illuminated by the rising sun shining through the church windows on January 17th (a date commemorated locally as <i>'Blue Apple Day</i>' ) draws our attention to the fact that the confluence of the Blanc ( white ) and the Sals ( salt ) rivers just downstream from the dragonfly stone is known as <i>'la Benetier' </i>– literally the baptismal font that washes away the sins of all who enter it. Hence it may come as little surprise that tourists and wayfarers in this remote, densely wooded valley have reported seeing the apparition of a white lady riding her spectral steed through the stream or that our friend, Christian Koenig, the owner of Antonin Gadal's former home in Ussat-les-Bains, counts among his most prized possessions an old oil painting showing the blessed Lady standing atop the rock formation that rises just beyond this ford, arms outstretched as if to welcome us into her domain.<br />
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Our attempts to commit the dragonfly stone to film this afternoon
were nearly thwarted when we arrived at the location to find a
traveller family camped at the ford, washing their clothes. The
hippies seemed none too pleased to see us, glowering balefully at the
crew members as we approached . Evidently we were ruining their
rustic idyll but then they were ruining ours, so fair seemed fair. A
naked child scuttled across the rocks, grabbing Karim by the hand.
Then picking up the wooden staff we had been using as a prop the
beastly little urchin proceeded to whack both Karim and Nicholos
over the heads with it before he could be dragged away.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Forget
peace and love, man,”</i> Karim
sighed, doing his best to set up the shot. <i>“These hippies
are mean!”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>It's
not all bad,”</i> I commiserated.
“<i>At least they're moving their laundry for us.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>But
you don't understand. He gabbed my hand!”</i>
Karim shook his head, wiping his hands on his jeans as if he'd been
slimed and not for the first time that day I found myself thinking of
Fabrice Chambon and what the young archaeologist had told us back on
the pog. Once again I cannot escape the impression that we are little
more than children ourselves, playing on the outermost threshold of a
mystery we can scarcely begin to comprehend.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Having
gotten the scene in the can Jeanne took her leave but not before
extracting a promise from us that we should go to the street market at
Esperaza tomorrow morning. <i>“You won't be disappointed,”</i>
she added mysteriously.<br />
<br />
We had just parked off on the tar road to
Rennes-les-Bains and were trying to set up a shot from the soft
shoulder of the imposing rock formation of Serbairous on the other
side of the river when a car pulled to a halt beside us. Much to our
surprise we realized that the vehicle was driven by Juan Carlos
Medina, the director the recent feature film 'PAINLESS' ( 2012 ) and a
much admired short 'MAUVAIS JOUR' (2003). I hadn't caught up with
Juan Carlos since the festival of the three continents in Nantes some
years ago and was just as amazed to see him here on the verge of this
particular road to nowhere as he probably was to run into us. Juan
Carlos had taken his mother on a day trip to Bugarach, the local UFO
hotspot and centre of the running 2012 controversy, and was on his
way back to his digs when he caught sight of us. Just one more
example of the curious serendipity at work in the Zone. Taking it in
our stride we promised to rendezvous with him tomorrow at Sauniere's
domain before high tailing it to our next set up.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyHGsSRRwu-MWLDhsnDns9Pmql4ZexHDChkP3n2RoCb7ljT8iltFIFXmQyKGByLDS6dsTeAIEBOGCh9AiH-S_N_gQytW_h1XVRUP0U9r29Le6bSoTB_ZjunXtkXgMSyURH4oHrrO3FfriL/s1600/P1010465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyHGsSRRwu-MWLDhsnDns9Pmql4ZexHDChkP3n2RoCb7ljT8iltFIFXmQyKGByLDS6dsTeAIEBOGCh9AiH-S_N_gQytW_h1XVRUP0U9r29Le6bSoTB_ZjunXtkXgMSyURH4oHrrO3FfriL/s400/P1010465.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The light was fading fast, taking on the golden hue of the magic hour
and Miss Scarlett recommended we head back towards Rennes to pick
out an appropriate hilltop for a time-lapse. And what a time-lapse it was!<br />
<br />
When we finally finish up the pizzas
and break the set-up we realize we have been on this remote hilltop
for a good five hours, but there is little doubt that we have come
away with one of the most awesome shots we have committed to film to
date. The stars are out now and the lights of Rennes-le-Chateau
twinkle malignantly in the distance prompting Karim to suggest we go
on a <i>'creepy crawl'</i> and find out what Saint John's night has in store
for us. Unfortunately we do not have any cameras available to us that
are capable of genuine night vision but Karim figures he can get a
result by opening the 550D up all the way. It is Chloe's first day on
the 'Otherworld' team and this sortie into the unknown is accordingly
something of a baptism of fire. With Miss Scarlett at the wheel of
the interceptor we slip a Fabio Frizzi disc into the stereo and start
down the winding, darkened trail towards the waiting plateau.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sunday – June 24 - Esperaza</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The morning is bright and cloudless but we are still feeling a little
phased by the time we reach the marketplace, the previous evening's
creepy crawl have eaten into our turnaround time. The bazaar that
fills the bustling square and sprawls out across the riverbank is a rather more modest affair than the opulently
medieval market at Mirepoix where we shot the opening sequence of
<i>'The Mother of Toads</i>', the untidy stalls crammed with farm produce
and nondescript bric-a-brac. Failing to find a worthwhile image, we
forgo setting up a shot, foraging for coffee and croissants instead.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As we push our way through the cheerful,day lit crowd of Sunday
morning shoppers we fall to discussing what went wrong the night
before. While the creepy crawl did yield some results of note it also
plainly served to demonstrate our technological limitations. Opening
up the camera all the way produced suitably spectral images of the
streets and buildings, including at least one really nice shot of the
well head – Rennes-le-Chateau being built over seven wells, a
detail uncomfortably reminiscent of those <i>'seven dreaded gateways'
</i>referenced in the Fulci films - but this technique proved less
effective when it came to dealing with the supernatural itself. At
one point in the small hours of the morning on the way back towards
the bat haunted Tour Magdala, Miss Scarlett had clearly sensed a
female presence loitering in the vicinity of Sauniere's greenhouse
but without effective night vision we had no way of stripping back
the dark or capturing any trace of the phantasmal visitant on the
hard drive without recourse to electric light, altogether too blunt a
tool to ably explore the borders of the beyond. Given the futility of
the situation we decide to forgo further attempts at late night ghost
hunting until we can get our hands on the FLIR.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Some believe that it was not the coming of Christianity but the
advent of electric light that drove away the pagan spirits, the
faeries, elves and other elementals. Those denizens of the otherworld
never left however. We simply lost our ability to see them, the
ability to see without looking, a skill that involves detaching the
vision from the object by focussing beyond it and allowing the mind
to rest. On a moonlit night the aim when walking in the dark is not
to franticly look for the path but to defocus the eyes and wait for
the shape of things to emerge. Rest long enough and the rocks, trees
and hedges will slowly reveal themselves. The modern world is filled
with noise, artificial light and activity which stimulate the senses
rather than allowing them to rest – the very opposite of the state
required for seeing.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I am just starting to wonder why on earth Jeanne directed us to come
here when I notice a familiar figure standing in front of one of the
stalls. Miss Scarlett blinks and Karim comes up short beside me as we
recognize the bald, powerfully built figure of the distinctly
medieval looking individual who had introduced himself to us in the
courtyard of Montsegur on the night of the solstice as Jean-Paul
Dernier – the last pope.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEIKECNX8RnRd4OkN3wWwyr9ftu-qDARmpSGydSC7z3qQPJi2G0CD3G2NI75dKYpewFdovAq3u1dxX3SCcot9Mutvcv-TcN_9eU4LQdi5BpPn4ld4LYukMj-DbimbUkQXdJ5FzrCJGGeIS/s1600/low-rez-interv-Jean-Paul-(last-pope---grail-collection).Still002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEIKECNX8RnRd4OkN3wWwyr9ftu-qDARmpSGydSC7z3qQPJi2G0CD3G2NI75dKYpewFdovAq3u1dxX3SCcot9Mutvcv-TcN_9eU4LQdi5BpPn4ld4LYukMj-DbimbUkQXdJ5FzrCJGGeIS/s400/low-rez-interv-Jean-Paul-(last-pope---grail-collection).Still002.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
As above, so below: The last Pope in action! Jean-Paul Dernier shares one of his Occitan poems...<br />
<br />
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<br />
At our previous meeting he had regaled us at
length with his poetry and while Karim instinctively draws
back it is clear a second encounter can no longer be avoided. As fate
would have it Jean-Paul Dernier is just paying for a choice find at
the second hand book stall – a first edition copy of Otto Rahn's '
LA COUR DE LUCIFER'. I mention that I had once counted Rahn's niece
among my acquaintances and we fall to talking. He tells us that he
needs the book for his research, insisting that we come with him to
meet one of his friends and take coffee. This part of the plan at
least makes sense to us and before long we find ourselves waiting in
the corner of a crowded bistro while the last pope goes in search of
his elusive associate.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Okay? So what the hell are we supposed to be doing in this
scene?”</i> Karim shifts restlessly, coffee already done.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Let's give him another few minutes. I'm a great
believer in serendipity.” </i>I don't have a watch but I know we'll
have to be on our way soon if we're going to having any chance of
presenting ourselves to Henry Lincoln on time at Le Jardin. <i>“ As
Agent Cooper puts it – when two things happen at the same time you
always have to pay strict attention.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The last pope's pal turns out to a burly local named Jules who was
born and bred in this village. He seems to have a pretty deep
knowledge of the area but no English, pressing Karim once again into
the role of reluctant translator.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>What's
he saying?”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Something
about a pagan temple out in the woods.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>A
what?”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>A temple built by the Gauls or the Druids.
Apparently its thousands of years old but no-one else knows it's out
there. No-one but Jules anyhow.” </i>Karim raises one eyebrow.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>And he
wants to take us there?”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Yeah.
But he doesn't want to be on camera.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Well,
that's not much use.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>He
looks kind of nervous,” </i>observes Miss Scarlett. <i>“ I hope they
don't insist on blindfolding us.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>It
could be another wild goose chase,”</i> Karim opines.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Yeah.
I admit it sounds far fetched but he's obviously a treasure hunter
and we need to interview at least one treasure hunter if we're doing
a show about Rennes-le-Chateau. It could be amusing if we have this
guy talking with his back to the camera.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>And I
think your buddy the 'last pope' wants to show us his Grail
collection.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>The
weirder the better. Tell 'em to bring it on. Let's give 'em two
hours. Two hours tomorrow evening. We'll say we have another
appointment later so we can cut and run when we've had enough.” </i>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Having set a rendezvous for seven o'clock in
the town square we start back towards the interceptor.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>We've gotta haul ass,”</i> Miss Scarlett warns. <i>“We're
gonna be late.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>I don't know,</i>”Karim shakes his head. <i>“This last pope
guy could be a handful. There's violence in the man.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>If it
looks like the whole trip's going nowhere we'll turn back. I mean
it's worth a shot.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And we do manage to get one shot on the way out – a wide general
view of the main street...</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rennes-le-Chateau - 14. 00 hrs</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
From the weblog of Scarlett Amaris</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I am
introduced to Henry Lincoln by author Jeanne D'Aout, who has
tried her best to get him to consent to an interview. He doesn't seem
to remember that we've been introduced many times before. His answer
is a definite no, not exactly what I was hoping to hear. We barter
back and forth for a while as he dangles the carrot and then says
no again. His timing and delivery are a little theatrical and I get
the feeling that he is enjoying this performance very much as I
quietly grit my teeth. Deep down I know my first hunch was right and
that he won't do the interview, but it isn't in my nature to quit so
I try again and again. I think that Henry appreciates my tenacity on
some level. We talk about 70's science fiction for a while which
seems to surprise him. What he doesn't know is that I'm all too aware of
the fact that he is the creator of the 'DOCTOR WHO' Yeti, one of the silliest, yet most beloved creatures to ever hit the boob tube.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
After explaining that
I didn't exactly read all of his opus, 'THE HOLY BLOOD AND THE HOLY GRAIL',
but only skimmed through it, he
laughs and then agrees to tell me anything that I wish to know about
the place off camera, so I finally concede and make a hazy date at
some future time to continue our conversation. The crew have already
moved on and are setting up on the roof of the Tour Magdala, the
building that once housed Sauniere's library to interview our friend,
the Catalan physicist Artur Sala. (below) I dread having to walk up there and
I know they are disappointed with the result, although no one says a
word about it. In the end I just have to accept that the documentary
will go the way that it is supposed to go and we move on to the next
subject at hand.<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It is a hot
sunny day in Rennes without a cloud in the sky and there isn't much
time to feel bad as Artur's interview is fascinating. For him the
events in the Zone hint not so much at the emergence of a new
religion as the possibility of a new science, the confirmation of
ideas first postulated by Tesla and Reich. Time seems to move in fast
forward and there is a strange convergence of people just after
lunch. First we run into Jaap Rameijer, author and co-owner of '<i>Les
Labadous'</i>, Elizabeth van Buren's former property at the base of the
Rennes plateau. Jaap has fond memories of Elizabeth who wrote one of
the key texts propagating the idea that Rennes-le-Chateau is some
kind of <i>'portal area'</i>. ( 'REFUGE OF THE APOCALYPSE. DOORWAY INTO
OTHER DIMENSIONS'. - 1986 ) We have been trying to track Jaap down
and our chance meeting in the greenhouse enables the team to confirm
an interview with him for tomorrow morning. He is with a group of
people visiting the domain for the first time and seems to be excited
by the prospect of what we are trying to put together and about being
a part of it. Then composer Simon Boswell and his girlfriend, Paula, show up fresh off the plane from London. They are enjoying the halcyon
weather and gothic ambience as it has been raining endlessly in
Blighty. Juan Carlos Medina appears just after they arrive. Everyone
is stuffed into the small greenhouse area outside the Villa Bethany
with the Bavaesque stained glass panels and it feels like some kind
of strange reunion, with a mass of talented friends from all corners
of Europe. As the murmur of conversation and laughter fills the old
house it is as if time is turning back on itself, to the days when
Sauniere entertained his guests, Jules Verne, Maurice le Blanc, the
diva Emma Calve and several members of the Hapsburg dynasty among
them, with rum imported specially from Martinique. Karim nicknamed
this place <i>'The Suspiria House'</i> because of it's overblown deco décor
but right now it feels like some sort of multi-hued esoteric aquarium
populated by some very exotic fish indeed.<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I get the
impression that the Villa, in it's own weird way, is actually
enjoying itself.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sauniere's
Domaine – Rennes-le-Chateau – 16 00 hrs
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
From the
shooting diary of Richard S.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>What
happened to the sky?”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I step out
of the greenhouse to find the domaine suffused in an eerie golden
amber light.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>It's
like someone put a filter on the sun,” </i>Karim gazes bewilderedly
at the heavens before reaching for his light meter. <i>“How the
hell did it do that?”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I rub my
eyes, head still spinning from Artur's interview which touched on
some of the wilder shores of quantum physics, including the notion
that we could be living inside some form of construct or simulation,
an illusory veil drawn over our eyes just like the Cathars always
insisted.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Do you
think this could be one of those movies where it turns out we've all
been dead all along.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>No.
That didn't work for the last season of 'Lost'. It ain't gonna work
for us. That's about as lame as saying it was all a dream.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Well
it worked in 'NIGHTMARE CITY' “</i> comments Karim.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>No, it
didn't,”</i> Miss Scarlett insists. “<i>That's the lamest plot
ever. But at least the zombies run fast.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Karim
shrugs, still unable to work out why the light is behaving the way it
is.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Whatever.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wrapping out of the Villa Bethany we head for Rennes-les-Bains in
search of some rock carvings that were photographed a little earlier
by Ivan de Castries who has been travelling with Artur during this
particular tour of the Zone. We fail to find the carvings, but it is
cooler down here by the water and the fresh air focusses my thoughts.
After dinner in the place of the 'Dieux Rennes' with Simon, Paula and
the crew we repair to the hot spring only to accidentally surprise
the same hippie family we ran into yesterday at the dragonfly stone.
They glare angrily at us as they gather up their clothes, convinced
by now that we are somehow persecuting them.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Monday – June 25 – Rennes-le-Chateau</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
From the shooting diary of Richard S.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The day starts in a most agreeable manner with coffee at Les Labadous
as we interview the estate's co-proprietor, Jaap Rameijer,.who
enthusiastically shows us his<i> 'orb'</i> collection. The jury is still out
as to what exactly <i>'orbs</i>' really are. Some believe the mysterious
blips of light that occasionally turn up on flash photographs are
simply digital artefacting, motes of dust, pollen or water droplets
kicking back the light whereas others insist they are disembodied
entities, literally <i>'soul packets</i>' and some of the images Jaap shows
us are certainly very difficult to adequately explain away. Jaap
seems to have a particular gift for capturing these colourful li'l
will o'the whisps on film which is scarcely surprising, considering
the location of his property.
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCeX2on8pwifGyQrSNZAhA-V1PFigpykvJ4AhwLde1snKkpVR2MTeN4rL6KBJNG7UdJuflOUnNjUDCybuSMXCRljgHC5128iG5KCQ7V6amBFaYtvgvbTSsZYrBudfWgX7uUdjlyWAvftfp/s1600/DSCN5805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCeX2on8pwifGyQrSNZAhA-V1PFigpykvJ4AhwLde1snKkpVR2MTeN4rL6KBJNG7UdJuflOUnNjUDCybuSMXCRljgHC5128iG5KCQ7V6amBFaYtvgvbTSsZYrBudfWgX7uUdjlyWAvftfp/s400/DSCN5805.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
As above, so below: Miss Scarlett, Richard and Karim at Les labadous (photographs by Jaap Rameijer)<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>'Les Labadous</i>' lies at a particularly choice location above an old
well on the banks of the River of Colours, flanked by Uranie's domain
and a densely thicketed gorge thought by many to be a major 'portal
area' – either one of the <i>'seven dreaded gateways'</i> or a '<i>doorway
to another dimension'</i> depending on one's personal inclination, heaven
and hell being very much a matter of subjective experience around
here. Having lived beneath the Rennes plateau for some years now, Jaap
is both a gracious host and a highly entertaining raconteur, regaling us with any number of extraordinary anecdotes about the folk he has
encountered here and,most importantly, what he has seen and
understood for himself since moving to the Zone. Unfortunately we
have to cut our time at Les Labadous a little short in order to
rendezvous with climber and caving enthusiast, Jerome Viguier (below ) who
wants to tell us about his adventures on the Pic de Bugarach.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvInMvzBzHgngE8gyAF8X5PjkqfxV2wvN0qGFxCHqikyVS9v5RNRNG5Dac9y5ItABZZakGG4DtMq3MG_o8bDf2vYA_Y4NMFTJuNOuAiWWeeh0DfSzHQlYPBjO22BQk6B1VCvQjPUyduHjk/s1600/486515_3649131139755_1547061579_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvInMvzBzHgngE8gyAF8X5PjkqfxV2wvN0qGFxCHqikyVS9v5RNRNG5Dac9y5ItABZZakGG4DtMq3MG_o8bDf2vYA_Y4NMFTJuNOuAiWWeeh0DfSzHQlYPBjO22BQk6B1VCvQjPUyduHjk/s400/486515_3649131139755_1547061579_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After lunch we repair to Sauniere's domain to set up an interview
with a local journalist, Andrei Galoup who photographed Francois
Mitterrand on the Tour Magdala during the president's visit to
Rennes-le-Chateau in 1967 - the same year, strangely enough, that the original manuscript of that pesky poem 'LE SERPENTE ROUGE' was deposited in the Bibliotheque Nationale.<br />
<br />
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<div class="" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
</div>
As above, so below: Francois Mitterand visits the Tour Magdala - an outing that launched his successful 1967 presidential campaign<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Monsieur Galoup takes the stories about Mitterand recruiting the
support of supernatural agencies, secret societies or even the devil
himself, with a very large pinch of salt, insisting that the former
president only stopped off in Rennes to eat a really good cassoulet
before continuing on his tour of the South. It does seem a rather
numinous coincidence however that the Mitterand administration
subsequently criminalized the use of metal detectors in the area and
pushed through a plethora of other by-laws to discourage amateur
archaeologists and tomb raiders.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Where would the Zone be however without it's treasure hunters? Given
the reticence of the GRAME (Groupe des Researches Archaeologique de
Montsegur et Environs) and other official bodies to make their
findings public it is perhaps inevitable that an ever changing cadre
of self-styled stalkers have sprung up over the years to fill the gap
and endeavour to find out for themselves what is really going on
here.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jules looks a little nervous when we meet him in the deserted town
square . For a moment we think he really is going to insist on
blindfolding us, but there are too many crew members to ride in a
single vehicle and in the end we opt to follow his car with the van
and the interceptor, driving in convoy to a location that I am not at
liberty to disclose. Parking up beside a nondescript looking
hedgerow we cut down our gear to the minimum so our packs can be as
light as possible, having already more or less made up our minds that
we are on a wild goose chase.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
For once, however, we couldn't be more wrong....</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Zone – 21 00 hrs</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Some three and a half hours after following Jules down the winding
path through the woods, a trail so narrow it was probably made by
animals rather than human beings, we emerge once more into a broad
pasture at the edge of the trees, breathless and wide eyed, still
trying to make sense of what we have just seen.
<br />
<br />
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<br />
As above, so below: Images from the Rennes nemeton - a Druidic sacred site hidden in the woods near Rennes-le-Chateau<br />
<br />
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<br />
“<i>But I don't understand. How can something like that be
possible?”</i> I blinked. The last rays of the setting sun made the
field ahead seem golden and translucent as if it were no longer part
of the so-called<i> 'real'</i> world.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Apparently it's part of a huge circle of similar constructions
spread right across the Zone,” </i>offered Miss Scarlett. <i>”Remember
what he said about Pythagoras?” </i>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>No. I
mean how come we've never come across a single mention of it before
in any of the texts let alone a photograph? It's so close to Rennes
but its never been documented? You would've thought mystery hunters
had gone over every inch of this bloody place with a fine tooth comb
by now. And to have something that blatantly weird and that colossal
just sitting there all along?”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Jules did say he was the only one who knew about it,”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Well
he's quite obviously sitting on one of the biggest archaeological
finds to be made in this area for decades. I mean this is big. It's
more than big. It's practically the solution to the whole damn
mystery.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Yeah,</i>” said Miss Scarlett darkly. <i>“But we can't tell
anyone. Not yet.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>But
we've gotta do something. I mean how many people have written best
selling books about this place based on far, far scantier evidence
than this? We've got the GPS co-ordinates, right?”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Nicolos nodded, brandishing his cell. <i>“I sent them to Corinne.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>There's no way we can let people know this place's location,”</i>
insisted Miss Scarlett.<i> “Not now. Not ever. This place is too
sacred. You don't want to turn it into another tourist attraction,
another sideshow in the Rennes-le-Chateau esoteric thrill ride.
People will find this place if they're meant to.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I nodded slowly.<i>”Do you think we were meant to? I mean it
certainly feels like we got lucky. More than just lucky. If we hadn't
run into the last pope at the solstice, or gone to the market...”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Miss Scarlett shrugged.<i>”It all works out the way it's meant to.”
</i>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Do you think that place was actually meant for menstruation
like he said?”</i>asked Karim, checking the camera to make certain
we really had it all on the hard drive.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>No. Menstrual blood couldn't make grooves like that. My guess
it was for sacrifice,” </i>suggested Miss Scarlett.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>And
that pool. What the hell was that? You could see by the stonework it
was old.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>How
old do you think?”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>I dunno,”</i> I thought it through for a moment. <i>“Between
three to six thousand years. At a guess...”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>It's the real deal, </i>“ nodded Miss Scarlett.<i>”It's up
to us now to figure out what to do about it.”</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
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<i><br /></i>
Above: Sound man Nicolas Boyer poses with one of the huge mushrooms found near the Rennes nemeton. We fried it up that night and it made for very good eating!</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Tuesday – June 26– Rennes-le-Chateau</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>The change started with Abbe Sauniere.”</i> Alex Painco, the
incumbent mayor of Rennes-le-Chateau, chooses his words carefully.<i>”Tens
of thousands of people come here every year, looking for answers.
We've had films, books, documentaries, you name it. I get letters
every month telling me where the treasure is. If I listened to them
this village would be full of holes.” </i><br />
<br />
Monsieur Painco looks past us for a moment, casting his gaze over the narrow, sun drenched
street beyond the restaurant where the first tourists of the day are already dribbling past, clutching their cameras and dog eared copies
of the various mystery novels and works of pseudo history that have been
responsible for enticing them to this remote and somewhat malignant
holiday destination.<i> “I've had to deal with people tunnelling
under the graveyard. Even one individual who thought he was Jesus
Christ showing up at my office to deliver his message.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>What did you do?”</i> asks Miss Scarlett, sipping a glass of
the chilled blanquette that the mayor has laid on for our
convenience.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>I
politely showed him the door.” </i>Monsieur Painco responds without
blinking.<i> “I hope Rennes continues to attract tourists but
preferably more normal ones. I mean we do get normal people as well
as strange ones. These days the really strange ones mostly go to
Bugarach.” </i>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Making a mental note that Mount Bugarach, the geological anomaly
touted as the hot ticket for the coming apocalypse of 2012, is next
on our agenda we wrap up our first interview of the day, thanking
the mayor for his time. “<i>Aren't you going to ask me where the
treasure is?”</i> He smiles, feigning bewilderment.<i>”I brought
my maps, my shovels. I was all ready to start digging.</i>”
Monsieur Painco had been hoping we'd take lunch in his recently
opened restaurant, '<i>La Reine du Chateau</i>' ( literally <i>'The Queen of
the Castle'</i> – a cute li'l gallic play on words) but we have other
plans. Lunch hour is the only time of day when human traffic in the
church of the Magdalene thins sufficiently for us to have any
chance of wielding a jib arm and we fully intend to use our deal
with the mayor to get as much coverage as we can, including the
access we have been promised to Sauniere's secret rooms.
<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>This a church!”</i>hisses an irate, red faced Brit, a George
cross emblazoned proudly on his baggy tee-shirt, evidently ticked off
that a film crew has intruded on his esoteric reverie.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>And this is a camera.”</i> I nod towards the rig that has been set up in the aisle to enable Karim to swing the jib. It's
hardly a crane but enough at least to get a little movement into the
shot and hopefully imbue the locale with a hint of due, daemonaic
majesty.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Miss Scarlett manages to reach Uranie on the cell, telling him to meet us
at the Tour Magdala while we wait for the mayor's daughter to
unlock the secret rooms. It's time we got to the bottom of the long
running rumours concerning the gateway to Hell
existing beneath the church or the Abbe's domaine. If there
really is a 'portal' on this plateau then I am determined to find
it. </div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The much vaunted <i>'secret'</i> chambers turn out to be little more
than a couple of interconnected broom closets accessed through a door
to the right of the altar. The first room had evidently served as a
cramped vestry in Sauniere's day and is dominated by a rather gaudy
stained glass window depicting Christ on the cross.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGv0lyE_uV0pEzFSkDb9IHaYubA93tsQzLDGD8SH-pGO9Mq42G2G-SaqgFTWFk1T-ha3XNX_Cf_GE63TO4dPb-MF0hpQ_nGLYRhyphenhyphen30RDn8gc_68zNz00qYUxDFOpi_h5JfhN-EffG4r38z/s1600/low-rez-TOW-rennes-AA0693_01.mov.Still001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGv0lyE_uV0pEzFSkDb9IHaYubA93tsQzLDGD8SH-pGO9Mq42G2G-SaqgFTWFk1T-ha3XNX_Cf_GE63TO4dPb-MF0hpQ_nGLYRhyphenhyphen30RDn8gc_68zNz00qYUxDFOpi_h5JfhN-EffG4r38z/s400/low-rez-TOW-rennes-AA0693_01.mov.Still001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
As above, so below: Sauniere's secret rooms.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4wZwLWEYe0NRzTqQHratjjCZ8qVnOV8ZeHXZqLLffgDgAhJiO-1Mal6p6EnHOzFhzIQk5owyiuiftJ5HQb-9gaj3Ph7VIzAzcMgLvdKvJVwyTtjRHbJUgx_7Yj3a1U5zfUWoWyrfNHyxb/s1600/low-rez-TOW-rennes-AA0691_01.mov.Still001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4wZwLWEYe0NRzTqQHratjjCZ8qVnOV8ZeHXZqLLffgDgAhJiO-1Mal6p6EnHOzFhzIQk5owyiuiftJ5HQb-9gaj3Ph7VIzAzcMgLvdKvJVwyTtjRHbJUgx_7Yj3a1U5zfUWoWyrfNHyxb/s400/low-rez-TOW-rennes-AA0691_01.mov.Still001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
A second,
narrower doorway communicates with a lightless, cobweb festooned
space immediately behind the 'bull's eye', the round window in the
rear of the church that is directly aligned with the angle of the
rising sun on the 17<sup>th</sup> of January.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkXiwILieMeLnVG2WHI8FLXoMmCltWaprEzRq6Nx-zLOhmPM0mnRsKj0fL5veWH0AVNyAPbWpBMzLvxySosmSTlfnJIjJzzRDE25jCyLtFp9NQ-sycTiwIB31936vZ_06Roa6ROFK70JMB/s1600/100_1169.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkXiwILieMeLnVG2WHI8FLXoMmCltWaprEzRq6Nx-zLOhmPM0mnRsKj0fL5veWH0AVNyAPbWpBMzLvxySosmSTlfnJIjJzzRDE25jCyLtFp9NQ-sycTiwIB31936vZ_06Roa6ROFK70JMB/s320/100_1169.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
It is a typically quirky architectural
detail but while the hidden rooms tick another couple of boxes
regarding the church's alignment, they certainly don't contain any
paradigm altering revelations worth writing home about.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We have just re-emerged into the light of day when we run into
Corinne, the production manager, who is standing outside the church,
nervously clutching a cell phone. She looks pale and more than
usually shaken, having just gotten off the line with Fabrice,
'L'AUTRE MONDE's Paris based producer.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>There's
a problem with Uranie.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>What?”</i> I do a double take, wondering if our sorcerer
friend is having car trouble. But the problem runs deeper than that.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Fabrice
doesn't want you to interview him.” </i>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>What
do you mean? Uranie is one of the most important interviewees on
this project. The whole 'portal' thing won't make sense without him.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Fabrice
says the mayor called him five minutes ago. He was really pissed and
threatened to throw us off the plateau if he caught us talking to
that guy.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>That's
ridiculous. He can't tell us whom we can and can't talk to. Who does
he think he is?”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>The
mayor. I mean you can talk to Uranie. You just can't talk to him on
camera. Certainly not here or in Sauniere's domain. And definitely
not in the Tour Magdala.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>But how did he know that?</i>” I am flabbergasted.<i>”I
don't recall telling anyone that I wanted to interview Uranie in the
Tour Magdala?”</i> In fact I don't recall even mentioning our
plans aloud, let alone to Fabrice and the mayor. One of our
neo-Cathar friends back in Montsegur, Yves Massat, had told us that
there was a portal in the Tour Magdala's winding stairwell and the
curious alignment of the tower's embrasures were common knowledge. I
had been hoping that Uranie might be able to shed some light on this
affair, if not point us in the direction of the portal itself.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Maybe the phone's bugged,”</i> suggests Miss Scarlett.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Either that or one of us is a traitor,” </i>I glance darkly
at the other crew members. We have only been on the plateau for a few
hours and already a creeping sense of paranoia is setting in.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Someone must have intercepted the phone call,”</i> Miss Scarlett offers.<i>”It's the only answer.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>But
that's impossible. Who'd have the technology to do that?”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Just about anyone in this place.” </i>Miss Scarlett nods towards the village's sun drenched rooftops as if any number
of unseen onlookers are silently eavesdropping.<i>”This is Rennes,
after all.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>I told you this place was cursed,” </i>mutters Karim.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rennes-le-Chateau – parking lot - 16. 00 hrs</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
From the weblog of Scarlett Amaris</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Uranie arrives in full war paint and I know without looking that he is wearing his favorite black 'Cradle of Filth' t-shirt that sports a semi-naked woman on the cross with fake breasts the size of over
inflated volleyballs wearing a bleeding crown of thorns. We tell him
what is going on and without hesitation he heads for the entrance
of the domain, his keys and shells jingling with every determined
step he takes. We have a little pow wow with the rest of the crew and
decide to give Uranie a five minute start and to load the equipment
quietly as possible over the fence in an half-assed attempt at
subterfuge. I elect to stay behind and watch part of the the
equipment that might be needed and to wait for Simon and Paula who have woken up late and are on
their way to rendezvous with us.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Glancing through the wrought iron railings in the fence, I watch Richard and Karim stroll casually through the gardens and into the
mock-gothic tower where Uranie is waiting, pretending to be a
tourist. The rest of the crew follow suit, one at a time. I
seriously doubt that we are fooling anyone, I think to myself as
Simon and Paula walk up, wondering just where the hell everyone is.
As I explain the situation I can see Simon's eyes get bigger and
more excited by the second. <i>“Really? I love this sort of thing.
Do you think they'll be a confrontation? Do you think we'll get
kicked out? What do you think they'll do?”</i> he says, looking like
a kid that has just snuck into a particularly gory horror movie that
he wasn't supposed to see. I just look at him and laugh, shaking
my head. <i>“I've got to see this for myself.”</i> And he takes off for the domain at a pretty fast clip just to make sure that he doesn't
miss a thing.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Paula and I sit there for a minute in the shade keeping one eye on the Tour, but all seems quiet except for the few tourists milling about.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>“Do you think there will be trouble?”</i> Paula asks. It is
her first visit to Rennes-le-Chateau and it is already turning into
quite an adventure.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>“It's a possibility. But the worst they can do is throw us off
the plateau and if that's the case than I suggest we start
celebrating now. Sparkling?</i>” I hold up a bottle of blanquette.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>“Oh, what a fantastic idea.”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Tour Magdala - 16. 30 hrs</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
From the shooting diary of Richard S.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>If you invoke the devil, he will come.”</i> Uranie grins,
looking relaxed and quite at home in the tower room that once served
as the Abbe Berenger Sauniere's private library. Reaching into his
shoulder bag the sorcerer withdraws a battered copy of the Clavicle of
Solomon, opening the grimoire to display its seals to camera.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvuHnZj-ONpbBv87CXZaOIz2j0RjidQ9uBRSES4O04lQzJ6cBGzY4ryvLdPLy4QmV8g10tOnP0J33sTRDgJbyLNjOMHTg1CAl82jqLFvhIjkrWLsTGDoAqVGsIMuxwSO2eWEMRGyUpsHy/s1600/interv-Uranie-(tour-Mag-&-mirror).Still001low-rez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvuHnZj-ONpbBv87CXZaOIz2j0RjidQ9uBRSES4O04lQzJ6cBGzY4ryvLdPLy4QmV8g10tOnP0J33sTRDgJbyLNjOMHTg1CAl82jqLFvhIjkrWLsTGDoAqVGsIMuxwSO2eWEMRGyUpsHy/s640/interv-Uranie-(tour-Mag-&-mirror).Still001low-rez.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>“With this book we can understand the magical system they were
using when Sauniere first designed his domain. One of the goals was
about catching spirits. They made different pentacles to control them
in different ways, both white and black magic, working with the
Enochian tongue, the language of angels...”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>And
the portal?”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>It's
right behind you.” </i>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I turn to face the mirror mounted above the hearth.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>The
mirror you see here is not the original one. The mirror that was
placed here back in Sauniere's day was broken – and I was the one
that broke it!”</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>You? But why...”</i> I catch my breath. It's all starting
to make a ghastly kind of sense. I can certainly understand now why
the mayor hadn't wanted Uranie to set foot in the tower.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>It was
already cracked before I first came here in the early nineties. The
previous tenant of the domain, Henri Buthion, had broken it in half
to see if Sauniere had left a message behind it. He was searching for
the treasure and had dug up the whole domaine. Then one day his
daughters looked in the mirror and saw the devil. They got scared and
ended up at my place. They told me about what they had seen and I
realized there were certain formulas that would allow his appearance,
that would open the gate...” </i>
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMig-BKdC5r0HJOin0kNXIoZt1Cc5qlRDTXWGOdEcdx3jVVmG9nXQwJqDqQP7ZnFMybJjKEQJi1hCWRrXsXQzLUxZswNQEo0b3JH_b-rw-9pRd3NFxu2RYZsSe3hZuS8NAyjnvAGT6cCZ0/s1600/interv-Uranie-(tour-Mag-&-mirror).Still002low-rez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMig-BKdC5r0HJOin0kNXIoZt1Cc5qlRDTXWGOdEcdx3jVVmG9nXQwJqDqQP7ZnFMybJjKEQJi1hCWRrXsXQzLUxZswNQEo0b3JH_b-rw-9pRd3NFxu2RYZsSe3hZuS8NAyjnvAGT6cCZ0/s640/interv-Uranie-(tour-Mag-&-mirror).Still002low-rez.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I step closer, seeing only my own reflection, the afternoon
sunlight streaming through the doorway behind me and Simon's puzzled
face as he appears breathlessly on the threshold. It seems too
simple to be true, that the portal could be right here, under our
noses all along, yet it has a certain Cocteauesque logic to it after
all. I wonder if there is really a demon behind the glass, staring
back at us this very moment and once again feel the giddy sensation
of being suspended between two worlds, between <i>'reality</i>' and its
reflection. I reach out, fingertips gently touching the unyielding
surface...</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Make a
wish...”</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmwS3ncAtO_-WZYxmuTE1VnCuf0OoOOY4MtwlYwXuB9wzsyt3pM_KrS6Xo986fh3GI0aTQUpeabsTSd-vRSQNg3L1ZlXORQZ3mSlg8dV5-XNCTQvScKIpIdpjmZ1v7DedaRigOatKpIjA2/s1600/IMG_2111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmwS3ncAtO_-WZYxmuTE1VnCuf0OoOOY4MtwlYwXuB9wzsyt3pM_KrS6Xo986fh3GI0aTQUpeabsTSd-vRSQNg3L1ZlXORQZ3mSlg8dV5-XNCTQvScKIpIdpjmZ1v7DedaRigOatKpIjA2/s400/IMG_2111.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
TO BE CONTINUED:</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In our next instalment: - The mystery deepens as Karim is forced to take to the air to fly Uranie's bearings in the microlite and all hell breaks loose in the Grotto of the Magdalene. </div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Stay tuned to this channel for the conclusion of 'THE OTHERWORLD - SHOOTING DIARY'...</div>
shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-84691210248124318892012-07-23T04:48:00.033-07:002012-10-05T13:08:13.292-07:00THE OTHERWORLD - shooting diary part one.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjStrIMtderEGWSb7nHhkHmVdpuaSgzkRFYdKW2pbBSFbZXZEJT3HSRSTPfbqVt1On2TlJRQ9L9jU7W37DZY91mex2k5cOv0eZNBhs_YCtj1XDUDEJQb2lVJU3d_TyxIdMg9KRQ02Yzyr5a/s1600/theotherworldartwork.jpg" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5768332987057872498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjStrIMtderEGWSb7nHhkHmVdpuaSgzkRFYdKW2pbBSFbZXZEJT3HSRSTPfbqVt1On2TlJRQ9L9jU7W37DZY91mex2k5cOv0eZNBhs_YCtj1XDUDEJQb2lVJU3d_TyxIdMg9KRQ02Yzyr5a/s400/theotherworldartwork.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 280px;" /></a><br />
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Preface - Notes on an unknown religion</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">The idea of shooting a feature length documentary on the ongoing developments in the 'Zone', a stretch of densely forested countryside in the heart of the French Pyrenees roughly circumscribed by the château of Montsegur, the Rennes plateau and the ragged cone of Mount Bugarach in the south, has been brewing for some time. In fact the first treatment I wrote on the subject ( under the title 'The Devil's Chessboard ) was submitted to Channel Four Television's religion department twenty-two years ago. At the time we were turned down flat and politely shown the door. When it came to submitting a new treatment to the Pyrenean Film Commission a few weeks ago I found that very little other than the title and the names of some of the interviewees who had sadly passed away in the interim needed to be changed. The proposed subtitle however caused considerable debate.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Karim Hussain, the project's director of photography and a friend and ally of long standing, was strongly in favor of 'notes on a new religion' which he considered to be more direct, more threatening and just plain punchier than 'notes on an unknown religion' . The word 'unknown' carries all kinds of negative connotations putting one in mind of cheesy old television shows and that truly regrettably Amicus anthology with Peter Cushing concerning a global conspiracy mounted by killer cats. I tried to argue that at least 'The Unknown' (1927) was a genuine classic but Karim wasn't buying it. It seems to me that this difference of opinion over the most appropriate subtitle neatly encapsulates the two dominant schools of thought over what has really being going here in this remote European backwater.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">The same argument obtains to the former inhabitants of this land, the so-called 'Cathars' and the Albigensian heresy that brought about the fourth crusade. There are those who believe that the 'Cathars' represented an earlier extant form of Christianity similar to the creed practised by John the baptist and the Essenes while other historians insist that it was a more recent theological mutation, influenced by Manicheism and introduced to the south by Bogomil missionaries in the latter part of 12</span><sup>th</sup><span style="font-size: 100%;"> century.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Since the temporal power of the Catholic church beganto wane at the close of the 19</span><sup>th</sup><span style="font-size: 100%;"> century an ever increasing number of extremely strange individuals have found themselves drawn to this area and over the course of little more than a hundred years they have produced a vast and ever growing body of written material, much of it extremely fanciful – a trend that may have begun with the publication of Napoleon Peyrat's 'Grande Histoire des Albigeois' in 1875 and which finds its most recent expression in the work of popular authors such as Dan Brown, and Kate Mosse, not to mention our own humble efforts here on Terra Umbra.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">It is easy to believe that thanks to a series of unique historical and geographical factors the area , affectionately now known as the 'Zone', has become a kind of black hole in modern day 'consensus' reality where odd beliefs and outlandish conspiracy theories can happily take root and prosper. To an unkind outside observer it may appear to be a sort of outdoor psychiatric hospital where a growing legion of crazy folk spouting deeply weird ideas and theories have influenced both each other's thinking and the paradigms as a whole to the point of creating a new belief system, what, to all intents and purposes, amounts to a 'new religion', a woolly, uncodified 'pseudo religion based on pseudo history that bears little or no relationship to the actual past and the mysterious, long vanished faith of the 'Cathars'.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">In our lengthy investigation of this neck of the woods I have arrived at a rather different conclusion. When you take time out to listen to everyone's stories, to hear all points of view a disturbing commonality of experience begins to emerge. There are points on which the opinions of various pilgrims, cranks, cultists, neo-Cathars, pseudo historians, treasure hunters and casual tourists seem to concur as if each one is attempting to approach the same indefinable mystery, each in their own way and words. Once one begins to graph those commonalities a vast outline gradually emerges, like the long hidden remains of some invisible edifice, buried for untold generations . I have come to believe that what we are dealing with here is not a new religion but something ancient and unknown, a force inherent in the land that has been here long years before the Cathars or the Druids, a mystery that has haunted our dreams and belief systems since the dawn of time. The stories heard over the years about the area concealing 'portals' or gateways to other worlds may be fanciful enough but here in the Zone it really does seem as if some other realm of experience overlaps with our own, as if the day to day reality of those who wander into this area is steadily influenced and reshaped by the morphogenetic field of some other time or paradigm, a subtle, insistent signal received by the unconscious mind and either blocked out or re-interpreted in countless individual ways. A dream that always returns, often different in its individual details but always the same in its essential characteristics. The old gods it would seem are stirring in their sleep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">As above: Self and Miss Scarlett shooting 'THE OTHERWORLD' promo during the big freeze of February 2012. So below: The Shadow Theatre interceptor fitted out with the new GoPro in order to serve as the shoot's official camera vehicle. ( both photographs by Gina Varella )</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi668qoN8gGLr2ft7mATdSWB-ZcT20GtZViEREWVWwWyWmqz72jygH-Iwf9ntVbIUcQGCS4WIpzPYbuVjif94u1yRSx9YxZUw3u3HLHYrw20-NZgdSVAnP4m41T6OoyFkn9tTBBOUFzcK_q/s1600/420674_10150554974842671_1330510570_n.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5768421995937236402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi668qoN8gGLr2ft7mATdSWB-ZcT20GtZViEREWVWwWyWmqz72jygH-Iwf9ntVbIUcQGCS4WIpzPYbuVjif94u1yRSx9YxZUw3u3HLHYrw20-NZgdSVAnP4m41T6OoyFkn9tTBBOUFzcK_q/s400/420674_10150554974842671_1330510570_n.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 292px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">In the summer of 2012 a team was assembled in Montsegur to document that shared dreaming, to test some of the wilder claims made about the area and open a window to the 21</span><sup style="font-family: georgia;">st</sup><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;"> century by bringing cameras and cutting edge thermal technology to the borderland between worlds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Above: Karim Hussain and yours truly back in action - photograph by Chloe Roberts</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Sunday June 10 – Montsegur:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">It is the first proper day of work on 'THE OTHERWORLD' and as fitting for the first day of any shoot the turbulent weather that has been building up over the last week finally comes to a head. </span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Although the morning was warm and sunny the day rapidly clouded over and by the time Karim and the project's producer, Fabrice Lambot, of Metaluna Productions, were on their way into the Zone from Toulouse airport the skies had opened in a deluge, with enough wind behind it for the rain to be practically horizontal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">The squall was fortunately short-lived and by midnight the wind had lulled. Making our way to Hannibal's Point, the crag overlooking the gorges of the Carroulet, we set up our first shot by the dim glow of the single mag light available to us. We decided to kick off our exercises with a time-lapse on the T2I-550D exposing one frame every thirty seconds with the shutter open all the way to see what the pog looked like when the moonless darkness was stripped away. With the shutter open this long the night is revealed to be amber, probably a side effect of the ambient light from the village's sodium lamps.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">We are now sitting back at base camp with Karim hunched over his key board, cutting together the first test shot and comically lip synching the lyrics from the theme tune to 'EMMANUELLE AND THE LAST CANNIBALS' ( 1977 ). “</span><i style="font-size: 100%;">I'm your queen. You're my king. I feel so good now. Like a cloud...</i><span style="font-size: 100%;">”. Moral is good with the team filled with a spirit of bold enthusiasm for the adventure ahead.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Above: Viewing the rushes - photograph by Gina Varella</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Monday June 11 – Montsegur / Rennes-le-Chateau:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">A gloomy start to the day with the sky leaden and overcast. I rolled out of bed into my black suit and bow tie to rendezvous with Fabrice for a 9:00am meeting with Jean Michel, the mayor of Montsegur. Fabrice was feeling a little delicate as his sleep had been troubled by strange dreams in which he had imagined I was '</span><i style="font-size: 100%;">some kind of vampire guy</i><span style="font-size: 100%;">' trying to lure him up the pog.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">'<i>To be sacrificed</i>?' suggested Miss Scarlett eagerly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">'<i>No. It was more complex than that</i>.' Fabrice blinked, looking slightly phased. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">'<i>Those damned apples just aren't ripening fast enough,</i>' suggested Karim, nose still buried in the screen of his laptop as he reviewed the time-lapse shot we took last night, presumably to make sure we hadn't dreamed the thing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">'</span><i style="font-size: 100%;">You don't understand it's always like that the first night I come here. On 'MOTHER OF TOADS' I thought something was shaking the bed. Last night I completely lost track of time. I woke up, thinking it was morning, but it was only 2:30am. Then I was too frightened to go back to sleep for a long time.</i><span style="font-size: 100%;">'</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">We had just long enough to get caffeinated before rolling into the mayor's office. Jean Michel, a former gendarme turned civic functionary, was his usual truculent self. He's never particularly cheery in the mornings but brightened once a suitable bribe had been settled on. A generous cash donation to the village's civic coffers. As luck would have it we ran into Fabrice Chambon, the local archaeologist in charge of the work at the château, in the atrium. Fabrice had been ducking our mails but after setting his mind at rest about our motives he gladly agreed to a summit meeting tomorrow night at the 'The Smoking Potato' ( 'A la Patate qui Fume' ), the excellent new restaurant in Montsegur that was to become our unofficial headquarters during the shoot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Above: Rennes-le-Chateau awaits - photograph by Scarlett Amaris</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">After making a pit stop for more coffee at Shadowtheatre HQ, we pulled Karim out of the shower and high-tailed it to Rennes-le-Chateau to meet with our second mayor of the day, Alexander Painco. </span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">While Jean Michel had requested what amounted to a token fee to allegedly be put towards the welfare of the community, Monsieur Painco, who after all was in charge of one of the hottest 'mystery spots' on the planet, was known to be a good deal more ambitious, charging other crews up to a grand a day for the privilege of shooting in the church and Sauniere's domain. We rendezvoused with Peter and Anneke, our friends and local tour leaders, outside the church and proceeded to the town hall. Peter has had innumerable dealing with Alex over the last few years and we were counting on his presence to come up with an acceptable middle ground solution.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Monsieur Painco didn't seem to have any objections to what we were doing, having doubtless heard similar pitches before, although he was clear that he didn't want us to associate Rennes-le-Chateau or himself with the neighbouring village of Bugarach (</span><i style="font-size: 100%;">“I don't want to have anything to do with those people. They're all crazy.”</i><span style="font-size: 100%;">). The village of Bugarach had been in and out of the news over the last year after allegedly becoming the focus of several international UFO cults, who believe the area will offer refuge from a coming apocalypse, apparently scheduled on the winter solstice.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Considering the fact that Rennes-le-Chateau itself is living under a curse, I was quite taken aback by the opprobrium Alex showed towards Bugarach. Eventually a deal was struck with him that included access to the church, the Tour Magdala, the Domain, and Sauniere's secret rooms. To clinch the deal, we had lunch in the mayor's new restaurant, which only opened a few weeks ago, another sign of the booming 'mystery trade' that has transformed Rennes-le-Chateau over the last few years into sort an esoteric Disneyland, a Mecca for slightly deranged New Ager's, conspiracy theorist's, and occult thrill seekers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">After lunch we repaired to the nearest hardware depot to stock up on a few essential supplies before driving back to Montsegur and literally into the teeth of a gathering storm. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">The weather patterns have been extremely unstable lately, see-sawing from summer sunshine to freezing wintry rain, from one half an hour to the next. While the rain is bad enough, the turbulent winds could be even more of a problem. After an attempt to shoot another time-lapse image on the 550D – this time of the 'white lady' formation on the Mountain de la Frau – was curtailed by incoming rain. We retired to the 'Smoking Potato' for another sit down meal and chilled out by watching old episodes of Nigel Neale's classic QUATERMASS series. With two huge meals a day and all this rain I am worried I'll start putting on weight unless we see some action soon.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Tuesday June 12 – Montsegur – Bugarach</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Once again Fabrice informed us that his sleep had been troubled by dreams, this time concerning a mysterious green serpent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">We got an early start, stopping for a coffee and croissant in Quillan before making our way via Puilarens and Galamus Gorge to the 'notorious upside down' mountain. The village of Bugarach, nestled in the mountain's shadow, seemed as sleepy as ever with no sign of the influx of UFO cultists and 2012 doomsday enthusiasts predicted by the media. The mayor, Jean-Pierre de Lord, jovially confirmed that the story had been blown out of all proportion by the press. This seemed a wee bit disingenuous as Monsieur de Lord has been the principal interviewee in pretty much all the reportage that has appeared to date on this nebulous affair. The fact that his office was actively selling postcards depicting flying saucers hovering over the mountain only deepened our suspicions that village's leadership had been secretly promoting the whole 2012 business from the very top. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9QCx4IHmaXbhn_Rx9gPOyh8Z64m4ThnFAYpVuDnK7veiasGgDWhAxnf9gvzjPU_oVFOtWeAnHX5w8qy9xsL4Em2mNlc4Q-yp4SuZLQhs1pFAiO3MrKCeHikm1f23iHK6wO4i6lypiCj3m/s1600/bug+ufo+de+lord.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5768338699937451682" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9QCx4IHmaXbhn_Rx9gPOyh8Z64m4ThnFAYpVuDnK7veiasGgDWhAxnf9gvzjPU_oVFOtWeAnHX5w8qy9xsL4Em2mNlc4Q-yp4SuZLQhs1pFAiO3MrKCeHikm1f23iHK6wO4i6lypiCj3m/s400/bug+ufo+de+lord.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Above: Mayor Jean-Pierre de Lord poses with one of the postcards available from his office on ABC news</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Monsieur de Lord was extremely accommodating, agreeing to an interview and even signing the release form in advance without charging us a dime – a laissez-faire attitude that contrasted sharply with our treatment in Rennes-le-Chateau. He insisted that while the UFO stories may be little more than hype there really was something going on in the area, insisting that we climb to the top of the mountain to </span><i style="font-size: 100%;">'feel the energy'</i><span style="font-size: 100%;"> for ourselves. He also insisted that we get in touch with Jean-Pierre Montes, a local folklorist and expert in secret societies whom I had first interviewed for Channel Four television's religion department on my first trip to the Zone in the summer of 1990. In point of fact Jean-Pierre Montes was the man who had originally tipped me off to the notion that if I could learn 'who held the patent on the calorimeter then I would uncover the true identity of Fulcanelli the master alchemist' – a scrap of information that had later turned out to be very valuable indeed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZcHmcyXD_ZYyf0u-an1V7o5dpJX19zMgmOcYAJuz1QhcP1ML9Mx_-Ul6UYJ6qhVcrxfNmq3vQUo8EwqSuryP3nLKrL2tQP9ahe0b2X7aTPFK0UXsP7bGkYzpZ29U6-QJujps7P6Aru6cE/s1600/432244_10150554972997671_550023152_n.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5768419674194892162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZcHmcyXD_ZYyf0u-an1V7o5dpJX19zMgmOcYAJuz1QhcP1ML9Mx_-Ul6UYJ6qhVcrxfNmq3vQUo8EwqSuryP3nLKrL2tQP9ahe0b2X7aTPFK0UXsP7bGkYzpZ29U6-QJujps7P6Aru6cE/s400/432244_10150554972997671_550023152_n.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Above: Karim and self at work in Bugarach - February 2012 - photograph by Gina Varella</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Wending our way through the densely wooded foothills of the haute Razes we stopped to take lunch in Rennes-les-Bains in the 'Place de la Deux Rennes'. Miss Scarlett and Karim ordered the vegetarian choice, the Boudet Burger, which seemed perfectly appropriate while I plumped for the Pizza Reine in honour of the queen of the Zone – or rather the two queens – the 'deux Reine' – the 'black mother' and the 'white lady' who preside over this time warped neck of the woods, over the white and black squares of the devil's chessboard across whose face we find ourselves shifted time and time again like counters.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">As above : Karim at work on the devil's chessboard So below: Uranie - the sorceror of the River of Colours ( both photos by Gina Varella )</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizuNiKB7zYuLpFUR5_MqXuJk6UZdG7Z_ZHQIrpEzE_qN3wmgitUZqQ-4zWISjay1X7Mg26UJ29iDvTMImv_ILjAdwY8dskzkafSiAm-hOEkxJVLjlVVNPsSSSVVgcPxmZB4hoxzr7OTVaW/s1600/398473_10150554971612671_479829907_n.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5768417589205751986" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizuNiKB7zYuLpFUR5_MqXuJk6UZdG7Z_ZHQIrpEzE_qN3wmgitUZqQ-4zWISjay1X7Mg26UJ29iDvTMImv_ILjAdwY8dskzkafSiAm-hOEkxJVLjlVVNPsSSSVVgcPxmZB4hoxzr7OTVaW/s400/398473_10150554971612671_479829907_n.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Taking the back road across the sacred valley to the Rennes plateau we paused at Lavaldieu to inspect the premises and firm up our reservations for later in the shoot before continuing to Uranie's domain at the edge of the River of Colours. Uranie seemed excited by the possibilities presented by the coming shoot and was keen to discuss the precise bearings that would need to be flown in the microlight to chart the Byzantine geographic alignments that make up the so-called 'Rennes pentagram'.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Gusts of wind rippled ominously through the long grass covering the shrines and marker stones surrounding Uranie's property and the afternoon light took on a curious, golden hue as Karim and myself walked through the tracking shot I had in mind for the film's closing sequence, finding a good spot for a jib up when we finally commit this to camera on the afternoon of the 27</span><sup>th</sup><span style="font-size: 100%;">. At one point we noticed Fabrice gazing oddly at a green, plastic snake intertwined with the various bits and bobs in one of Uranie's alfresco 'installations'. “</span><i style="font-size: 100%;">That thing was in my dream last night</i><span style="font-size: 100%;">,” Fabrice murmured, but none of us paid too much attention to his words, preoccupied as we were by the work at hand.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">A storm had risen once again by the time we returned to Montsegur, making further attempts at time-lapse work impracticable. We rendezvoused with our archaeologist friend Fabrice Chambon, at the 'Smoking Potato' and convened a meeting under the storm lashed awning on the back patio. Fabrice was reassuringly enthusiastic, consenting not only to the proposed interview, but offering to bring various relics from the museum's collection up to the château on the day of the shoot for a li'l on-camera show and tell.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">All in all, it would seem that despite the unstable weather patterns 'L'AUTRE MONDE' is off to a flying start!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Wednesday June 13 – Montsegur</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">“</span><i style="font-size: 100%;">This is the painful part of the day</i><span style="font-size: 100%;">,” murmured Dr. Roune as he slid a needle into my gum, doping me up for a double root canal procedure. While this may not have been the most convenient time for minor surgery it was the only appointment I could get and having waited almost a year for treatment it made sense to go ahead with the procedure rather than attempt to reschedule. And painful it was! A small '</span><i style="font-size: 100%;">blood sacrifice</i><span style="font-size: 100%;">' Karim suggested, for the greater good of the shoot. I spent most of the rest of the afternoon on tranquillizers, sleeping off the procedure while Karim and Fabrice drove to Toulouse to pick up the equipment and rendezvous with Corrine the production manager, and Dave the camera assistant. As fate would have it Karim also shed a little symbolic blood for the production when he tripped over a loose cobblestone in Toulouse and bruised his hand. Hopefully after this the way forward will be a little easier. Certainly none of the interviewee's can be as painful to deal with as the root canal procedure.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">The last two members of the team, Francoise the standby sound guy and Sylvain, the local gaffer & grip, who hails from Foix, rolled in under their own steam and by 19:00 hours all the crew members and the equipment were accounted for. Shrugging off the effects of the tranquillizers, I began to prepare my questions for tomorrow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Thursday June 14 – Montsegur</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The first day of principal photography gets off to an ominous start when Jean Michel, the mayor of Montsegur abruptly reverses his decision, refusing to appear on camera and telling us that he cannot authorize us to shoot in the local church without permission from the bishop in charge of the region. Corinne sets about tracking down the bishop while the rest of us drive up to the Taulet to get some general views of the castle. We are still experimenting with the equipment available to us and much of what we shoot here and in the Reboule will almost certainly end up on the cutting room floor. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Worse still – once we do hike up into the Reboule we find that the hidden labyrinth where we shot a scene from 'THE MOTHER OF TOADS' the year before last ( see above ) is simply no longer there. The maze has not only been destroyed but all trace of its existence has been expunged. Even the stones it was built from seem to have been removed from the site. Who would do such a thing and why?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">The questions are still going around in my head when we meet up with Thierry Salles at the camp de cremat. Thierry owns the land on which the labyrinth once stood and is as perplexed as us by its destruction. Thierry is a true Montsegurien, a direct descendent of Imbert de Salles the castle garrison's sergeant at arms at the time of the siege and talks simply and directly to our camera about his supernatural experiences on the mountain, relating an account of a time slip that took place when he was a teenager. As the sun settles lower over the Montagne de la Frau ( Occitan for 'Mountain of Fear' ) Thierry raises his guitar and plays a moving, heartfelt rendition of 'La Boier', a haunting thirteenth century troubadour song whose words mask a cryptic double meaning. The scenes with Thierry set the tone for the work ahead and will in all likelihood make the final cut.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Relieved that we have something in the can after all the crew retires to the 'Smoking Potato' . While they bid farewell to Francoise and welcome Nicolas our new soundman to the team Miss Scarlett and myself go in search of a bee gun to smoke out the church tomorrow. Miss Scarlett too has shed a little ritual blood for the cause having stepped on a thorn during the first set-up we shot in the Taulet that went all the way through the sole of her shoe and skewered her heel. Although she is walking with a pronounced limp she is at least still mobile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Morale remains high.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Friday June 15 – Montsegur</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">The first interview of the day doesn't start out too promisingly. Our contact, Yves M., who worked on the original excavations conducted at the château by the GRAME ( Groupe des Researches Archaeolique de Montsegur et Environs ) who turned in the official archaeological report on the site proves to be less forthcoming on camera than he was in casual conversation, choosing not to speak openly of his experiences on the mountain. Although slightly frustrating it's understandable as it's impossible to predict how anything that is said on record will be viewed by the outside world who tend to be more than a little sceptical about such matters. Besides, Yves has to live here. It is a problem we know we will come up against again and again on this project.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Yves claims that the GRAME forced him to sign a gag order after working on the site and is concerned by the possibility of legal reprisals if he goes on record about what they found there. It is difficult to understand why the GRAME would want to deliberately cover up certain aspects of their work on the mountain, especially since none of those involved have ever submitted a paper on the subject. What do the members of the GRAME stand to benefit by this obsessive secrecy and why do they have a vested interest in propagating the idea that certain areas of the castle, notably the tower room where the celebrated 'solar phenomena' take place, were constructed more recently than they may in all probability have been? Yves seems to fear reprisal not only from the local authorities but from a higher authority, from the mountain itself. He implies that there has been a deliberate move to obliterate all trace of the past and that to talk about it openly would only run the risk of speeding that process. In the end I have to respect his wishes but cannot help feel the interview is a lost opportunity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">On our return to the village we are mortified to hear from the bishop that the mayor of Montsegur has already briefed him that we should on no account be allowed to photograph the church or its contents. The sense that an official cover up is afoot is growing stronger by the hour but with Fabrice already back in Paris there is little we can do. Once again I find myself wishing I had a more fluent command of French. The lay-out of the church at Montsegur, which houses a black Madonna brought over the mountains by monks from Montserrat, is admittedly pretty unusual, containing astrological symbols and Hebrew characters in its interior décor that mirror, among other things, the 'gate of the Old Ones' from the Colin Wilson/George Hay 'hoax' Necronomicon, but what do the local government officials stand to gain from keeping the church a secret? We have photographed its interior dozens of times before using stills cameras but something about the idea of committing this imagery to film has the community leaders running scared.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">We manage to salvage something from the day by shooting Raghnhild and Anna-Mie working with their loom and spinning wheel. The Cathars were weavers after all and the the scene carries a faery tale resonance born out by Ragnhild's interview when she tells us about her reasons for moving to the village and how she heard the mountains literally singing at night,. The footage certainly has an interesting look to it but the business with the bishop has left a bad taste in my mouth. It is obvious that the mayor has set it up in such a way as to try and avoid responsibility for the matter. but I can't help but feel our efforts to penetrate what's really happening in this place are being deliberately and systematically deflected.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Saturday – June 16 – Montsegur</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">Mother Nature arranges a hot and almost cloudless day for the team's first ascent of the pog and accordingly we are all a little out of breath by the time we reach the castle. Corinne in particular is looking pretty sun struck, having climbed the mountain way too fast. Fabrice Chambon is just finishing up with his last tour group of the day in the courtyard and we wait for him to finish, luxuriating in the shade of the keep's ancient stone walls before setting up his interview.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">As above: Karim waits as Nicolas wires Fabrice Chambon for sound ( photo by Sylvain Auge ) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">So below: The team at work in the castle courtyard ( photoby Sylvain Auge )</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">On camera Fabrice, who looks like a cross between Tin Tin and a young Anthony Perkins, proves to be a live wire, filling in the official history of the castle, his enthusiasm and love for the site coming across in every word and gesture. He happily regales us with some of his stranger experiences on the mountain where he has had to deal with some pretty curious visitors over the years, ranging from Russian neo-Cathars to Argentinian UFO cults. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>She took me by the hand,”</i> Fabrice shakes his head as he recalls one particular cult member. <i>“She kept touching my hands and telling me I was special.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Above: We set up a time-lapse shot on the castle battlement as dusk creeps up out of the valleys below.The usual postcards one might say. ( photograph by Sylvain Auge )</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Arpaix Pereilha and her two sons show up from Lavelanet while we are working and she consents to an interview. Arpaix tells us of her belief that she is the reincarnation of one of the daughters of the former Lord of the castle, Raymond de Pereilha and speaks movingly of her connection to the site.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">As above: Karim, self, Miss Scarlett and Sylvain below the north facing tower ( photo by Arpaix Pereilha ) So below: Montsegur at sun down. ( frame grab from the rushes - image by Karim Hussain and Richard S.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>It gets pretty vibey up here at night”</i> I join Karim in the east facing gate, the so-called 'Gate of the Gods' as he stares into the dark, trying to make head or tail of everything he has seen and heard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>It looks like there's something moving over there,” </i>he ventures at length. And it's true. There do seem to be shadowy figures moving about in the remains of the old houses on the eastern flank of the pog. Although you can't quite focus on it there is undeniably some sort of vague activity going on in the blackness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>Do you see that?” </i>Karim turns to Sylvain who has just appeared behind me in the gateway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>What?”</i> Sylvain pauses, squinting into the night and for a moment all three of us stand staring at something none of us can readily define.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>Looks like a patch that's sort of defocussed or where the grain is really popped out”</i>, Karim rubs his eyes. <i>“But its definitely moving.”</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">The illusion seems to fade as we approach it and not for the first time I find myself wishing that we had some sort of night viewing mode on the camera. The FLIR will not be available to us until the last few days of the shoot and once we get our hands on it we'll have to make it count.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">The so-called 'supernatural' is surely just an extension of the natural world. To participate in the physical universe even the supernatural must surely exert some form of force or energy and if that energy is in any ways electromagnetic or biochemical the FLIR will surely pick up a trace at least.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Just a trace would be enough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Above: Frame grab from 'THE OTHERWORLD' ( image by Karim Hussain and R. Stanley )</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Sunday – June 17 – Montsegur</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">The team is feeling pretty worn out after hauling all that gear up and down the pog yesterday so we decide to opt for an easier day. Sticking close to the village we ask Patsy the resident speleologist to take us to one of the local caves, one that he promises will be “tres facile”. We only realize later that although it is not that far to go as the bird flies this does not mean that the way will be necessarily easy. The crew's faces fall as they take in the waterproof, all-terrain jump suit that Patsy unpacks from the boot of his car.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Parking up in the gorges of the Caroulet we follow Patsy through a hole in an ancient fence, following the winding trail through a glen that has become an illegal fly tip, a festering slew of kitchen waste, discarded household appliances and fly blown plastic effectively robbing this neck of the woods of any elder magic that may once have clung to it. Beyond the glen the path climbs vertiginously up the base of the Roc de la Mousse ( 'Rock of Shadows' in Occitan ) and we soon find ourselves grabbing at branches and scrabbling for purchase on the rough, steeply sloping terrain. After last night's descent of the pog in pre-dawn darkness our collective calves and thighs are starting to feel the burn. Just when we are on the verge of calling off the mission and turning back we come up a last rise to find ourselves at the gaping mouth of 'Las Mortes' - the aptly named Cave of the Dead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">'Las Mortes' is a neolithic site, originally excavated by the Abbe Durand, a former priest of Montsegur with a passion for amateur archaeology who conducted the only real digs these gorges below the castle have seen. Among other things he claimed to have found a cave in the pog containing a huge stone table and steps leading deeper into the mountain, a location known as 'Abbe Durand's Cave' that continues to elude modern day researchers seeking to verify the Abbe's claims. Not for the first time the curious notion is raised that the paths and the very features of the landscape have the ability to shift and change if you mention them aloud so that you might never find your way back to the same place again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>It's easy to imagine that some supernatural force guards the lost caves of Montsegur,”</i> Patsy informs us and its certainly easy enough to believe as he guides us through the inky recesses of the 'Cave of the Dead', a system that passes clear through one flank of the Rock of Shadows. Perhaps some things are simply not meant to be seen by by uninitiated eyes, least of all captured on a hard drive. Patsy, who was once a man but changed gender somewhere along the line, is a little taken aback when we ask about the mountain's feminine nature and, for a while at least, we decide to let this matter rest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Above: The team at the entrance of 'Las Mortes' - ( from left to right ) Self, Sylvain Auge, Karim Hussain, Scarlett Amaris, Nicolas Boyer, David Decottiginies and Corinne Binon ( photo by Patsy Gory )</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Returning to the village we wrap up the day with a follow up interview with Fabrice Chambon who displays some of the early thirteenth century artefacts found on the pog. As we are wrapping out of his house my attention is drawn by a display of neolithic fertility goddesses found in the region, prominent among them a tiny but very familiar looking 'white lady' carved from a mammoth's tusk. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Above: The Venus of Brassempouy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">When I csually ask about anodd looking stone mounted on a pillar in Fabrice's front garden he tells us that it is one of several that have recently turned up in the vicinity of the pog decorated with a crude sign representing the female reproductive organs. Apparently some maniac has been going around the area carving symbolic vulva's into rocks in much the same manner as someone has etched the eight pointed 'Star of Isis' or 'Roseatte of Innana' into various locations in the landscape surrounding Rennes-le-Chateau and Bugarach, all too often hitting the key points in the vast pentagram described as the 'Vagina of Nut' in David Wood's 1985 book 'GENISIS', an extraordinary work of carto-erotic mania in which a retired British surveyor charted the entire Egyptian creation myth onto the Zone's topography before claiming to reveal the true location of Atlantis. We have previously noted identical graven vulva's carved above a door in Mirepoix cathedral ( not coincidentally perhaps the door facing towards the pog ) and again halfway up the path to the château Another one used to mark a secret pathway just below the donjon-keep but last year it was deliberately sandblasted off the rock by an enraged local who probably has one or two sexual issues of his own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Monday – June 18 – Montsegur</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">A little burned out by the breakneck pace of the last 48 hours we resolve that today we really will try and go easy on the crew who are starting to look a\little frazzled.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">A 7.00 am call is followed by our first interview at 8.00 am with Richard, the de facto curator of the local museum who regales us at length about the castle's history. Richard, who habitually dresses in white, was at pains to point out that he didn't like the use of the word '<i>supernatural'</i> in reference to whatever force is at work on the pog. He preferred the term <i>'spiritual'</i> which is fine by me, although the whole exchange does come across like something out of 'The Wicker Man”. Making such a big deal out of this distinction does seem to be the etymological equivalent of splitting hairs and by constantly emphasising subjective experience and the importance of the individual seeker's spiritual journey tends to duck the issue of the various physical phenomena that have been observed on the mountain over the last many years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Allowing the crew to break for an early lunch I return to Lavalanet to complete the root canal treatment, the procedure allowing me a little quiet time to mull over the implications raised by our ongoing enquiry. It is evident that we are going to have to up the stakes and box a li'l smarter if the finished film is really going to hit the mark.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">As a special treat we take the crew to Madame Couquet's auberge for an aperitif. Madame initially refuses to do an interview. She is a master at playing hard to get but in the end consents, more for old time's sake than anything else as she was one of the original interviewees on 'THE SECRET GLORY' back in 1998 to which 'THE OTHERWORLD' is in all kinds of ways an official sequel. The auberge is, as a great many folk who have stayed there will agree, haunted, being the oldest house in the village but although Madame will admit to the presence of the spooks ( whom she refers to as <i>'les anciennes'</i> ) off-camera she refuses to go on record about it as she thinks it may be bad for business. She does however share a lovely anecdote about the spiritualistic seances that Rene Nelli held here back in the day and for a moment it really is just like old times. It's warm in the sunshine, sitting quietly at one end of the long table in Madame Couquet's first floor parlour, listening to everyone else talking and laughing and for a moment I half expect Suzy Nelli's voice to come up the stairs, to hear her dog Leika barking in the hall or to see Immo Horn and Otto Rahn step in the door and take off their hats.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Then the anaesthetic starts to wear off, summoning me back to the present.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Above: At Maison Couquet - ( from left to right ) Scarlett Amaris, Sylvain Auge, Karim Hussain, Aimee Couquet, moi, Nicolas Boyer and Dave Decottiginies ( photograph by Corinne Binon ) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Tuesday – June 19<sup>th</sup> – Montsegur</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>The mountain looks like a woman bending over with her ass in the air,”</i> Christine Autier explains, as if this were obvious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>Uh -huh'</i>, Karim gamely turns his eyes towards the cliffs that rise above us, trying in vain to work out what she means.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Christine is the proprietor of a medieval boutique in what you might call the village's high street whom we contacted in the hope of bringing a more feminine perspective to the documentary. She tells us the story of Esclarmonde the immortal chatelaine of the castle, whom she has named her boutique after and painted numerous pictures of during the long, cold winter. Her take on the unprecedented equal rights that women held in the 13thc is interesting, but when asked what is the strangest thing that has ever happened to her in Montsegur, she gets a little flustered. Finally she tells us her belief in reincarnation and how odd it was to her to realize that she had given all of her children medieval names and that she is so attracted to a certain time period. Reincarnation is a theme that we hear again and again living in the village. There are so many visitors believe that they were Cathar's who were burned at the stake, that we've given this a name, 'Montsegur syndrome'. With Christine it may be different though, she was born in this village and her ancestors were the original inhabitants. Those ancestral roots must run deep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">After having spied his white lady collection on Sunday, we go back to Fabrice Chambon's house in the afternoon to talk about the tradition of goddess worship in the Pyrenee's and how it never really went away, but went underground. We tell him a little about our research in drawing a direct correlation from the Venus statues found in the caves, to the domina's that the troubadour's sung and wrote poetry about as the worship of the sophia or divine feminine. Fabrice is very excited when we first propose the idea to him, telling us that this tradition indeed exists, that it is very important but for some reason no one ever seems to talk about it. Fabrice then grabs the ball and runs with it, giving a fantastic spontaneous interview on the subject. The goddess and the grail are one after all and it seems to be the perfect subject to be delving into the day before Midsummer's night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Summer solstice June 20-21 – Montsegur </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">From the web-log of Scarlett Amaris</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Like mules we trudge all the equipment up the steep path to the castle in preparation for the evening before the summer solstice. It's pretty heavy going, but we all eventually make it safe and sound. Richard and myself are the last ones up and we pass an older man on the path who asks us if we are with the film crew. We tell him yes and he laughs and says that the rest are already at the castle all out of breath. Then he feels the need to tell us that his wife is still up there and that she is a believer. In the next breath he tries to explain that he is an atheist, but the word just won't come out. It's kind of like watching a cat with a hairball in its throat and finally after many tries he finally spits it out. After that he looks kind of sheepish and hurries down the path.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>It's so</i> w<i>eird the way that people always feel the need to spontaneously share in this place. Happens every time. It's almost like there's truth serum in the ether.</i>” I muse out loud. <i>“It is the other world after all, the normal rules don't apply. Weirder though was the way he couldn't say the word atheist, almost like the mountain wouldn't let him.</i>”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>I bet he wouldn't have had any problem with the word heretic.</i>” Richard dead pans and we both agree laughing..</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Above:: Midsummer sunset - photograph by Scarlett Amaris</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">The pog is noticeably quieter this year. There's still the various groups of people who stake out their places around the castle, but it's not quite the colorful clash of strange faiths that we've witnessed in years past. The weather is gloriously warm and everything seems set for a perfect night shoot and solstice effect in the morning. Just after dark we set Dave up alone in the tower room to do a two hour time lapse on the T2I. I saunter into the castle courtyard to set-up interviews with our resident sorcerer, Uranie, Catalan artist, Ivan de Castries and Michele Ianella, the medieval sword master. The first fires are lit with Michele being the 'master of the sacred fire' as we sit and roast marshmallows while we talk about potential idea's for subjects and swap pog stories. I feel a slight pang of guilt as I hear Richard and Karim on the other side of the castle yelling out instructions to each other and the rest of the crew as they set up another shot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>Don't let anyone ever tell you that fieldwork isn't a bitch</i>.” I joke with Ivan as I pop another marshmallow onto a stick and into the fire. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">As above,so below: Midsummer night in the castle courtyard - Karim and Nicolas set up while I share a smoke with Uranie - the sorceror of the River of Colours ( photographs by Ivan de Castries ) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Uranie has driven up all the way from the river of colours to witness his first solstice at Montsegur and he gives an inspired interview on the balancing of the male and female energies, portals and numerous other subjects by fire light which suits him to a tee. I suspect that his interviews will have quite an impact on the wider public and we are all really impressed by what a natural he is on camera.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Midsummer morning – Montsegur - June 21 2012</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">From the shooting diary of Richard S.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">The interviews in the courtyard took a little longer than we had expected, especially when our last subject of the night, a bald, somewhat vulpine looking Occitan nationalist who introduced himself as the 'last pope' proceeded to regale us at length about the fall of Montsegur and the history of the south. Strutting about his camp fire, clad only in a pair of cammo trousers, he looked for all the world like a young Colonel Kurtz or some sort of Cathar Kilgore. He insisted on reading his poetry and by the time we broke away and made it back to the north facing tower it was already somewhere in the small hours of the morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Above: Frame grab from 'THE OTHERWORLD' - the image shot from the north facing tower</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Dave was perched nervously on the rail of the platform above the tower room floor, keeping an eye on the camera set-up from a safe distance. From here the banter in the courtyard was reduced to an infrequent murmur, the flicker of the camp fires in the long embrasure in the far wall providing the chamber's only lighting. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>I heard noises,”</i> Dave stammered, looking a little pale.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>What kind of noises?” </i>asked Miss Scarlett. <i>“Whispering?”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>Animal noises. I thought they were rats.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>There are no rats up her</i>e.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>Maybe toads,”</i> He glanced sheepishly back at the black well of the tower ,grateful that the time had finally come to break the set-up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfoFG2ordC3bMrG1yaZPbwiAL1uNiXcezMNynTPVzHNkaWgFexX6Z-dHNg5o1KvCdajCaOzehvpSE2hw1ozyQK_QzK3-ezGrM14CTC_9lcE6GKo9nW14nZS34vjZfJ-s_F90gIogi5dOd5/s1600/181339_3734209552334_1954957323_n.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5768387241175898018" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfoFG2ordC3bMrG1yaZPbwiAL1uNiXcezMNynTPVzHNkaWgFexX6Z-dHNg5o1KvCdajCaOzehvpSE2hw1ozyQK_QzK3-ezGrM14CTC_9lcE6GKo9nW14nZS34vjZfJ-s_F90gIogi5dOd5/s400/181339_3734209552334_1954957323_n.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">As above, so below: The summer solstice at Montsegur - June 21 2012 - photographs by Arpaix Pereilha </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj69zyj2fUUBK0L0JIGQbGEAgiUZcLCaOeEBcld5s-LH94mfRMIG7YzWRLX5TR5hSA1BB4a87hQxp9dKL9x3PyH8_Ipey-_8f8VbZsoeyr0mGTehIlSZ3EJlnUmr2GHU2ACvE1OR1ghkGx/s1600/196041_3689570196378_1311411153_n.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5768390221109788082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj69zyj2fUUBK0L0JIGQbGEAgiUZcLCaOeEBcld5s-LH94mfRMIG7YzWRLX5TR5hSA1BB4a87hQxp9dKL9x3PyH8_Ipey-_8f8VbZsoeyr0mGTehIlSZ3EJlnUmr2GHU2ACvE1OR1ghkGx/s400/196041_3689570196378_1311411153_n.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 225px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">As dawn approached the castle began to fill up with travellers, maybe two hundred pilgrims in all, converging on the north facing tower to witness the celebrated 'solar phenomena.' Among them were many familiar faces from the village including Yves, Ragnhild and Thierry. The Goddess saw fit to grace us with a clear, bright morning and ideal viewing conditions. The crowd surged forward, snapping photographs and reaching out to touch the blood red beams formed by the east facing embrasures capturing the light of the rising sun and effectively using the earth's atmosphere as a prism to draw a series of glowing rectangles on the far side of the chamber,a fiery sign that has been repeated year after year since the keep's construction. The phenomenon lasts for a little less than fifteen minutes and can be reliably witnessed for approximately six days on either side of the solstice, weather permitting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Outside the tower I heard some of the villagers begin to sing in Occitan but I felt the need to linger in the chamber a moment longer. Uranie was standing in front of one of the embrasures, staring east into the gathering light and I knew that all too soon we would follow the way he looked, down from the mountains to where the Rennes plateau awaited. The sun rose higher and before us the landscape unfurled itself from the night mists like a labyrinth still waiting to be walked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRZjxPdSEbdANRQG-_Uc5B7e3J2JgFFEPsGfOm4zvHxHYYP1FcH4dzJibB_7GAsuLGpi-_4DsK1RUgfeIlyibciUerkcQUfKos9dwwdGnLIdJcHQwoLRIkH5NJjslvAlhP_40iT8NzPav/s1600/IMG_2126.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5768391049998250978" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRZjxPdSEbdANRQG-_Uc5B7e3J2JgFFEPsGfOm4zvHxHYYP1FcH4dzJibB_7GAsuLGpi-_4DsK1RUgfeIlyibciUerkcQUfKos9dwwdGnLIdJcHQwoLRIkH5NJjslvAlhP_40iT8NzPav/s400/IMG_2126.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">TO BE CONTINUED:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">In our next instalment:- Action, gags, mystery and romance. The team converge for a bizarre moment of truth at the Tour Magdala and much to their surprise stumble onto the true secret of Rennes-le-Chateau.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Part Two of 'THE OTHERWORLD – SHOOTING DIARY' will follow shortly...</span></div>
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shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-32032300194341024602012-04-22T12:03:00.034-07:002012-04-22T16:21:13.404-07:00The Secret of Black Star Canyon<div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnh87j6FN-0Mvj4jFXeMpBatyYPgSydJyJgPGk0u8eabEwL3ZP-geiUJoZvPJtJkkzO_K8JzEQeF54tyuwZsctAzoygdA7NDjUgtG-mlIcm2oxLQ3z5lkxPRupAMLemgKGCrqioKV1nP1m/s1600/unfit-mother.png" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 295px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnh87j6FN-0Mvj4jFXeMpBatyYPgSydJyJgPGk0u8eabEwL3ZP-geiUJoZvPJtJkkzO_K8JzEQeF54tyuwZsctAzoygdA7NDjUgtG-mlIcm2oxLQ3z5lkxPRupAMLemgKGCrqioKV1nP1m/s400/unfit-mother.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734311307225524418" /></a><p class="western" align="CENTER" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><b>Anatomy of an 'urban myth'.</b></p><p class="western" align="CENTER" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left; margin-bottom: 0cm; ">( i )</p><p class="western" align="CENTER" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left; margin-bottom: 0cm; ">“<i>Are you okay down there?”</i></p><p align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>I called to Jeremy who had absailed down the steep incline beneath the road and was shining his flashlight through the gaping window frame of the wrecked school bus wedged nose first in the ravine below.</span></p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span> “<i>This is really creepy, man. You'd better check it out for yourself.”</i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span> I glanced back at Miss Scarlett and the others who stood silently ringed in the darkened roadway behind me. </span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span> “<i>Ladies first.”</i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span> Miss Scarlett and Jeremy's wife, Melissa, shot a look between themselves as Yvette, Manny and Scott kept a safe distance, snapping photo's and peering nervously into the abyss. Down below Jeremy kept muttering the phrase <i>'seriously creepy'</i> over and over to himself as the shadows of the branches leaped in his flashlight beam and I couldn't help wondering what had brought us here, grown adults one and all, to this desolate arroyo in the middle of the night.</span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span> “<i>I'll go.”</i> Melissa grabbed the rope with both hands. <i>“If not, I'll never hear the end of it.”</i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGmxuhtRSwTysKOjDcwW-r2mhr_D2AeyYDkomV0H-H0L5m4aGzk1aClgENBDXNC_qac1ng_dhkjEUtY2W8oKrV7ZPmP0SYmHwIqx-Ssv9MHe1QFDRMHXi4p6NR_QXQ7sqYgywbRjQjVlyz/s1600/n536224394_1368636_1131908.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGmxuhtRSwTysKOjDcwW-r2mhr_D2AeyYDkomV0H-H0L5m4aGzk1aClgENBDXNC_qac1ng_dhkjEUtY2W8oKrV7ZPmP0SYmHwIqx-Ssv9MHe1QFDRMHXi4p6NR_QXQ7sqYgywbRjQjVlyz/s400/n536224394_1368636_1131908.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734313220362225810" /></a></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; ">Above: The wrecked bus - seen from the road.</p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; ">( ii )</p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span> Anglo-Saxon history in the United States of America is little more than skin deep. All too often the locations with the most haunted reputations turn out to be drab tourist attractions like Southern California's 'Whaley House', whose ghostly atmosphere has long since been stripped away by the rigors of the commercial spook trade. In most small towns the 'haunted' houses are bland, derelicts containing nothing more gut wrenching than the occasional dead rat strung up by the older kids to scare and impress their friends and siblings. Few places come close to emulating the dark histories that cling to the gothic manses, ruined castles and houses of the damned of old Europe.</span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; ">Accordingly I was disinclined to take the stories I'd heard about the canyon seriously. But the stories kept on coming and in the end I figured it was time to bust out my flashlight and find out what all the fuss was about. <span><span>Black Star is located in an isolated, densely thicketed region of the Santa Ana mountains, an area closed to automobile traffic and beyond the reach of police, ambulances or rescue crews who refuse to go past the locked gate at the base of the valley. </span></span>As there are explicit warnings posted on the net not to visit the zone without carrying a weapon or travelling in a group it made sense to call up a few old friends, a loosely knit posse of fellow esoteric thrill seekers affectionately known as the SoCal Demon Youth, arranging to rendezvous at the gate just before sundown to conduct a thorough investigation of the terrain by the light of a full Californian moon.</p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFBC5qgD3Y5d85uozZ1w6BYc5i80cX3fe5Ho021K1fRnAbMQbywhjV58BKJUQixYQY2i-HsTUvkGqAFEKKPYj4ISNMFn7ZlZocsK91sOsK6N5JPRS8AxH1EHlTzrKW75bGWWHyXO08kk6y/s1600/n536224394_1368593_2880165.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFBC5qgD3Y5d85uozZ1w6BYc5i80cX3fe5Ho021K1fRnAbMQbywhjV58BKJUQixYQY2i-HsTUvkGqAFEKKPYj4ISNMFn7ZlZocsK91sOsK6N5JPRS8AxH1EHlTzrKW75bGWWHyXO08kk6y/s400/n536224394_1368593_2880165.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734316313691714674" /></a></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; ">As above: Black Star Canyon - the way into the zone</p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; ">So below: SoCal Demon Youth movement left to right - Jeremy, Melissa, Self, Scarlett, Manny and Yvette </p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz4GS_wgK-mcPJ1Rm7cA_ENoHGD9V1GfEVy1ex743hPcpJ-u8qZTwVWDS22eOIZkB2YUsIBb0gVbcfjDXTAurl_F7swHbqAFGyd2Qvs4__0M6YGfBuZhAxUMPWx4MLhjGPfCyNjA7CSSqX/s1600/n536224394_1368596_2729794.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz4GS_wgK-mcPJ1Rm7cA_ENoHGD9V1GfEVy1ex743hPcpJ-u8qZTwVWDS22eOIZkB2YUsIBb0gVbcfjDXTAurl_F7swHbqAFGyd2Qvs4__0M6YGfBuZhAxUMPWx4MLhjGPfCyNjA7CSSqX/s400/n536224394_1368596_2729794.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734316995294948834" /></a></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg84Qzha40hLf7pV5icD2A4VavZd8W4AtkGvSq741_1YRcyMTYXcqkOYqOouPtVILz4pslR8KfQryAFtKUG0eRN5cGfGeKjLA-YnoSC_4rTDD52kKyWP86QLGNLD28ZX6Dt7FT4I-QePWju/s1600/n536224394_1368594_8092746.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg84Qzha40hLf7pV5icD2A4VavZd8W4AtkGvSq741_1YRcyMTYXcqkOYqOouPtVILz4pslR8KfQryAFtKUG0eRN5cGfGeKjLA-YnoSC_4rTDD52kKyWP86QLGNLD28ZX6Dt7FT4I-QePWju/s400/n536224394_1368594_8092746.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734318129042898802" /></a></span></p><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; " the="" other="" side="" of="" gate="" a="" dusty="" tar="" road="" threads="" its="" way="" further="" into="" cracked="" asphalt="" covered="" with="" slew="" graffiti="" warning="" outsiders="" to="" stay="" squatters="" and="" eccentrics="" who="" make="" their="" home="" in="" these="" mountains="" attempt="" guard="" area="" as="" if="" it="" were="" personal="" property="" span="" on=""><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; " the="" other="" side="" of="" gate="" a="" dusty="" tar="" road="" threads="" its="" way="" further="" into="" cracked="" asphalt="" covered="" with="" slew="" graffiti="" warning="" outsiders="" to="" stay="" squatters="" and="" eccentrics="" who="" make="" their="" home="" in="" these="" mountains="" attempt="" guard="" area="" as="" if="" it="" were="" personal="" property="" span="" on=""><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Georgia, Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; ">On the other side of the gate a dusty tar road threads its way further into the zone, cracked asphalt covered with a slew of graffiti warning outsiders to stay away. The squatters and eccentrics who make their home in these mountains attempt to guard the area as if it were their personal property </span>which is partly true since the lower section of the road is privately maintained, although the county and forestry service have an easement of public right-of-passage on the trail. A group of mountain bikers known as the Warrior's Society recently held meetings with two of the local land owners, Art Tuttle and Bill Studler ( commonly known as 'Black Star Bill' ), but both men have since continued to exert their authority over the road. Legally the canyon is considered to be at least technically open to the public and all recreational activities including ad hoc ghost hunting although reports of hikers being threatened with shotguns or bikers run off the road by speeding pick-ups are not uncommon.</div> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6W0AGHO_5WQAcz8WQLWy6VVO1UomPXVCzEI7f7EBYkcIgheOPlK9ZnGH8zCfxosf_DrQzoyV3mLELLPOlnMTcClDpy3uUSdIntscKHYEC10uvLupDtavWQbM_xTj9_VenmlS1Npm5-3ps/s1600/n536224394_1368591_3511186.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6W0AGHO_5WQAcz8WQLWy6VVO1UomPXVCzEI7f7EBYkcIgheOPlK9ZnGH8zCfxosf_DrQzoyV3mLELLPOlnMTcClDpy3uUSdIntscKHYEC10uvLupDtavWQbM_xTj9_VenmlS1Npm5-3ps/s400/n536224394_1368591_3511186.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734320856195470690" /></a></span></p><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span>Over the years Black Star's colourful reputation has made a midnight visit to the forbidden zone into something of a rite of passage for Orange County teenagers. Urban legends and hysterical clips posted to YouTube have proliferated since one of the more popular ghost' stories first made it's appearance on the Internet in 1995 . The breathless, first hand account, later published in the book </span></span><span><span><i>Weird California ( 2006 ) </i></span></span><span><span>, tells of a group of friends who parked their car in front of the locked gate one night only to flee in terror after witnessing a procession of phantasmal dwarf like figures wending their way down the shadowy trail from the hills. Realizing that the cowled imps were marching right towards them the kids panicked, flinging their car into reverse. As they drove away they noted with growing horror that the movements of their faceless pursuers seemed to speed up as if in hot pursuit of their vehicle.</span></span></div> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; ">As this seminal account spread across cyberspace the half glimpsed, hooded outlines were embroidered to become the ghosts of 'Spanish conquistadors' and conflated with rumours that the canyon had been a meeting place for a 'Satanic cult' back in the eighties. These tales of robed figures celebrating secret, moonlit rituals caused some to hint darkly at the presence of the Ku Klux Klan, a slander further fuelled by reports of hikers glimpsing distant bonfires blazing in the canyon. Wild yarns began to circulate concerning 'Texas Chainsaw' style cannibals predating on unwary members of the public, allegedly with the full knowledge and collusion of the authorities. The canyon came to be viewed by local UFO enthusiasts as a 'window area' with speculation over the curious nocturnal lights giving rise to fanciful notions that the site harboured a secret military installation and/or a subterranean extraterrestrial base. Others insisted the place was haunted by a demon named "Black Star" or that spectral lion headed figures roamed the hills while some believed the locale to be guarded by malevolent native American spirits</p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEyOSwvowhow2ZWak5D9ck33Iyof4pzYeuu9CjZDyV_4_gud_5zSUQYnjrn5d1C1Zqm9nYbxj03GOznNbMY5hhJjQal2PSl8LXflNOuuhXTP4Z5fIAkyGluAbdfBAofT7ST0A1n7thp_V/s1600/2589_82926498568_721943568_2142289_7744292_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEyOSwvowhow2ZWak5D9ck33Iyof4pzYeuu9CjZDyV_4_gud_5zSUQYnjrn5d1C1Zqm9nYbxj03GOznNbMY5hhJjQal2PSl8LXflNOuuhXTP4Z5fIAkyGluAbdfBAofT7ST0A1n7thp_V/s400/2589_82926498568_721943568_2142289_7744292_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734323529166044802" /></a></p><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">( iii )</div> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>There is no doubt that in times gone by the canyon, referred to under Spanish and later Mexican rule as '<span><i>Cañada de los Indios', </i></span> was a fertile picking ground for the Gabrielino - Tongva people who took shelter here during the long, sweltering summers. Numerous artefacts, including pothole grinding rocks have been found in the vicinity of their former settlement in the upper reaches of the canyon, an area known today as 'hidden ranch'. The steep gorge was comparatively safe from grizzly bears and mature oak trees provided a welcome source of shade as well as the acorns that formed a staple part of the Tongva diet. Unfortunately, according to an account by one of the early settlers, J.E. 'Judge' Pleasants, the Indians were also <i>“very fond of horseflesh</i>”, a habit that eventually lead to their undoing. In 1831, after a series of raids on local farmsteads, an armed conflict broke out between the Tongva rustlers and a party of fur trappers from New Mexico, a battle that has been described as one of the bloodiest clashes in the region's history. The trappers, lead by a certain William Wolfskill and armed with long rifles ringed the Indian settlement and picked off it's inhabitants with ease. How many died that day has not been recorded but it is clear that after this brutal incident the Tongva folk ceased to exert a significant presence in the mountains.</span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; ">Following the massacre Wolfskill took control of the land, bringing his horticultural skills to bear on the arid terrain. After his passing the canyon fell into the hands of rancher James Irvine before being incorporated into the Cleveland National Forest in the late 1880s. The canyon owes its current name, not to some obscure demonic entity, but to the Black Star Coal Mining Company that was established in 1879 after deposits were found in the area. The mine's 900 foot tunnel produced a daily yield of up to ten tons of medium- to low-grade coal which was hauled to Anaheim or Los Angeles by mule team for a few years before the pit fell into disuse when a survey found the company was operating illegally on land belonging to the Irvine Ranch.</p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKprITcvYNswt0senuXpYA0vAn1d4GMr7LL5AB_ETxUGthw7Nc2R0VLridRqTvmile6yDmEaD3kNQTPDz3NWYZGAFO9SUNfcQJPDlKw-pbA1WavhjXIo4QcAXvm8KQ7Li7uVze7TFligC/s1600/2639_55865027894_721352894_1652755_1211930_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKprITcvYNswt0senuXpYA0vAn1d4GMr7LL5AB_ETxUGthw7Nc2R0VLridRqTvmile6yDmEaD3kNQTPDz3NWYZGAFO9SUNfcQJPDlKw-pbA1WavhjXIo4QcAXvm8KQ7Li7uVze7TFligC/s400/2639_55865027894_721352894_1652755_1211930_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734324105083790018" /></a></p> <p class="western" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span>Beyond the locked gate abandoned shafts and corroded mining equipment bear testimony to the discontinued operation. Mounds of low-grade coal remain scattered on the canyon floor, only half hidden by the brush. After walking down the tar road for approximately one kilometer we struck off the trail towards the river. There were mountain lion tracks in the drying mud and further up the wash a place where the beast had made a kill. </span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijwNu4gvb9ySK95dYmY2UDH1aW5U_LFe1n2oRFvI-19dEcxTxxAmbiay9LqKQ8IGsaJAeNvs0_ppUdagJSDa652ZZlQrfw7w0z4jhKokwcrDwLdKKZQUBiEiVzydmcigjBDyIIyAKIks3/s1600/n536224394_1368604_7003539.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijwNu4gvb9ySK95dYmY2UDH1aW5U_LFe1n2oRFvI-19dEcxTxxAmbiay9LqKQ8IGsaJAeNvs0_ppUdagJSDa652ZZlQrfw7w0z4jhKokwcrDwLdKKZQUBiEiVzydmcigjBDyIIyAKIks3/s400/n536224394_1368604_7003539.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734322056126661810" /></a></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span>As above, so below: The hunter and it's prey</span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0QCQsZIF0IlMDLqYRwaE1DH2lcPJSGsUiYWgXpkVqDzMciSzYYZQXHuPPsxOcGup_Bpw2anrAvFtMoiV_WRiVAjN7UwjTZa17cuE4GhzxcnkEBzRCRf_uoEAaj8_CwZMCtH_kq1JIpWH/s1600/n536224394_1368603_4747262.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0QCQsZIF0IlMDLqYRwaE1DH2lcPJSGsUiYWgXpkVqDzMciSzYYZQXHuPPsxOcGup_Bpw2anrAvFtMoiV_WRiVAjN7UwjTZa17cuE4GhzxcnkEBzRCRf_uoEAaj8_CwZMCtH_kq1JIpWH/s400/n536224394_1368603_4747262.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734322539180228610" /></a></span></span></span></p><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span>Casting a wary eye over the tangle of prints that marked a jack rabbit's final moments we could readily imagine where those tales of 'lion headed' beings prowling the zone might have come from. By now it was almost full dark and time to turn our attention to the task at hand, following the narrow dirt road, cut by the United States Forest Service in the early 1920's, into the maw of the canyon itself. Although Orange County officials no longer maintain the road it's surface was well graded and readily navigable even in the gloom before moon rise. We </span></span>had yet to come across any trace of Black Star's human habitants other than a battered pick up parked at the side of the trail and a few bullet scarred warning signs that someone<span><span> had posted in a determined effort to keep this place as private as possible. At one point we passed knotted sheet slung from a tree, presumably in a half assed attempt at warning folk away.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiKE0j_O0QsO_IzYmliHIrlNjwJ0J3aQmoqIK8XWe8eqb9XUIE30gikprwUHSweCrrAVOQ_CHw2ouhdJR1tHMqEFXEPIZ4KUsNHk8AilBpnr5uQs3GOGMfVlbjXsc8k7_SsZgCG9I_m0wB/s1600/2589_82926828568_721943568_2142296_4370142_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiKE0j_O0QsO_IzYmliHIrlNjwJ0J3aQmoqIK8XWe8eqb9XUIE30gikprwUHSweCrrAVOQ_CHw2ouhdJR1tHMqEFXEPIZ4KUsNHk8AilBpnr5uQs3GOGMfVlbjXsc8k7_SsZgCG9I_m0wB/s400/2589_82926828568_721943568_2142296_4370142_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734324906237780146" /></a></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">As above: Manny and Yvette</div></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">So below: Into the night</div> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRd7COuBiah7HoaP7AWxhwKqkRjyCUtqcdtSQ6agBbAashIjY16anEtj5R49YwObr1tGiGJQv2lC6OnGtEp46AizXTFwRKBCgBHeDWpkHhYb5K5LFuPg-2u1a-cPldxcCBCM3NaNIiVWQi/s1600/2639_55865047894_721352894_1652759_2893753_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRd7COuBiah7HoaP7AWxhwKqkRjyCUtqcdtSQ6agBbAashIjY16anEtj5R49YwObr1tGiGJQv2lC6OnGtEp46AizXTFwRKBCgBHeDWpkHhYb5K5LFuPg-2u1a-cPldxcCBCM3NaNIiVWQi/s400/2639_55865047894_721352894_1652759_2893753_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734325681246243362" /></a></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span>( iv )</span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span>A hush hung over the gorge, the early evening stillness broken only by the occasional gust of wind. These sudden, violent breezes that blew themselves out as soon as they came seemed to be a natural feature of the canyon's topography but it was easy to see how they might give the impression of rushing, airy presences to those under the influence of illegal intoxicants. As we walked we began to recount episodes from the area's local lore to amuse ourselves. One of these yarns, probably the earliest ghost story linked to the canyon was familiar to Miss Scarlett and Manny who had heard it as a children. The tale, originating from the time of the first Spanish settlers, concerns a terrifying apparition known as "La Llorona" ( pronounced "la yo-ro-na") or”</span></span><span><span><i>The Wailer” </i></span></span><span><span>who was thought to live in the creek and have the head of a horse. This grotesque mythic being has been associated with dozens of different locations spread cross Southern California, New Mexico and the Southwest and has been used by Mexican mothers to scare their bambinos into submission since the time of the Aztecs. </span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0JHsQ77VGhr6MV3OPAuZ6QFXN3zQJQ-SnP3-UtdpX1xru0COwCZYil4rPUVx1ihrUzuWPUErKW54gmOcvqhk1BgIc6VZdr6UxkpHEOBirdqI8-P2ZgOLYLBUcwEROOXpGt1QiJl5591tF/s1600/db_9815.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 359px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0JHsQ77VGhr6MV3OPAuZ6QFXN3zQJQ-SnP3-UtdpX1xru0COwCZYil4rPUVx1ihrUzuWPUErKW54gmOcvqhk1BgIc6VZdr6UxkpHEOBirdqI8-P2ZgOLYLBUcwEROOXpGt1QiJl5591tF/s400/db_9815.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734327850848345906" /></a></span></span></span></p><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><span>As above, so below: The myth served as the basis for the first horror film to be produced in Mexico - 'La Llorona' ( 1933 ) and it's many remakes that continue to this day</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYApQfOoVTzve-4zDypryv-1gpHCXl0O3z0g9QWPUrnrM5cmaxvfaJynibdVY550GeFiLhhNXDp5vkkuzgYVPvpRjAiCEKKu5HSaFR4sh7Ff9uXurSJ9V_mjUqmtb3nW0HUxFvBNcNq68/s1600/curse-of-la-llorona.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYApQfOoVTzve-4zDypryv-1gpHCXl0O3z0g9QWPUrnrM5cmaxvfaJynibdVY550GeFiLhhNXDp5vkkuzgYVPvpRjAiCEKKu5HSaFR4sh7Ff9uXurSJ9V_mjUqmtb3nW0HUxFvBNcNq68/s400/curse-of-la-llorona.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734328322886180578" /></a></span></span></span></div><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span>The basic story is always the same. A beautiful but vain and selfish widow murders her own children by drowning them in a creek so that she might run away with her wealthy lover. When her lover subsequently rejects her she commits suicide only to find herself condemned to wander the earth for all eternity, horribly transformed, incapable of rest until she can retrieve the bones of her children that were borne away by the stream. Unable to find her own offspring, she is prone to stealing the souls of any kids she comes across. In a close parallel to the Irish Banshee tradition it is commonly believed</span></span><span><span> that if you see “La Llorona” or hear her mournful cries, then you or someone close to you will die within the week.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUsJQca_xdzmoBWGkc9klTSe5i9FogjN4KhIlwHW099wXKYdP-UIj0J8AKurTCT_Ei-q2t2ZyWbmt_D5f4K-PYmPzOAC_kJzSQlb2MDZ_qbOiniy_VshasKNApankVk7AOyh2BgMUrHIK8/s1600/2639_55865052894_721352894_1652760_964350_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUsJQca_xdzmoBWGkc9klTSe5i9FogjN4KhIlwHW099wXKYdP-UIj0J8AKurTCT_Ei-q2t2ZyWbmt_D5f4K-PYmPzOAC_kJzSQlb2MDZ_qbOiniy_VshasKNApankVk7AOyh2BgMUrHIK8/s400/2639_55865052894_721352894_1652760_964350_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734329460873292242" /></a></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>As above: Moonrise in Black Star - Manny, Yvette, Melissa, Scott, Miss Scarlett and myself</span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><br /></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; ">( v )</p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span>A silvery effulgence grew along the eastern rim of the canyon as the moon made her presence felt, its wan light falling on the remains of the school bus that had found its final resting place at the base of the incline. Miss Scarlett shimmied down the rope after Melissa and I followed, switching on the camera's starlight filter. The bus lay in the dark heart of the canyon, at the centre of a web of conjecture and nascent urban folklore. According to various sources on the internet the accident happened during a school 'nature outing' but whether this is true or not is impossible to verify. It has the ring of myth about it and there are no names, dates or lists of casualties to confirm the oft-repeated claim that </span></span><span><span><i>'all the kids died'. </i></span></span><span><span>Still, the crash site is an eerie enough location, especially in the dead of night and it was round about now that the 'orbs' began to show up. Those pesky li'l digital artefacts, beloved of amateur ghost busters the world over do have a habit of materializing on your memory card when the going gets weird and now they were out in force.<br /><br /><span><span>“<span><i>Told you this place was creepy”</i></span></span><span><span>, muttered Jeremy, reviewing the stills. </span></span> </span></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>“<span><i>Probably just the dust we kicked up abseiling down here,” </i></span></span><span><span>I offered unhelpfully, taking in the interior of the wrecked vehicle, the gutted seats and cracked, grime encrusted windows. There were stories about folk seeing pale faces peering from these windows or even tiny, hands banging franticly against the glass but nothing quite so phantasmagorical presented itself to us now. Just a few stray blips of light on the digital camera that could be readily explained away. </span></span> </span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>“<span><i>Let's get out of here, okay?”</i></span></span><span><span> I glanced up to see Melissa peering in through a window on the opposite side. The girls had clambered down slightly before me and had had proportionately more time to get themselves spooked but there was no denying the atmosphere surrounding the wrecked vehicle was thick enough to cut with a buck knife. </span></span> </span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>Something wrong?”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span>Miss Scarlett appeared from the blackness behind her. “</span></span><span><span><i>I get the feeling something doesn't want us here.”</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><i>What do you mean 'something'?”</i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span>Then a low rumble came from the darkened ravine below and we all froze. It took a moment to realize that it was just the reverberation of an aeroplane passing overhead, its roar distorted by the curious acoustics of the gorge. For a moment the spell was broken.</span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>“<span><i>Maybe you're right” </i></span></span><span><span>Jeremy shrugged</span></span><span><span><i>. “C'mon.”” </i></span></span><span><span>He steadied the rope as Melissa started back up towards the road, tail lights twinkling through the leaves as the 747 came in to land on the far side of the mountains. Raising my flashlight to take a last look at the bus's interior I noticed a huge yellow spider suspended a hand's breadth from my face. Recoiling a little hastily I followed the others. Orbs I can handle but I still have a 'thing' about spiders, even after all these years. </span></span> </span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNZ_ax39N242gDiLlcpt4KktHkhPeEB-oxam54pirrpYevU64dst7tPH1-h649QGg_6zy34yLcRvrBEFdiT_jWpIcMJu1EfFZIeOqblZapsKahy_q_IGs_sXt404rZ_xwwfsuQ1IGipAvF/s1600/n536224394_1368638_2007575.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNZ_ax39N242gDiLlcpt4KktHkhPeEB-oxam54pirrpYevU64dst7tPH1-h649QGg_6zy34yLcRvrBEFdiT_jWpIcMJu1EfFZIeOqblZapsKahy_q_IGs_sXt404rZ_xwwfsuQ1IGipAvF/s400/n536224394_1368638_2007575.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734331946976155714" /></a></span></span></span></p><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">As above: Miss Scarlett at the wreck site</div><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span>So below: Black Star 'orbs'</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDD3EeLUMhkcCrXDrydMjTyBjcFGJry-_LGrg2Sq0_0UmTEz6DIGQGjGEmgg1NvuKzghHcg8dZdT7iYs2jYFWT02Azin5JO1W_sGShtwTM4c_3MvGcMfWzITSbtEbxwtPlOw3Z1cpfwXgC/s1600/n536224394_1368628_1990220.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDD3EeLUMhkcCrXDrydMjTyBjcFGJry-_LGrg2Sq0_0UmTEz6DIGQGjGEmgg1NvuKzghHcg8dZdT7iYs2jYFWT02Azin5JO1W_sGShtwTM4c_3MvGcMfWzITSbtEbxwtPlOw3Z1cpfwXgC/s400/n536224394_1368628_1990220.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734332920762225618" /></a></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>“<span><i>I think we're being watched,”</i></span></span><span><span> murmured Yvette. </span></span> </span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>“<span><i>I've been getting that too,”</i></span></span><span><span> added Miss Scarlett as we started on down the trail. “</span></span><span><span><i>Ever since we left the bus.”</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>“<span><i>Like eyes on the back of one's neck,”</i></span></span><span><span> Scott agreed, glancing about himself uneasily. The moon was out now but that only seemed to make the shadows between the trees deeper than before.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<span><i>Well, you know what they say? When you know you're being watched there's only one thing you can do.</i>..”</span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>“</span><span><span><i>What's that?”</i></span></span><span><span> Miss Scarlett shot me a questioning look as I took off my hat and straightened my hair.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>Try to look your best.”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span>There were lights visible through the trees up ahead. At least one of the canyon's inscrutable residents seemed to be at home but I, for one, wasn't in any hurry to meet them.</span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3uXjF8ek4Yf6rbSzvNMFOaSA9dhR_5BIErn0F7PyXnLyPcVNK3BLHIeXLDL03K46P03gJb75rPbTt9mvtkLqRRe-6ZkBNzjlYt8v1m_0YW_4rrTWhzWutGtDd_z3wOMxSNfdjG-OCdZBL/s1600/n536224394_1368805_4538394.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3uXjF8ek4Yf6rbSzvNMFOaSA9dhR_5BIErn0F7PyXnLyPcVNK3BLHIeXLDL03K46P03gJb75rPbTt9mvtkLqRRe-6ZkBNzjlYt8v1m_0YW_4rrTWhzWutGtDd_z3wOMxSNfdjG-OCdZBL/s400/n536224394_1368805_4538394.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734334205057602434" /></a></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>As above, so below: Midnight at 'Hidden Ranch'</span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSUaAPyUFf9Urx0i4juprp8gczGxVdk67LAGNPVeeRWTy5k13Osg5_6VZPoyLnN5nbLPAO_v54vrLruORae6F8Hj3zyU0zqXL7rctq4UbYstNcnnqLLmHMVJJrn6Or9dBwLyuE8gttM7vr/s1600/n536224394_1368810_1889413.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSUaAPyUFf9Urx0i4juprp8gczGxVdk67LAGNPVeeRWTy5k13Osg5_6VZPoyLnN5nbLPAO_v54vrLruORae6F8Hj3zyU0zqXL7rctq4UbYstNcnnqLLmHMVJJrn6Or9dBwLyuE8gttM7vr/s400/n536224394_1368810_1889413.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734334540070039794" /></a></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span>( vi )</span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>“<span><i>What the f**k?”</i></span></span><span><span> Jeremy stopped in his tracks, staring wide-eyed into the dark.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>“<span><i>Ssshh. They'll hear you.”</i></span></span><span><span> Melissa and the others paused beside him, gazing uncertainly through the trees.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>But what the f***k is that thing?”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>Looks like a mini-golf course.”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>Yeah. It does. But why would anyone build something like this all the way out here ?”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>“<span><i>I guess they just wanted to be able to play a few rounds in private. They obviously went to a whole lot of trouble to keep folk away.”</i></span></span><span><span> I nodded towards the perimeter fence surrounding the curiously well appointed course. </span></span> </span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>“<span><i>But that's ridiculous. If that's really all they're hiding. The least I was expecting was a marijuana plantation...”</i></span></span><span><span> Jeremy cast about himself with the flashlight, searching in vain for something more incriminating.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>“</span><span><span><i>Maybe they play in the nude ?”</i></span></span><span><span> suggested Miss Scarlett.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>“<i><span>Lord knows there are some pretty strange folk in this world.” </span></i></span> </span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>Yeah. But mini-golf?”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>“<span><i>Best not to think about it too carefully.</i></span></span><span><span>” Shaking my head I turned back towards the road which wound away into the foothills surrounding 'hidden ranch', still half hoping that there might be something more to this mystery after all.</span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBiLDU0a0ly63UqjLqlJQk_KYzSD-g1CiYmF_-fLY-W7JrO37SmerY7NhrqmYqS6jYaGHai0eVek8OlLDfApABTLjzAM45jOZAiUTFkc66a78DO2nlklXH1ccRXTKpqrOIdgjRmFnW7pf/s1600/n536224394_1368807_3287597.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBiLDU0a0ly63UqjLqlJQk_KYzSD-g1CiYmF_-fLY-W7JrO37SmerY7NhrqmYqS6jYaGHai0eVek8OlLDfApABTLjzAM45jOZAiUTFkc66a78DO2nlklXH1ccRXTKpqrOIdgjRmFnW7pf/s400/n536224394_1368807_3287597.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734335073923591810" /></a></span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span>As above, so below: The silo</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizSBfYYfVw5EE69Qi-SCa6enXpgbF5MD6NeahE5FnV3s2rFZYXVHwCCaQUrlTAaMiYEusRdn4__58AINuAKey-ereQ-Qdq3L4A2i6P1V11OyFerXwX3Bk2whWn_iMGsZfh91YJEHJkbMZk/s1600/2639_55869722894_721352894_1652841_7759583_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizSBfYYfVw5EE69Qi-SCa6enXpgbF5MD6NeahE5FnV3s2rFZYXVHwCCaQUrlTAaMiYEusRdn4__58AINuAKey-ereQ-Qdq3L4A2i6P1V11OyFerXwX3Bk2whWn_iMGsZfh91YJEHJkbMZk/s400/2639_55869722894_721352894_1652841_7759583_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734335364717249362" /></a></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span>The 'orbs' seemed to swirl more thickly about us as we approached an abandoned storage silo at the top of the road. I knew the 'orbs' were a purely photographic phenomenon yet their occurrence displayed troubling characteristics.</span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJvOIwlRdKUkvq66raB36hmZMFzciMz36CivPw4P6jk85TtU7FskPOg9wYQ7CDEL0vyXFqM0z5mx-jir5qD71XOnymqtjLzUcJuZHopHgPzHdvZA_biZ2pwnH5A73cNNn8bx6u-r4Zwo_J/s1600/n536224394_1368815_6622958.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJvOIwlRdKUkvq66raB36hmZMFzciMz36CivPw4P6jk85TtU7FskPOg9wYQ7CDEL0vyXFqM0z5mx-jir5qD71XOnymqtjLzUcJuZHopHgPzHdvZA_biZ2pwnH5A73cNNn8bx6u-r4Zwo_J/s400/n536224394_1368815_6622958.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734336238577571154" /></a></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>As above, so below: Orb city</span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8fvsqzJqT98JfOd-OMRXgpjkkP69sQbSaJoxJTKNbS5xK_J-c8SmQnSVksAJgxwocF7t2XROj9jJ5ABS2BpsiHI_IZmC0vPyKqgNscgKFX_FEDPBa9qw6e18xjkal0iUy2EyuexapmMGF/s1600/2639_55869737894_721352894_1652843_3702696_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8fvsqzJqT98JfOd-OMRXgpjkkP69sQbSaJoxJTKNbS5xK_J-c8SmQnSVksAJgxwocF7t2XROj9jJ5ABS2BpsiHI_IZmC0vPyKqgNscgKFX_FEDPBa9qw6e18xjkal0iUy2EyuexapmMGF/s400/2639_55869737894_721352894_1652843_3702696_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734336704509706994" /></a></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>They seemed more plentiful when the air was calm and the environment untouched, growing proportionately less frequent depending on how many human beings entered the frame, almost as if they were consciously fleeing us. Dust particles would surely behave in the opposite manner and digital artefacting doesn't explain why they showed up on our old fashioned analogue cameras too. Supernatural or otherwise, the curious blips of light seemed to follow us on the last leg of our journey across the rough hillside, keeping us company as we took a trail towards the very top of the canyon. The jet aircraft overflying us seemed more frequent too.</span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUkrP1Rl0uGoZ1D9II4vvWlGbe2x1402A5Dqxz2LNsPL1VkYVJiAjtX2C8ePWC2vHbKiksUBQO2gT7ZKDiJykvt2QcSK2DYHEHCTkf2bmjPTFi-ofeiReUgptwqquWXMc8W4UpB_zH9qIn/s1600/n536224394_1368822_3350177.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUkrP1Rl0uGoZ1D9II4vvWlGbe2x1402A5Dqxz2LNsPL1VkYVJiAjtX2C8ePWC2vHbKiksUBQO2gT7ZKDiJykvt2QcSK2DYHEHCTkf2bmjPTFi-ofeiReUgptwqquWXMc8W4UpB_zH9qIn/s400/n536224394_1368822_3350177.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734338395407170770" /></a></span></p><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">As above, so below: The final ascent</div> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkknySbX3n7jQnVk-C0aFK9atcPWHENXlbs4GX-eCCSnRHzdk2asgqxfnlC0UL7g5agohEulUYBF0e2fa76BRg2IyDnyHpAWzYrwd5-hKFItMb8dHLw_zgg6ow2nvQxF9BI8QjLTA8MqhW/s1600/n536224394_1368825_1139532.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkknySbX3n7jQnVk-C0aFK9atcPWHENXlbs4GX-eCCSnRHzdk2asgqxfnlC0UL7g5agohEulUYBF0e2fa76BRg2IyDnyHpAWzYrwd5-hKFItMb8dHLw_zgg6ow2nvQxF9BI8QjLTA8MqhW/s400/n536224394_1368825_1139532.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734338808352172546" /></a></span></p><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>“<span><i>What's on the other side of the ridge?</i></span></span><span><span>” I paused, scanning the ragged sky line and the pale light that came streaming up from somewhere behind it.</span></span></div> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>“<span><i>John Wayne International Airport. I think,” </i></span></span><span><span>ventured Miss Scarlett.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>No s**t! Really?”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span>She nodded. </span></span><span><span><i>“It's on the map.”</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>How come I didn't know that?”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>You didn't look.”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span>I nodded slowly as an awful thought occurred to me. “</span></span><span><span><i>Nah. It can't be...” </i></span></span> </span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>What?”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span>I shook my head. </span></span><span><span><i>“ You don't think they mistook the airport for an underground UFO base, do you? I mean. Folk aren't that dumb? Are they?”</i></span></span><span><span> Yet it all made a kind of sense. The way the jet engines had reverberated in the bowels of the valley as if the sound were coming from the ground instead of the air. The way the lights had twinkled through the treetops before vanishing behind the mountaintops and then there were those erratic gusts of wind. Gazing up from the road, from the depths of the gorge, with the trees forming a natural diffusion pattern it was just possible that such a sight may have been misapprehended. I recalled how in one Britain's better known UFO cases, the Rendlesham forest episode, a squad of soldiers had seemed, based on evidence accrued during a similar walk through, to have mistaken a lighthouse beam intermittently flickering through the trees for the real thing. If trained soldiers could make such a cock up then why not kids? Especially kids on drugs. </span></span> </span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3XLYxttH3JvONgdMTxYUn14rjDthp7AiC_Yk1U3ziv4bN9KwnYRXadeL6g1m-J1kdboqtj8dZb8lqnRZOrulvc9GPg5yJjR7s3wOSt_QlW1jM7ErJWEef9SwJ4zpdC-JtU18ez-Ji0pJb/s1600/2639_55869742894_721352894_1652844_7203611_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3XLYxttH3JvONgdMTxYUn14rjDthp7AiC_Yk1U3ziv4bN9KwnYRXadeL6g1m-J1kdboqtj8dZb8lqnRZOrulvc9GPg5yJjR7s3wOSt_QlW1jM7ErJWEef9SwJ4zpdC-JtU18ez-Ji0pJb/s400/2639_55869742894_721352894_1652844_7203611_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734339441147286626" /></a></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>( vii )</span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span>Realizing from the frequency of the planes that morning was fast approaching we decided to call it a night and started glumly back towards our cars. At least it was all downhill which was some consolation.</span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>“<span><i>Cheer up,” </i></span></span><span><span>said Miss Scarlett. “</span></span><span><span><i>Reality is only maintained by consensus, remember?”</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>What's that got to do with anything?”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>I thought I saw a UFO when I was a kid. Me and my friends watched it hopping up and down and doing all kinds of weird, aerodynamically impossible manouvers. It got so out of order we ended up calling our science teacher and telling him to look out of his window..”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>And then what?”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span>Scarlett shrugged. </span></span><span><span><i>“He told us it was Jupiter. After that it stopped moving and went back to being an ordinary planet again.”</i></span></span><span><span> </span></span> </span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>“</span><span><span><i>All in the mind of the beholder, I guess.”</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYzWREweSU5yIFkzocRWlizhnzMS9QMSzoIuU2edVZ0bM8CjzxNiD46kFtSUoWUN64AeNb4UCtnySl032MhvWaD8YfTmZOgO-yrQOjZUqkbgC-FWqUROUfgrn7hs6d_9uJ6P6a7JXuwUv/s1600/2589_82927348568_721943568_2142317_6031733_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYzWREweSU5yIFkzocRWlizhnzMS9QMSzoIuU2edVZ0bM8CjzxNiD46kFtSUoWUN64AeNb4UCtnySl032MhvWaD8YfTmZOgO-yrQOjZUqkbgC-FWqUROUfgrn7hs6d_9uJ6P6a7JXuwUv/s400/2589_82927348568_721943568_2142317_6031733_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734346080482110978" /></a></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“<span><i>Still,”</i></span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><span> said Jeremy, </span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><span><i>“I can't help wishing this place had been hiding something a little more...well, dramatic...”</i></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>Like what?”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>“<span><i>I dunno. A polar bear or a space time portal or something.”</i></span></span><span><span> Jeremy had just been catching up with 'LOST' on DVD and it had probably skewed his expectations. He shrugged, starting down the last stretch of road towards the locked gate and the zone perimeter. </span></span> </span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>“<span><i>Well, that sure looks like a penguin,” </i></span></span><span><span>offered Melissa, nodding towards one of the shadowy fence posts that marched along the verge beside us. And it did look like a penguin. Short and slightly hunched with one protruding edge resembling a beak. Or perhaps a cowl.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; ">“<i><span>Oh no.”</span></i></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>What now?”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>I glanced back at the wall of the canyon but it was unavoidable. The shadows of those fence posts cast by the lights of a car idling at the gate might well have resembled a row of tiny hooded figures walking in single file down the trail. And of course their movements would seem to speed up as the car turned and drove away.</span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>Game over. Case closed.”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>“<i><span>Pity,”</span></i></span><span><span> Jeremy nodded. </span></span><i><span><span>“I had such high hopes for this place.”</span></span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>“<i><span>Does that really explain everything?</span></i></span><span><span>”piped Yvette. </span></span><i><span><span>“It doesn't, does it?”</span></span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>It probably started with the fence posts. All the rest was Chinese whispers.”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>What about the cannibals. Y'know, the chainsaw guys?”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>Just then the roar of an engine split the morning silence and a big, frightening looking pick up that had been parked outside the gate abruptly flicked on it's headlights along with a second blinding rack of overheads, stereo blasting Black Sabbath's 'Iron Man'.</span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>“<i><span>I wish you hadn't mentioned that.” </span></i></span> </span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span>For a moment we stood like rabbits, caught dead bang in the beams. </span></span> </span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span>“<span><i>Hail , my redneck brethren.</i>” Jeremy took a half step forward, raising one hand. Then the pick up's driver abruptly threw his vehicle into reverse.</span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>“<span><i>I think we scared him,”</i></span></span><span><span>murmured Scott. And we had. Skidding hard about the truck sped away , burning rubber back towards the nearest town.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9tANhrWSONhuiU9WYIw7mJS24V6MN2JUHfxO7MSOANLYBoq3ujyW42nuKq4JNrh2ovkyNRvsu6ULIbp5LWSisL69_wjMTqQi_kbqdLdeMPzkoxP8Jkq16Bwc7YVU8HMGLfMrqKflanpd/s1600/n536224394_1368617_515554.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9tANhrWSONhuiU9WYIw7mJS24V6MN2JUHfxO7MSOANLYBoq3ujyW42nuKq4JNrh2ovkyNRvsu6ULIbp5LWSisL69_wjMTqQi_kbqdLdeMPzkoxP8Jkq16Bwc7YVU8HMGLfMrqKflanpd/s400/n536224394_1368617_515554.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734342616629986722" /></a></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“<span><i>I hope we haven't started something”</i></span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><span> mused Melissa.</span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><span><i>”We must've look pretty bad, coming down the path dressed in black like this. He probably didn't see us until he turned his lights on. Probably got the shock of his life.”</i></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span>“<i><span>Just doing our bit to perpetuate the cycle.”</span></i></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span> <span><span>I smiled. It's nice to know you're giving something back.</span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4q4Ca55ysNlky9ezV_Z7Uxi3Omfd1DhnZFEn4B01LyBADstBi2O3e0gNOZ2hlfmdCD7EWaATJdsk3lAXxCbTY8_X0EGWURG88xZ1c1DoyEPKXD7B0ZIRDh96ASgAtuJxkJrgm9ONQmP26/s1600/n536224394_1368803_2719504.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4q4Ca55ysNlky9ezV_Z7Uxi3Omfd1DhnZFEn4B01LyBADstBi2O3e0gNOZ2hlfmdCD7EWaATJdsk3lAXxCbTY8_X0EGWURG88xZ1c1DoyEPKXD7B0ZIRDh96ASgAtuJxkJrgm9ONQmP26/s400/n536224394_1368803_2719504.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734340495062772482" /></a></span></span></span></p>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-40010239735349118882012-01-09T04:13:00.000-08:002012-01-09T10:13:58.169-08:00The Queen of the Sabbath<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkVRvbZ97wccpaGA08NcrZCklhlmT3477a0hz9KP43JnNBtGwf64IOpYgNeaBULzi74g4KZNhYTmrUfaS9JwdZ8bjNLqGMXmxhB9UoP8re2Xq833RbkgVu-W0mZiV0G2a40jLk_aSup3Rb/s1600/IMG_1673.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 337px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkVRvbZ97wccpaGA08NcrZCklhlmT3477a0hz9KP43JnNBtGwf64IOpYgNeaBULzi74g4KZNhYTmrUfaS9JwdZ8bjNLqGMXmxhB9UoP8re2Xq833RbkgVu-W0mZiV0G2a40jLk_aSup3Rb/s400/IMG_1673.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695608605827405202" /></a><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">“<span><span><i>...Be thou from hell or heaven, say, what matters it, O Beauty! Fearful sphinx ingenuous, if alone. Thy foot, thine eye, thy smile, unbar the Infinite which I have always loved and never yet have known...”</i> - Baudelaire</span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">( i ) Queen to two Kings</p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span>Anne de Bretagne was twice queen of France. She was descended from the house of Foix on her mother Marguerite's side and during her reign she became the wealthiest and one of the most powerful women in all of Europe. Intelligent and well educated, it was said that she possessed one of the finest libraries in the world, knew several different languages and was versed in the hermetic cabala and reportedly highly clairvoyant. </span></span></span>She was made queen by her second marriage at the tender age of 16. A description of her at the time states, <span><span><span><i>“</i></span></span></span><span><span><span><i>she is of small height, slender, and she walks with a visible limp, even though she wears high heels shoes to hide her deformity. She is of dark complexion and is fairly pretty. Her wit is remarkable for her age and once she has set her mind on doing something, she makes sure she succeeds, by all means necessary and at any price.</i></span></span></span><span><span><span style="font-size: 9pt"><i>”</i></span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span style="font-size: 12px;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwii5oLSV6KSb0IvZiA_CJYTLtljhL-qQrAWoeW0VbMM2QzaMc9y-LI2N9gOCnMp8zraW7CcsspMScHSgFRdva1Wedz-xtXltxt2BodcT_D2Gr6oXFX4sh5eymubMHxYTP1K4iGmNJ75gz/s1600/anneb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwii5oLSV6KSb0IvZiA_CJYTLtljhL-qQrAWoeW0VbMM2QzaMc9y-LI2N9gOCnMp8zraW7CcsspMScHSgFRdva1Wedz-xtXltxt2BodcT_D2Gr6oXFX4sh5eymubMHxYTP1K4iGmNJ75gz/s400/anneb.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695669769131885458" /></a></i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Anne's union with Charles VIII was reputedly not a happy one and it is said she brought two beds with her to the marriage and the King and Queen often lived apart. She was crowned Queen of France at saint-Denis on 8 February 1492 and later became Queen of Sicily and titular Queen of Jerusalem following her husband's conquest of Naples. Although pregnant for most of her adult life none of the children produced by her union with Charles survived beyond early childhood.</p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Charles VIII died in 1498 and Anne, who was now 21 years old and still childless, returned to rule Brittany where she was rapturously received by her vassals. She ordered production of a coin bearing her name and began to gather about her court in Nantes a circle of poets and thinkers, including the Italian humanist Publio Fausto Andrelini who was to spearhead the growth of 'New Learning' in France.</p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi44pjLzvbbFkAyj1kRhyphenhyphenlb5iPvYvCi8aHvL5AsbWqi4sMavxDH9Piq7vcuIdCueSaiyZgpp31xvnmYxH5YPS6QX28ltPa1TlDoBd-wY5o_aaH58JJ5GaNoy1dwaMBdC37daxc7dtETzVyE/s1600/220px-Anne_of_Brittany_medal.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi44pjLzvbbFkAyj1kRhyphenhyphenlb5iPvYvCi8aHvL5AsbWqi4sMavxDH9Piq7vcuIdCueSaiyZgpp31xvnmYxH5YPS6QX28ltPa1TlDoBd-wY5o_aaH58JJ5GaNoy1dwaMBdC37daxc7dtETzVyE/s400/220px-Anne_of_Brittany_medal.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695670208233970018" /></a></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Anne's third marriage ceremony, marking her union with the new king Louis XII, took place on 8 January 1499. She wore white, setting a precedent for all future brides and while her new husband formally assumed supreme executive power over Brittany he continued to recognize her sovereign right to the title 'Duchess of Brittany'. Anne would defend the Duchy's independence until the end of her days and was considered a beloved patroness by the Breton people who referred to her 'the good duchess with the wooden shoes', or<span><span><span><i> sabbots</i></span></span></span><span><span><span> as they are known in France. Of course Anne didn't really wear wooden clogs. Rather it is safe to assume that the affectionate nickname conceals more than one layer of punic meaning. Most accounts of Anne's life concern her regency, but when we start to examine the symbolism in the works of art and literature commissioned by her a whole new story begins to emerge. Hidden in plain sight, or beneath the soles of her shoes so to speak, are a wealth of esoteric analogies detailing the secret transmission of an arcane tradition.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLV0LEJ-2x1jmmnPRHwzZhJVW9odDFxTPJ47gTlFhxY_Ygflvxms3WYX8WysrnfxzMv2e3clOqaLt6-OjwRm7HW6r_71hpVfTvP78fwdQyZfiLehtmnjDTD1541fJBz8M7I09yXnR1YISB/s1600/IMG_1699.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLV0LEJ-2x1jmmnPRHwzZhJVW9odDFxTPJ47gTlFhxY_Ygflvxms3WYX8WysrnfxzMv2e3clOqaLt6-OjwRm7HW6r_71hpVfTvP78fwdQyZfiLehtmnjDTD1541fJBz8M7I09yXnR1YISB/s400/IMG_1699.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695614802294076786" /></a></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span>( ii ) Her legacy</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The Duchess commissioned a book of manuscripts, a 'Book of Hours', known as 'The Great Hours of Anne of Brittany' and the famous unicorn tapestries currently on display at The Cloisters museum in New York were commissioned to celebrate her wedding to Louis XII. The two most generally accepted interpretations for the cycle of tapestries hinge on pagan<span><span style="text-decoration: none"><span><span><span style="background: #ffffff"> </span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span>and Christian symbolism. The more archaic interpretations focus on the medieval lore of beguiled lovers, whereas Christian writings attempt to reposition the unicorn and its death as a metaphor for the Passion of Christ. This revisionist thinking allowed the traditionally pagan symbolism of the unicorn to become acceptable within religious doctrine. The original myths surrounding </span></span></span><span><span><span><i>The Hunt of the Unicorn </i></span></span></span><span><span><span>refer to a beast with one horn that can only be tamed by a virgin; subsequently, Christian scholars translated this into an allegory for Christ's relationship with the Virgin Mary. </span></span></span><span><span><span>A third, alchemical interpretation of the imagery in the tapestries however is possible in which the unicorn becomes analogous with t</span></span></span><span><span><span>he White Stone as the fabled beast can only be tamed by the touch of a pure woman just as the 'White Tincture' can only be experienced by purifying the feminine forces within our beings.</span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76mo2kXSBFBx8EJnCQwsOQPSs2hNhDt0PqHCfQPKaRW5pN0I6saYOZ02KG8ro4gtIctBdMgiNCtJSjEPk1WEHL1N_QmfsTEllzUIRLEfapsCzQCZPiedmp8oW1XZJq0Uq_X09UZzgBWhR/s1600/The_Hunt_of_the_Unicorn_Tapestry_7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 269px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76mo2kXSBFBx8EJnCQwsOQPSs2hNhDt0PqHCfQPKaRW5pN0I6saYOZ02KG8ro4gtIctBdMgiNCtJSjEPk1WEHL1N_QmfsTEllzUIRLEfapsCzQCZPiedmp8oW1XZJq0Uq_X09UZzgBWhR/s400/The_Hunt_of_the_Unicorn_Tapestry_7.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695610006759677522" /></a></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">“<span><span><i>The unicorn and I are one.</i></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span><i>He also pauses in amaze</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span><i>Before some maiden's magic gaze,</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span><i>And while he wonders, is undone.</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span><i>On some dear breast he slumbers deep</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span><i>And treason slays him in that sleep.</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span><i>Just so have ended my Life's days;</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span><i>So Love and my Lady lay me low.</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span><span><i>My heart will not survive this blow.”</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span>- Love song by the poet Thibaut, King of Navarre - 13</span></span></span><span><sup><span><span>th</span></span></sup></span><span><span><span> century </span></span></span> </p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-I-0MalduqesEuQEpFHbBekxLAeVjO2Cp3ao3kgrZveA_f14i6Y8yaI-n6wtWyfL_3A3Bur2e-oXF1Ehtd-ceJmyFzms7UIoBph-vYrGiTxOFam2G1Joqm0NAAdisW_DfDp8_c2Kk1-3/s1600/Anne_de_bretagne.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 313px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-I-0MalduqesEuQEpFHbBekxLAeVjO2Cp3ao3kgrZveA_f14i6Y8yaI-n6wtWyfL_3A3Bur2e-oXF1Ehtd-ceJmyFzms7UIoBph-vYrGiTxOFam2G1Joqm0NAAdisW_DfDp8_c2Kk1-3/s400/Anne_de_bretagne.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695612649034921170" /></a></span></p><div><span>In 1508, royal portraitist and hermeticist, Jean Perreal, painted a famous tableau ( above ) that now hangs in the Musée Dobrée in Nantes, depicting Anne de Bretagne receiving Antoine Dufour's manuscript praising famous women, a text that refers to a number of her illustrious antecedents, among them Joan of Arc and the celebrated Esclarmonde de Foix, the last high priestess of the so-called 'Cathars''. </span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>An attendant monk has his arms folded in a manner suggestive of the cosmic lemniscate, the symbol of infinity while the predominant colours in the tableau are black, gold and red, shades richly evocative of the sacred priestess tradition and the Great Work. Behind Anne's seated figure hangs a veil decorated with a palm leaf and pomegranate motif, a symbol of the union of male and female principles that serves to further reinforce the alchemical interpretation of the unicorn tapestries as well as instantly bringing to mind the image of the High Priestess, the second trump of the Tarot's major arcana. In the earliest surviving deck to bear inscriptions, the 18</span><span><sup>th</sup></span><span> century woodcut Marseilles Tarot this figure is crowned with the Papal tiara and is believed by some to be identified with the legend of Pope Joan. Others identify this trump with intuition, the unconscious or the Shekinah, the feminine aspect of the divine. A crescent moon floats in the menstrual tide at her feet, a horned diadem adorns her head reminiscent of the Egyptian goddess Isis and a solar cross appears on her breast, again symbolizing the union of male and female principles. A scroll rests on her lap, half hidden by her veil or mantle symbolizing esoteric and exoteric knowledge. Behind her two pillars, explicitly identified with Jakin and Boaz, the twin pillars of the temple of Solomon support a tapestry embroidered with palm leaves and pomegranates that veils the further, deeper mysteries that lie beyond.</span></div><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhww9xb4GbkW6YgudbRJ9rDCwGJ4VNylXF-EZgWwgJ1KDULybD4bJd9SkSXyKo6AtKncNpeSWwqqZ7dO1G9kwR3dKAi15xhCiPQV0fRfdBMnLpZ7fCouEbyoC59TUZGZM_XhqRi8itgIr44/s1600/345px-RWS_Tarot_02_High_Priestess.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 230px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhww9xb4GbkW6YgudbRJ9rDCwGJ4VNylXF-EZgWwgJ1KDULybD4bJd9SkSXyKo6AtKncNpeSWwqqZ7dO1G9kwR3dKAi15xhCiPQV0fRfdBMnLpZ7fCouEbyoC59TUZGZM_XhqRi8itgIr44/s400/345px-RWS_Tarot_02_High_Priestess.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695614023088416290" /></a></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; ">( iii ) The sepulchre</p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; ">11.11.11</p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span>The morning of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the eleventh year of the 21</span></span></span><span><sup><span><span>st</span></span></sup></span><span><span><span> century was unseasonably warm in Nantes. Sunlight glimmered on the tumid waters of the Loire as we made our way through the broad, river front streets towards the imposing gothic edifice of St. Pierre's Cathedral that lies just beyond the château of Anne of Brittany.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijYbR_YUYI22CIBlFlBuTJyIUA0xLbo0xBH26floUu8XV32SrOMKTEJVrboylpFQbJpmg0QP8uSHddI_HR5ob1auMxSv4VVGG3jYXcURZsaijvGwH8wilSjizJtvA_-w5zGpHJ3ZyTfjjf/s1600/IMG_1694.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijYbR_YUYI22CIBlFlBuTJyIUA0xLbo0xBH26floUu8XV32SrOMKTEJVrboylpFQbJpmg0QP8uSHddI_HR5ob1auMxSv4VVGG3jYXcURZsaijvGwH8wilSjizJtvA_-w5zGpHJ3ZyTfjjf/s400/IMG_1694.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695615370060476674" /></a></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span>We paused to admire the profusion of gargoyles and stone effigies that adorn the cathedral's great porch. Then, as we started up the steps the great doors swung wide as if on cue and for a moment we couldn't escape the uncanny sensation that our pilgrimage had been anticipated, our every movement since arriving in Nantes somehow guided and foreshadowed by a lattice of coincidence. Certainly our timing could not have been more perfect. It was just before 11.00 am and as we stepped aside a vast, sombrely dressed procession emerged from the maw of the basilica.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span>Bishops, prelates and lesser clergy lead the cortège in sumptuous robes and tall hats clutching ornate staffs and croziers</span>, followed by uniformed veterans and widows dressed in black carrying flags. It slowly dawned on us that we had arrived at the tail end of a Mass held to commemorate the French version of Memorial Day. Taking in the widows in their 'weeds', we were struck by the fact that Anne de Bretagne was the first queen to insist on wearing only black after her husband died, and joked between ourselves that she must have been one of the very first 'goths'. Did she have any idea, we wondered, how that one fashion choice would make such an impact on the generations that followed her.</span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Then we crossed the threshold to enter the body of the church, our eyes slowly adjusting to the hazy golden half light. </p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhveSCf69AZooLTGbhkTh7LGVigQV-2gwiNSR6blyyZFPM1glfmfW3QiX3AeZrhha3R-iNI430AyAC5wCAis2BXm8qPrtwjEzYrGqwkm28cTVdPz01ze4bTEZYZ1DmcE0Jxf3RGhSqKkx09/s1600/IMG_1646.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhveSCf69AZooLTGbhkTh7LGVigQV-2gwiNSR6blyyZFPM1glfmfW3QiX3AeZrhha3R-iNI430AyAC5wCAis2BXm8qPrtwjEzYrGqwkm28cTVdPz01ze4bTEZYZ1DmcE0Jxf3RGhSqKkx09/s400/IMG_1646.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695621274230188514" /></a></p><div>On either side of the nave vast columns of white stone soared upwards to the vaulted ceiling that curved high above and a short way down the right hand aisle we could readily make out the object of our pilgrimage. <span> The mausoleum of Anne's beloved parents, Duke Francis II and Marguerite de Foix, was initially erected in 1507 at the church of Carmes but during the French Revolution it was dismantled and hidden by an anonymous patron who did not want to see it destroyed like so many other works of art at the time.</span></div><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA0i8OAhcnuWAOSP1TMeI_R2Rg3zbCyLh8-ZTDzkrx52PQOrtdNPOEF99E_luzET-PZDHYdwOPcxlmlg1-LEzl_p1oNQxkuevn3TKz_wj6fGaR5YznRCoTzK8OcL3aOWcjuWlpnqSAIiBB/s1600/anne-de-bretagne_5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA0i8OAhcnuWAOSP1TMeI_R2Rg3zbCyLh8-ZTDzkrx52PQOrtdNPOEF99E_luzET-PZDHYdwOPcxlmlg1-LEzl_p1oNQxkuevn3TKz_wj6fGaR5YznRCoTzK8OcL3aOWcjuWlpnqSAIiBB/s400/anne-de-bretagne_5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695616773012993602" /></a></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">As above, so below: The mausoleum of Duke Francis II and Marguerite de Foix - created by sculptor Michel Colombe from the original designs by Jean Perreal</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQQ4XEg8iJ4caE9MOW5DxwvuflMzcJsoHSkWkY1CLm8t6TxKvny9UHpfIoz0nYY8XU-S1D0cNAvwGNkD4NGW3v5MjmPrhaNcTDEqgBgtJ4__9k44lDRcaOY6LOjHtSm-3uRtEB_Z6SUJn/s1600/Franta2Bretan_MarketaFoix.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 293px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQQ4XEg8iJ4caE9MOW5DxwvuflMzcJsoHSkWkY1CLm8t6TxKvny9UHpfIoz0nYY8XU-S1D0cNAvwGNkD4NGW3v5MjmPrhaNcTDEqgBgtJ4__9k44lDRcaOY6LOjHtSm-3uRtEB_Z6SUJn/s400/Franta2Bretan_MarketaFoix.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695617121331552546" /></a></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span>The mausoleum was only re-erected at its current location in the Cathedral of Saint Peter in 1819 which goes a long way towards explaining the immaculate condition of its pristine slabs and the effigies that adorn them. The ingenious work of sculptor Michel Colombe, following the elaborate plans drawn up by Jean Perreal, principal hermeticist and tomb designer to the court of Queen Anne, wears its five centuries lightly. Indeed the monument described by Fulcanelli in 'Les Demeures Philosophales' ( The Dwellings of the Philosophers, 1930 ) as </span><span><i>'one of the purest masterpieces of the Renaissance'</i></span><span> is almost shocking in its modernity, as if the master sculptor laid down his chisel only days ago. The guardians of the vault, pale, implacable figures representing the four virtues, each one standing a good six feet, still hold silent vigil over the slumbering bodies of the Duke and Duchess, mute sentinels of an ancient tradition. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpqV7Ji-BiREErqR_Xf0Ztlo4CxZtrh04E2xbERqCzI6OWb-7BmZm_hciC7QX8H-pPqk3iywgqWCLgt9uUHJdpIBomH8KT3c3l5fRUs2S3tv0m8ooAYt6MWay8etufnF9XAVSxiNIwcP0u/s1600/IMG_1637.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpqV7Ji-BiREErqR_Xf0Ztlo4CxZtrh04E2xbERqCzI6OWb-7BmZm_hciC7QX8H-pPqk3iywgqWCLgt9uUHJdpIBomH8KT3c3l5fRUs2S3tv0m8ooAYt6MWay8etufnF9XAVSxiNIwcP0u/s400/IMG_1637.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695618911621573538" /></a></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span>The reclining figures of Anne's parents are so lifelike they look as if they might awaken at any moment like characters from Perrault's Sleeping Beauty. A stone lion rests at Duke Francis's feet and beside it, at Margaurite's feet, crouches a faithful greyhound. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYi8vv7RlyAFpAvznJlUG8VOw9tBPtHORkQuNU72rW0HLFB3nqcIQfOimuceAoL1GJMoUUYtglP0sF3n3L7JuazNO0fRl2_QuSSg_F9BiM0aPtb6ufTXx45UwPAu_XapRmYnvd56i1SKEe/s1600/IMG_1638.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYi8vv7RlyAFpAvznJlUG8VOw9tBPtHORkQuNU72rW0HLFB3nqcIQfOimuceAoL1GJMoUUYtglP0sF3n3L7JuazNO0fRl2_QuSSg_F9BiM0aPtb6ufTXx45UwPAu_XapRmYnvd56i1SKEe/s400/IMG_1638.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695619529645113074" /></a></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span>As above: Between the greyhound's forepaws this loyal beast guards a blazon representing the union of the house of Navarre and the house of Foix.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span>So Below: Saint Martha - the patron Saint of Marguerite de Foix.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7MsihMBdWMQcYjG_quIBuGoESU3N5KBSfyE1opzRxuhNy6gPhMOgrdXeuIpkYnk1LR_B9b-6jZ57JGx-FxAwyRcT7ZQcGVIC5gfEOACjh3zuLty-l1Xy8tk23WsTvel_dLLGeSUAsz5bz/s1600/IMG_1659.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7MsihMBdWMQcYjG_quIBuGoESU3N5KBSfyE1opzRxuhNy6gPhMOgrdXeuIpkYnk1LR_B9b-6jZ57JGx-FxAwyRcT7ZQcGVIC5gfEOACjh3zuLty-l1Xy8tk23WsTvel_dLLGeSUAsz5bz/s400/IMG_1659.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695655693398518594" /></a></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Twelve smaller figures appear in sconce's set into the sides of the vault, allegedly depicting the twelve disciples but in all likelihood serving as an allegory for the solar zodiac. The figures hold what appear to be implements of torture, the implements of their martyrdom as some guide books would have us believe. On closer inspection however these tools are revealed to have a decidedly Masonic flavour, hinting at a hidden purpose.</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGKoeYhFlZ7MHg59oNzjlCKPzkXx-azeL_pKxRtNzKJhdddWceE3YmSabJIHiWE88r70_TgopMN7OYhqXJD28s-1f-gQeHGNdfhW55SsV-r-8u3Nr4sE2oeX2zmqch1y4oLpS1fYkWLPt/s1600/IMG_1658.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGKoeYhFlZ7MHg59oNzjlCKPzkXx-azeL_pKxRtNzKJhdddWceE3YmSabJIHiWE88r70_TgopMN7OYhqXJD28s-1f-gQeHGNdfhW55SsV-r-8u3Nr4sE2oeX2zmqch1y4oLpS1fYkWLPt/s400/IMG_1658.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695653865480813794" /></a></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">As above, so below: Two of the 'twelve disciples'</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnP68VsclmCGuWR-QkYA49MzpMYYX-_h-cp30osgfq1OiTsm5_vjC41htySxH6k2NlrHgsJH1SwNvvD3x4mH82gsj_V3KUs7DGP40azLyGLmHGoqecgUmWgh9wmJJrbQe1VisY_p4DVF-Z/s1600/IMG_1655.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnP68VsclmCGuWR-QkYA49MzpMYYX-_h-cp30osgfq1OiTsm5_vjC41htySxH6k2NlrHgsJH1SwNvvD3x4mH82gsj_V3KUs7DGP40azLyGLmHGoqecgUmWgh9wmJJrbQe1VisY_p4DVF-Z/s400/IMG_1655.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695654795098091026" /></a></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"> The custom of adorning the final resting place of temporal monarchs with the houses of the Zodiac can be traced back to ancient Egypt and beyond. Tombs dating to around 3000 BC have been found to contain some very curious magical implements or 'chessboards'. On these boards there is room only for the pieces themselves – none for moving them. There are always either 7 or 13 pieces arrayed along each side of the board and, more significantly, the pieces themselves are always in he shape of crescent moons. Osiris, to whose cult these mysterious objects belonged, was a 'horned God' and his sister, Isis (or possibly his mother according to Robert Graves ) was a 'horned Goddess'. The American researcher James Vogh speculated that a lunar zodiac of thirteen houses may have existed long before the familiar solar zodiac came into common usage. He believed that the thirteenth sign may have been Arachne, the Cretan spider goddess. </p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqo63DyeqrMWvB8YNfHIXMWGu69tqx0-CAsMJlNcL9gXm7gjJuy3mA8AV23TEIQCJ-CzeDaGD5MQxCL0hA2iEvdJB-DmsTjCvXWoOnn2bgDtIV5ggtXLN6Y66EnbaTqbKO_h7sHvohhjCX/s1600/mosaic1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqo63DyeqrMWvB8YNfHIXMWGu69tqx0-CAsMJlNcL9gXm7gjJuy3mA8AV23TEIQCJ-CzeDaGD5MQxCL0hA2iEvdJB-DmsTjCvXWoOnn2bgDtIV5ggtXLN6Y66EnbaTqbKO_h7sHvohhjCX/s400/mosaic1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695620314589631106" /></a></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">One of the major pieces of evidence to support this notion is a lunar zodiac found in a mosaic (see above) at the Jewish gnostic synagogue of Beth Alpha in Israel's Jezreel Valley. It is clear that this has been altered from an original 13 house to a 12 house zodiac. In the centre of the wheel crouches a spider-like figure, arachne, with 13 items in her headdress and the crescent Moon on her left shoulder. In all likelihood the twelve disciples surrounding Christ were another representation of this zodiac just as King Arthur was said to sit at a round table surrounded by his 12 most favoured nights. In Scandinavian mythology the story of the death of Balder, the most loved of the gods, tells of how a banquet was held in Valhalla to which 12 of the gods were invited. While the feast was in progress Loki, the spirit of strife and mischief, who was not invited, turned up regardless as the thirteenth guest. He gave blind Hoder an arrow of mistletoe, tricking him into shooting and killing Balder. In the Saxon version of the story Balder is resurrected and the golden age of mankind begins. </p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The original story of the Sleeping Beauty follows an identical outline with 12 good faeries invited to the christening of the King's daughter. Each bestows a blessing on the child but a thirteenth evil faery, who has not been invited, appears, cursing the child with death should she ever prick her finger. Despite all precautions, she does, falling into a deep sleep. Around her the castle and it's lands also fall into a death like slumber until a brave knight finally finds his way to the princess's side. When he kisses her the knight revives not only the princess but the castle and the land itself.</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-eVSCFOqQ8IfbyRGm-8thsGJkb1xYIutmj3d8-YYm-Es-uIDOzjSidELGZy5fLKczxdfphVGn0IZWl2yRsjdP-2Fl5sVbbgIYJI8V54tYw-7BSUlbHfrAO6nO565PuOW5v6TrECW3ymer/s1600/1867-Les_Contes_de_Perrault-Gustave_Dore-1832-1883-Illustrator-Sleeping_Beauty_5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-eVSCFOqQ8IfbyRGm-8thsGJkb1xYIutmj3d8-YYm-Es-uIDOzjSidELGZy5fLKczxdfphVGn0IZWl2yRsjdP-2Fl5sVbbgIYJI8V54tYw-7BSUlbHfrAO6nO565PuOW5v6TrECW3ymer/s400/1867-Les_Contes_de_Perrault-Gustave_Dore-1832-1883-Illustrator-Sleeping_Beauty_5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695656950400675090" /></a></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">As above, so below: Gustave Dore's masterful illustrations for Perrault's 'Sleeping Beauty'</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjK8JFR3AoYPfTOp_GjieQ_dOrjho_6ZKS6nhCz2xaDtvrW6MCInpmQvE_T8eVQabseQ_cs3xYQWiG4Z-jlGiuDjfvILcpyrG1Oc3gGJp3OtrD1i7IPnMSJWovaaBTgvXrTTjqFZo6N4yh/s1600/Dore_sleepingbeauty.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjK8JFR3AoYPfTOp_GjieQ_dOrjho_6ZKS6nhCz2xaDtvrW6MCInpmQvE_T8eVQabseQ_cs3xYQWiG4Z-jlGiuDjfvILcpyrG1Oc3gGJp3OtrD1i7IPnMSJWovaaBTgvXrTTjqFZo6N4yh/s400/Dore_sleepingbeauty.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695657781147271138" /></a></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The parallels in these stories are obvious. In each of them, the best beloved is killed by the most evil or weakest member of the group of 13 and desolation follows. Then the beloved one returns to life and all is well once more. Clearly then, these tales, like the enigmatic lunar counters of the Egyptian 'chessboards' and the figures that adorn the vault of Duke Francis and Duchess Marguerite, are all metaphorical representations of the cycle of the year. They tell the familiar tale of the Sun who is slain each year by the Moon only to be resurrected to bring another golden summer. The lunar year contains only twelve and a half complete cycles of the Moon. The thirteen lunar month is therefore short and 'weak'. It is in this 'weak' month that the sun 'dies'</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The four guardians of the vault, the four 'virtues' demand far deeper study....</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0GU2XbUX5HuONzDGRbEURgX9DPoVnsNPPO1RFeoWS-mz4Kvpx1bVygch_AYFRp-aVmtq8PDPloA3sw_MImTh393sXO-uqXW3mQ3W5YxDD0b33gBwD5C7NS1Qo4eG87Mx0Dxdm7Ez0_jOM/s1600/IMG_1618.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0GU2XbUX5HuONzDGRbEURgX9DPoVnsNPPO1RFeoWS-mz4Kvpx1bVygch_AYFRp-aVmtq8PDPloA3sw_MImTh393sXO-uqXW3mQ3W5YxDD0b33gBwD5C7NS1Qo4eG87Mx0Dxdm7Ez0_jOM/s400/IMG_1618.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695644293474226338" /></a></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span>We took a step back to face Justice and were absolutely blown away by her presence. This Justice is certainly not blind, in fact she wears no veil at all and it is as if nothing escapes her gaze. There is something in </span>her expression that is so life like and challenging and yet so knowing. The perfect representation of a warrior goddess as she stood before us with her solar sword pointed up toward the heavens. </p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic68vM0iKbwgv280LgJGdziHaprfGDgpkjdJ38IfCpWgE0UpKGriuzjpMEF0lW02RYTm8XNF5aalrHVlcKHy4Qz7vktXHOSbcR328cjAL7EviMB-oWBLhUv0n3VxGlnwGFtKjh5ii4rBSm/s1600/IMG_1632.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic68vM0iKbwgv280LgJGdziHaprfGDgpkjdJ38IfCpWgE0UpKGriuzjpMEF0lW02RYTm8XNF5aalrHVlcKHy4Qz7vktXHOSbcR328cjAL7EviMB-oWBLhUv0n3VxGlnwGFtKjh5ii4rBSm/s400/IMG_1632.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695647376822168210" /></a></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Before Miss Scarlett could stop herself she reached over the fence to touch the nine-rayed sun that appears on the center of Justice's sword like a protective talisman, cutting herself on one of the sharp spikes of the protective fence . She didn't cry out and didn't seem to really notice that she had hurt herself. It seemed somehow right to spill a little blood in the presence of this virtue as blood is what binds us through the worlds, the blood of mortals, the blood of kings, the blood of gods and angels, the only thing that truly has the strength to resonate against the void, to give life to the unmanifest, to beat back the darkness that threatens hour by hour to devour us.</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQPTsWf2Yx0MY68kY5YCnJbsaB-quEvN5-fY7WlJR03I_DHM5-wgxH0cbV1PkY2eEZcId7zDFa9yUtyhzB1EQSbB4LMdnp_bE2vzddk_aov587JCbR8fSot8VjuvtavIgN3Oj3M8u6RSw0/s1600/IMG_1648.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQPTsWf2Yx0MY68kY5YCnJbsaB-quEvN5-fY7WlJR03I_DHM5-wgxH0cbV1PkY2eEZcId7zDFa9yUtyhzB1EQSbB4LMdnp_bE2vzddk_aov587JCbR8fSot8VjuvtavIgN3Oj3M8u6RSw0/s400/IMG_1648.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695652406553848610" /></a></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span>In 'Dwellings of the Philosopher's', Fulcanelli compares Colombe's image of Justice to the goddess Minerva and says that she </span></span></span><span><span>must be regarded as the divine and creative thought, materialized in all nature, latent in ourselves as it is in everything that surrounds us.</span></span><span> </span><span><span><span>She is the veil of philosophy in which we can wrap ourselves. In her second form as Philosophy she “</span></span></span><span><span><span><i>confers on those who espouse it a great power of investigation.</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>” She enables penetration of the intimate construction of things which she cuts short as with her sword, discovering in it the presence of the </span></span></span><span><span><span><i>spiritus mundi</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>, of which the classical masters speak, and which has its center in the sun and draws its virtue and motion from the radiation of the heavenly body. She also gives knowledge of the general laws, rules, rhythms, and measures observed by nature in the elaboration, evolution, and perfection of created things (the scales). She finally establishes the possibility of acquiring sciences based on observation, meditation, faith, and written teachings (the book). By the same attributes, this image of Philosophy also teaches us the essential points of the labor of the Adepts and proclaims the necessity for manual labor imposed on seekers desiring to acquire the Great Work and the indisputable proof of its reality. Without technical research, without frequent attempts and reiterated experiments we can only go astray in a science whose best treatises carefully hide the physical principles, their application, the materials, and the time required. According to the master alchemist: </span></span></span><span><span><span><i>“...whoever dares to claim to be a philosopher and does not want to labor for fear of cold, fatigue or the expense, must be regarded as the most vain of ignoramuses, or the most shameless of imposters.</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>”</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoGOwGUkvsIPIu43bI7Gqa4fLBizlEpj0_ztzSmirMCD74xVnfzBm9NCU9sNiAZcSGpUX1mMy8XH3lnoW9lHQNX9QZSbDuyJKQk19oPGsAkuFHO4NTk8MCzEtV67WET7XLn7kz41C-7C0/s1600/IMG_1663.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 322px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoGOwGUkvsIPIu43bI7Gqa4fLBizlEpj0_ztzSmirMCD74xVnfzBm9NCU9sNiAZcSGpUX1mMy8XH3lnoW9lHQNX9QZSbDuyJKQk19oPGsAkuFHO4NTk8MCzEtV67WET7XLn7kz41C-7C0/s400/IMG_1663.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695641639723407106" /></a></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span>As we worked our way around the vault we were unprepared for the beauty of Strength. She is exquisitely, delicately feminine, with intricately laced flowers that cover the breasts on her armour. Her head is adorned with a conch shell like helmet with the nose of a lion on top. </span></span><span><span><span>The braids of her hair, so reminiscent of those three enigmatic braids worn by the fair Esclarmonde de Foix, the so-called 'white lady' of Montsegur, would seem to be hieroglyphs for solar radiation, indicating that the Great Work, subjected to the influence of the heavenly body, cannot be performed without the dynamic collaboration of the sun. The braid ( in Greek </span></span></span><span><span><span><i>seira</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>) is adopted to represent the vibrational energy, because, among the ancient Hellenic people, the sun was called </span></span></span><span><span><span><i>seir</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>. </span></span></span> </p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLOehxUkmVdiiCt0O3uo1b-oZwmCFImT0pANAPf4D_d3osyMnqGwrci9htxGMMfoYYVB7hC1PVIywAfpqTMa75TW8HupTyaV3Pke0OvcIx_ygw7K_KjlQ88rIwAR2wbyU0F6C7pSv446TA/s1600/IMG_1620.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLOehxUkmVdiiCt0O3uo1b-oZwmCFImT0pANAPf4D_d3osyMnqGwrci9htxGMMfoYYVB7hC1PVIywAfpqTMa75TW8HupTyaV3Pke0OvcIx_ygw7K_KjlQ88rIwAR2wbyU0F6C7pSv446TA/s400/IMG_1620.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695640510163598834" /></a></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span>The</span></span></span><span><span> midsection of this guardian fascinated us with her fish scales reminiscent of a mermaid that lead into a wavelike flower radiating from her belly button, surrounded by a solar symbol. </span></span><span><span><span>The mermaid is frequently used in hermetic symbolism to characterize the union of the nascent sulphur ( the fish ) with common ( or virgin ) mercury in the philosophical mercury or 'salt of wisdom'. According to Fulcanelli the image of the mermaid may also allude to the alchemical 'Twelfth Night cake', to which the Greeks gave the same name as to the Moon, Selena (</span></span></span><span><span><span><i>selene</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>). This word, formed from the Greek roots (</span></span></span><span><span><span><i>selas</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>), brightness, and (</span></span></span><span><span><span><i>ele</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>), solar light, was chosen by the initiates to show that the philosophical mercury draws its brightness from sulphur just as the moon receives its light from the sun. An analogous reason caused the name siren (</span></span></span><span><span><span><i>seiren</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>), to be attributed to the mythical monster resulting from the combination of a woman and a fish; serein, a contraction of (</span></span></span><span><span><span><i>seir</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>), sun and (</span></span></span><span><span><span><i>mene</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>), moon, also indicates the mercurial lunar matter combined with the sulphurous solar substance. Therefore it is a translation identical to that of the Twelfth Night cake, adorned with the sign of light and spirituality: the cross, evidence of the real incarnation of the solar ray, emanating from the universal father, into heavy matter, matrix of all things, and the </span></span></span><span><span><span><i>terra inanis et vacua </i></span></span></span><span><span><span>(worthless and empty earth) of the Scriptures.<br /></span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4FZhE2EA_CtYdBtbjDa9DihEC1TOdXehwpFqP4xnb7jq9hhxC5PVnLVf659cJmGHvT7EDGj-zV1Qd79GoNstCVdNt_D7CmIciftBgPkJeRVHlS3pIN9d5lKxDHcw8DXJGspDUWeKNswm/s1600/IMG_1661.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4FZhE2EA_CtYdBtbjDa9DihEC1TOdXehwpFqP4xnb7jq9hhxC5PVnLVf659cJmGHvT7EDGj-zV1Qd79GoNstCVdNt_D7CmIciftBgPkJeRVHlS3pIN9d5lKxDHcw8DXJGspDUWeKNswm/s400/IMG_1661.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695668217521193314" /></a></span></span></span></p><div><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></div><span><span><span>In her left hand the figure of Strength holds a tower, which is cracking from the force of the dragon that she is pulling out and throttling with her right hand. As Fulcanelli puts it in his usual inimitable way: '</span></span><span><span><i> </i></span></span><span><span><i>Nothing, it can be seen, could better fit the figurative expression of the stone of the philosophers, a dragon enclosed in its fortress, the extraction of which has always been considered a true feat of strength. On the other hand, the image is revealing; for, while we experience some difficulties understanding how a robust and bulky dragon could have resisted the compression exerted by the walls of its narrow prison, we can no more grasp by what miracle it goes entirely through a mere crack in the masonry. Here again we can recognize a translation of the prodigious, the supernatural and the miraculous.</i></span></span><i> </i><span><span>.” It is the master alchemist's second suggestion however that we like the best. The tower of strength according to Rabelais, </span></span><span><span><i>“and that a feat of strength requires courage, wisdom, and power: courage because there is danger, wisdom because due knowledge is necessarily required; power, for whoever cannot do it, should not undertake it.”</i></span></span><span><span> Always the dire warnings from the Masters. No one ever said that this was an easy school and pulling that winged </span></span><span><span><span>dragon out of that little crack is not all that different from childbirth or the miraculous strength it takes for the birth of creation itself.</span></span></span></span><p></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyU3shDTFIIDhdttorfyL_PZEEdelV9mpKTRwGWT-F51JSyn7685zPKT3Efda3mD6WsneFKUt9z78LTFOP9qtbx35Qmsb1vHogTIsoJw7IyWNt26spNX5vwjsqKTstPLEBImY8uI16FAC7/s1600/IMG_1625.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyU3shDTFIIDhdttorfyL_PZEEdelV9mpKTRwGWT-F51JSyn7685zPKT3Efda3mD6WsneFKUt9z78LTFOP9qtbx35Qmsb1vHogTIsoJw7IyWNt26spNX5vwjsqKTstPLEBImY8uI16FAC7/s400/IMG_1625.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695646193171029986" /></a></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><i>"Wearing a matron headdress with a throat collar"</i></span></span></span><span><span><span> Michel Colombe’s third guardian, the virtue Temperance, according to Dubuisson-Aubenay's </span></span></span><span><span><span><i>Itinerary in Brittany</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>, written in 1636, “.</span></span></span><span><span><span><i>..is dressed in simple clothes, a bridle with bit in one hand and in the other, the pendulum of a clock or the balance wheel of a watch..</i></span></span></span><span><span><span>".</span></span></span><span><span><span> </span></span></span><span><span><span>In her left hand the statue holds a case decorated with a weight-driven clock, a customary model of the 16th century, seemingly a hieroglyph for time itself, the sole master of wisdom - and, like the hourglass, an emblem of Saturn</span></span></span><span><span><span>. According to Fulcanelli however the esoteric scope of Temperance lies entirely in the bridle which she holds in her right hand. “.</span></span></span><span><span><span><i>..It is with the bridle that the horse is driven; by means of this bit, the cavalier directs his mount as he pleases. So the bridle can be considered as the essential instrument, the mediator placed between the will of the cavalier and the progress of the horse, toward the proposed objective. This means is designated in hermeticism by the name of cabala. So that the special expression of the bridle, that of restraint and of direction, allow one to identify and recognize, under a single symbolic form, Temperance and the Cabalistic Science...”</i></span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_7MZDeenflHvf7j1EHP4X9waJswXqffg525moarPrB-0oNs8W5IWa4r7GzxI3s1PptqmsbFQGm8PTB36khUl8Svc03P91kHA6pZLNCHWFwIUwukI_pOiTP5f1sVeLeZQIkXLUK_q3eiG/s1600/IMG_1676.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 313px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_7MZDeenflHvf7j1EHP4X9waJswXqffg525moarPrB-0oNs8W5IWa4r7GzxI3s1PptqmsbFQGm8PTB36khUl8Svc03P91kHA6pZLNCHWFwIUwukI_pOiTP5f1sVeLeZQIkXLUK_q3eiG/s400/IMG_1676.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695653083128291474" /></a></i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western"><span><span>Both Fulcanelli and wikipedia make an interesting, indeed crucial, distinction between the hermetic cabala and the Hebraic Kabbala insisting that the two terms have nothing in common, save their pronunciation. </span></span><span><span><i>“...The Hebrew Kabbala is only concerned with the Bible; it is therefore strictly limited to sacred exegesis and hermeneutics. Hermetic cabala concerns books, texts and documents of the esoteric sciences of Antiquity, of the Middle Ages and of modern times. While the Hebraic kabbala is but a process based on the decomposition and explanation of each word or letter, the hermetic cabala on the contrary is a genuine language. And as the great majority of didactic treatises of ancient sciences are written in cabala or as they use this language in their essential passages; as the Great Art itselff, on Artephius’ own confession, is completely cabalistic, the reader cannot understand any of it if he does not possess at least the first elements of the secret idiom..</i></span></span><span><span>”.</span></span></p> <p class="western"> <span><span>In the words of the master alchemist the hermetic cabala is <i>“...a precious key allowing whoever possesses it to open the doors of the sanctuaries, of these closed books which are the works of traditional science, to extract their spirit, to see their secret meaning...”</i> Allegedly known to Jesus and his apostles the cabala was used in the Middle Ages by philosophers, scientists, men of letters, and diplomats. Knights belonging to Orders and knights-errant, troubadours, trouveres, and minstrels, travelling students of the famous school of magic at Salamanca, <i>“...whom we call Venusbergs because they were said to come from the mountain of Venus and discussed among themselves in the language of the gods...</i>” </span></span> </p> <p class="western"> <span><span>The Latin word <i>Caballus </i>and the Greek word <i>kaballes </i>both mean pack-horse but here the pack referred to would seem to be the sum total of ancient knowledge and medieval chivalry, the heavy baggage of esoteric truth transmitted down through the ages. Any language is capable of conveying this hidden message or becoming cabalistic through double meanings. We detect it's echoes in the works of great initiates such as Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Plato, Dante, Cervantes, Goethe and Swift , in the myth cycle of the Round Table and of the Grail; in the works of Francois Rabelais and Cyrano de Bergerac, in Perrault's <i>Tales of Mother Goose </i>and Thibault de Champagne's <i>Songs of the King of Navarre. </i>According to Fulcanelli <i>“.</i><i>..The cabala and symbolism use different paths to reach the same goal and merge into the same teaching. They are the two master pillars erected on the corner stones of the philosophical foundation that support the alchemical temple of wisdom.”</i></span></span></p><p class="western"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Lygui45IOGNr3rMgjPrB1uMxMtAK0lX3nJSMldp-GTBHI7fQLGch7uMSh259TJ2bAbGIDC-HaVxd00oBOa-LJ3XlOOlivWxDzNfZW4W6c9Ef5VXB4slZGJs7RMbIykcFs-droB_UFXtB/s1600/IMG_1670.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Lygui45IOGNr3rMgjPrB1uMxMtAK0lX3nJSMldp-GTBHI7fQLGch7uMSh259TJ2bAbGIDC-HaVxd00oBOa-LJ3XlOOlivWxDzNfZW4W6c9Ef5VXB4slZGJs7RMbIykcFs-droB_UFXtB/s400/IMG_1670.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695636289551035922" /></a></p><p class="western"><br />The last of the virtues was the most simple, humble and perfect of them all. Prudence stands tranquilly peering into her looking glass. Anne de Bretagne seems to have deliberately chosen this aspect to bear her own countenance, her composed features staring placidly into a mirror of stone. Only on closer inspection does this guardian's most startling aspect become readily apparent. The figure is double faced...</p><p class="western"></p><p class="western"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmaRyfDff8ihkN9bShAmA1LcPnrCQeln7vlrWua9wM91cm0PFYxMcVzk5U9dOLFY08q2eHEaxk1Lhr3UfnV_e3e754jLiOkqFoJoTgyIy0W1id3p87A8cOK1CDlHZx444IHVIN2uUaiq2a/s1600/IMG_1669.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmaRyfDff8ihkN9bShAmA1LcPnrCQeln7vlrWua9wM91cm0PFYxMcVzk5U9dOLFY08q2eHEaxk1Lhr3UfnV_e3e754jLiOkqFoJoTgyIy0W1id3p87A8cOK1CDlHZx444IHVIN2uUaiq2a/s400/IMG_1669.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695639328087192290" /></a></p><div>As above, so below: The two faces of Prudence, symbolizing nature in all her aspects and the final stage of the alchemical process in which opposites combine to produce the Rebis, the perfect, androgynous being</div><p class="western"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglsW1-s3qh8zQ9lQTHT_LYW6G9Ju8IpaoUd6Ew2h8Q0ZUpeuqCrZliyL27VogsghujFLEMIn28UlYRLynNsEh5zhmv9IL140Nu5jOzIwK3LrR9jvWnQLP9WIuQGx_BYnvZ0Jzux2jn2xvU/s1600/IMG_1667.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglsW1-s3qh8zQ9lQTHT_LYW6G9Ju8IpaoUd6Ew2h8Q0ZUpeuqCrZliyL27VogsghujFLEMIn28UlYRLynNsEh5zhmv9IL140Nu5jOzIwK3LrR9jvWnQLP9WIuQGx_BYnvZ0Jzux2jn2xvU/s400/IMG_1667.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695637444788506178" /></a></p><p class="western">On the back of Anne's head appears the carving of a bearded old man, bringing to mind the god Janus, he of beginnings, endings and doorways into the Otherworld, a subtle play perhaps on both the dual nature of the Duchess and on two worlds existing side by side, 'on reality' and it's shadow, the perfect combination of masculine and feminine principles, of the sun and the Moon, the exoteric outer realm of surface appearances and the inner world of hermetic truth. Of all the images we had seen in this place this curious, hieratic figure seemed to come the closest to embodying the true nature of magic, of encapsulating the subtle dualities of the Western esoteric tradition. It seems entirely appropriate that Anne would lend her own face to Prudence, making her effectively the 'first and last and always.'</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1xxc9UlW8J3S_uI5HR3O3mIDlyBJ8vKs9Gq_ZG7sZt6Iu7PHyHnIFFvqY8EpuKlFUtWML_7oMkrZ8dSnbD6fWFH-wPr88DKvDgV7B9rVQqU2Kzzu7jGYRxLr6RG_89QlK087S6G-oqOm/s1600/IMG_1671.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1xxc9UlW8J3S_uI5HR3O3mIDlyBJ8vKs9Gq_ZG7sZt6Iu7PHyHnIFFvqY8EpuKlFUtWML_7oMkrZ8dSnbD6fWFH-wPr88DKvDgV7B9rVQqU2Kzzu7jGYRxLr6RG_89QlK087S6G-oqOm/s400/IMG_1671.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695625537252054930" /></a></span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span>At the base of the statue </span></span><span><span><span>her foot is crushing a viper, which is in the throes of a death spasm, signifying her will to crush the heads of her enemies while preparing for the chemical wedding. </span></span></span><span><span>Her mirror too carries a complex double meaning which is far cry from vanity. It could be the representation of Yesod, reflecting the cabbalistic world, the mask of the moon. The master alchemist himself thought her mirror was an image of “</span></span><span><span><i>Truth which was always considered by the classical authors as the hieroglyph for the universal matter, and in particular was recognized among them as a sign of the very substance of the Great Work. Subject of the Sages, Mirror of the Art are hermetic synonyms which veil from common men the true name of the secret mineral. It is in this mirror, say the masters, that man can see nature unveiled. Thanks to this mirror, he can know the ancient truth in its traditional realism. For nature never shows herself to the seeker, but only through the intermediary of this mirror which holds its reflected image.”</i></span></span><span><span> </span></span> </p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieO7gFpTQP_U1O3J3LRu5ZBqcR2qYO__s9Su04U68sVrskhfTfxgyzTM48Izs9svJamN_dwAUuTmFzaPuYOrDIJbXWPL5fiPMJDQpdOAcrqu10CX1bGbfPkAtACQ8qdLrNhjC-_voxUsUK/s1600/IMG_1672.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieO7gFpTQP_U1O3J3LRu5ZBqcR2qYO__s9Su04U68sVrskhfTfxgyzTM48Izs9svJamN_dwAUuTmFzaPuYOrDIJbXWPL5fiPMJDQpdOAcrqu10CX1bGbfPkAtACQ8qdLrNhjC-_voxUsUK/s400/IMG_1672.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695624788405415282" /></a></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span>In her left hand the figure of Prudence holds a compass which is a tool used for measurements whose significance we need not explain to all you fellow brothers out there. To be brief it is an instrument in which one can complete the perfect circle, an allegory for the beginning and the ending, whose proportions are only known to Nature herself. </span></span>In the system of the Jewish Kabbala this perfect balance is elegantly expressed in these passages from the Lesser Holy Assembly; “<span><span><i>When the Bride is united to the King in the excellence of the Sabbath, then are all things made one body... the beauty of the female is completed by the beauty of the male... When the Mother is united to the King, the worlds receive a blessing and are found in the joy of the universe.”</i></span></span><span><span> </span></span> </p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFAtVKLZBrRuf2d6-FcH32bYRwK7LMUixYGhSO4_FIp-mQ-fpkzWk_9bhRaWmS2Ho4UEBF56RpdAgzxqj8PRZj7wzu-r2BpRV4C4h5H2dcLOGWby9N9nUDpZLef7x17St_EVExncet4_i/s1600/IMG_1621.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFAtVKLZBrRuf2d6-FcH32bYRwK7LMUixYGhSO4_FIp-mQ-fpkzWk_9bhRaWmS2Ho4UEBF56RpdAgzxqj8PRZj7wzu-r2BpRV4C4h5H2dcLOGWby9N9nUDpZLef7x17St_EVExncet4_i/s400/IMG_1621.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695667176697337362" /></a></p><div>It is easy to see from whence the brilliant hermetic artist, Jean Perreal, may have gathered the inspiration for the four cardinal virtues. Once again the Tarot provides the key to help us unlock the possible source for this masterpiece in a set of Italian 'educational' prints or cards made around 1465 and known as the Tarrochi of Mantegna.</div><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluphwuORPskwe9PCgr1TEA7d-bg4rDW8xNPMnl1TGLYPsNiylkzvums5c2pzovh8khByRiK1aEbOpMhi-a08d2qsg64bU_izzfd2t5kVjCzA82nQvrEhGNiGNg3L1YeH500x-VU6DEmKC/s1600/justice+2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluphwuORPskwe9PCgr1TEA7d-bg4rDW8xNPMnl1TGLYPsNiylkzvums5c2pzovh8khByRiK1aEbOpMhi-a08d2qsg64bU_izzfd2t5kVjCzA82nQvrEhGNiGNg3L1YeH500x-VU6DEmKC/s200/justice+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695663436442010402" a="" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKUMLrOO_zcgYvfltY8rVL-AnVM7GFPEztOvUTYEniGtshaxeyABMKnQY8jnhX8cjOVd1Nnf1mo9h7_6yzfRx5iCa7AGXvDi3eueLe-4NMDkGlBDKHu7xrf-NFYBJW5Sf4u1ha-wcskxD3/s1600/strength+2.jpg" /><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKUMLrOO_zcgYvfltY8rVL-AnVM7GFPEztOvUTYEniGtshaxeyABMKnQY8jnhX8cjOVd1Nnf1mo9h7_6yzfRx5iCa7AGXvDi3eueLe-4NMDkGlBDKHu7xrf-NFYBJW5Sf4u1ha-wcskxD3/s200/strength+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695663151884968370" a="" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRod3f9KfWDtLec6vix9jo0IL9Gkb2WadVMORYnlhFcOmcdzFosmBZoARbF6lTSMZFgmw-zCw85aQRdPcBAczjNAcuuyuC51D6VnfpAhmZY_4qIJR54BaoXPh0Xlhye0L3Dh6BYY_UAJl/s1600/temperance+2.jpg" /><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRod3f9KfWDtLec6vix9jo0IL9Gkb2WadVMORYnlhFcOmcdzFosmBZoARbF6lTSMZFgmw-zCw85aQRdPcBAczjNAcuuyuC51D6VnfpAhmZY_4qIJR54BaoXPh0Xlhye0L3Dh6BYY_UAJl/s200/temperance+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695662807507097714" a="" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWasMaDyAPLviQfpIOPyqAt_Eaus3UQRIPvO7zI8FBs2Y9UEc8s65FOi46Jv_eD5cbzmBcly1hzNXVqk4my8w2QQ0tfmgpKoKfRtLsf5XYmJFHhlqGkobJuCDlCinJEOqeuyFD4IZTLzo/s1600/prudence+2.jpg" /><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWasMaDyAPLviQfpIOPyqAt_Eaus3UQRIPvO7zI8FBs2Y9UEc8s65FOi46Jv_eD5cbzmBcly1hzNXVqk4my8w2QQ0tfmgpKoKfRtLsf5XYmJFHhlqGkobJuCDlCinJEOqeuyFD4IZTLzo/s200/prudence+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695662603125700994" /></a></span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>The identity of their creator is lost to us now and their original intended purpose, possibly as a tool of mystical instruction rather than an instrument of divination, must perforce remain a mystery. Monsieur Perreal travelled and worked extensively in Italy so that he would almost certainly have come into contact with these images. After years of painting royal portraits one of the last things that he ever painted was an allegorical image, curiously titled 'The Lament of Nature to the Wandering Alchemist'.</span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-iYIeAttC5w0tTyk6dkPiVbocohUtSgvK7QJdYDX8oCgln1V9Af41zz_n0WYrtylAgh84I3vLu6gr0qY0Tx64eGJPBlK2LcC758X5Zef4XWbALANSZcWMxBbf_35w39DbQladXKXRCxi/s1600/Jean+Perreal+wandering+alchemist+talking+with+nature.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-iYIeAttC5w0tTyk6dkPiVbocohUtSgvK7QJdYDX8oCgln1V9Af41zz_n0WYrtylAgh84I3vLu6gr0qY0Tx64eGJPBlK2LcC758X5Zef4XWbALANSZcWMxBbf_35w39DbQladXKXRCxi/s400/Jean+Perreal+wandering+alchemist+talking+with+nature.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695624254626713554" /></a></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "> <span><span>( iv ) Coda - extracting the heart</span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; ">After fourteen unsuccessful pregnancies Anne of Brittany's third marriage succeeded in producing two female heirs – Claude, whose congenital deformity did not prevent her from becoming Queen consort to Francis 1 and Renee who was to become the Duchess of Chartres. In 1554 Renee was accused of heresy and forced to recant on pain of losing her lands, titles and possessions.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>Anne herself failed to survive the winter of 1513-14, succumbing to a kidney-stone attack at the Château of Blois. She was interred in the necropolis of Saint Denis following a funeral of exceptional length, lasting a full 40 days and inspiring all future French royal funerals. </span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJEEtv3k7UggkL3LMvMk8Jg7kRvZUVKEa9fsIZPqqJjLdFbGbpAWP6dNSq18D0IdUY-tpiWD8ZLApHBW0x9zKSoeyX6Lc7Z_gRCRz7e3jPuIqWwY7zchY_8nmwtDY93KKG_ma6TWlmjBRx/s1600/Fol.12r-The-Duchess-Queen-On-Her-Deathbed%252C-From-The-Account-Of-The-Funeral-Of-Anne-Of-Brittany.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJEEtv3k7UggkL3LMvMk8Jg7kRvZUVKEa9fsIZPqqJjLdFbGbpAWP6dNSq18D0IdUY-tpiWD8ZLApHBW0x9zKSoeyX6Lc7Z_gRCRz7e3jPuIqWwY7zchY_8nmwtDY93KKG_ma6TWlmjBRx/s400/Fol.12r-The-Duchess-Queen-On-Her-Deathbed%252C-From-The-Account-Of-The-Funeral-Of-Anne-Of-Brittany.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695623849114509954" /></a></span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span>According to her will Anne's heart was placed in an enamel gold reliquary designed by Jean Perreal before being borne back to Nantes where it was deposited in the vault she had constructed for her parents. Following the revolution the reliquary was exhumed by order of the National Convention and seized as part of a collection of precious metals pertaining to churches. It was kept in the National Library instead of being melted down however and was later returned to Nantes where it is currently on display in the </span></span>Musée Dobrée.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85J8nbAVz3cd21UgsGcGCt3uIQoHGXZh3BsCIO04rFKpBP6UdCRX9IKv6YzH5lrudc6n6PyxORYdxs58RJJ_1ieygnTS-kecXsA039C5kKH7mpqll1lhiz6fNnGyJFwYsNhyTgYQrAU5J/s1600/800px-Coeur_Anne.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85J8nbAVz3cd21UgsGcGCt3uIQoHGXZh3BsCIO04rFKpBP6UdCRX9IKv6YzH5lrudc6n6PyxORYdxs58RJJ_1ieygnTS-kecXsA039C5kKH7mpqll1lhiz6fNnGyJFwYsNhyTgYQrAU5J/s400/800px-Coeur_Anne.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695623170763414226" /></a></p><div><br /></div><div>“<span><i>...In the cathedral at Nantes, the evening twilight gradually declines. The shadows invade the ogival vaults, fill the nave, and bathe the petrified humanity of the majestic edifice. On our sides, the powerful and solemn columns climb toward the intricate arches, the transepts and pendentives which the increasing darkness now steals from our eyes. A bell is ringing. An invisible priest in a subdued voice recited the evening prayers, and the knell from above answers the prayer from below. Only the peaceful flames of the tapers spot with golden brightness the darkness of the sanctuary. Then once the mass is done, a sepulchral silence hands over all these inert and cold things, witnesses to a distant past, pregnant with mystery and the unknown...” -</i> Fulcanelli</span></div>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-90719742630776997042011-09-14T09:20:00.000-07:002011-09-14T20:52:09.650-07:00The Mother of Toads<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBfXLkONUERmr_lSGP3LIRkc3H4xzVm3uEQblLP2SmAN9UOdNDZdoliWOnRg-ub2ugTfQS9XPTtlnSlzaRhB-fBk-8UHqVphvnMDhPFZOvWQZltA8p9lOnRolbX98xXo8IT7DYB9a2-jkz/s1600/M.O.+T+-+Mere+Antoinette.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBfXLkONUERmr_lSGP3LIRkc3H4xzVm3uEQblLP2SmAN9UOdNDZdoliWOnRg-ub2ugTfQS9XPTtlnSlzaRhB-fBk-8UHqVphvnMDhPFZOvWQZltA8p9lOnRolbX98xXo8IT7DYB9a2-jkz/s400/M.O.+T+-+Mere+Antoinette.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652252485020688178" /></a><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">For a number of years now I have been planning to return to the chair as a director of genre cinema. Since relocating my headquarters to the isolated Cathar enclave of Montsegur in the French Pyrenees I have dreamed of capturing this magical world on camera and bringing the technological expertise of 21<sup>st</sup> century film making to bear on the wealth of local mythology that colours our day to day lives here in the Zone.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">I could never have guessed quite how swiftly those dreams would be realized...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">( 1 ) Morrocco – March 2010</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvcumM9YsaG7l_VsFgIqDqQ_1YyGA_tktRggB5M0RVce0Upf5AFDB6QSTMktRmgB3_rJJYslQIq5CDrfm9gmMOzFsLX7PCtNVSsA46WjVnBSrW6TeoPvSiEbQj0qaRcj0QzNvrW9v7Xf4g/s1600/FEZ+-+Djin+and+tonic+-+day+2+018.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvcumM9YsaG7l_VsFgIqDqQ_1YyGA_tktRggB5M0RVce0Upf5AFDB6QSTMktRmgB3_rJJYslQIq5CDrfm9gmMOzFsLX7PCtNVSsA46WjVnBSrW6TeoPvSiEbQj0qaRcj0QzNvrW9v7Xf4g/s400/FEZ+-+Djin+and+tonic+-+day+2+018.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652254881561767442" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Miss Scarlett and myself had flown south to the whispering sands of the wide Sahara to escape the worst of the European winter. After a series of misadventures we found ourselves in Fez, holed up in a vast, abandonned Moorish mansion while a fierce storm closed in on the ancient, mud walled medina. As the wind grew steadily stronger, howling and worrying at the shutters we withdrew deeper into the rambling, tenebrous household. We kindled candles and flambeaux, creating a warm, inner sanctum in the eye of the storm and bade our fixer, a handsome, wily youth who went by the name of 'Skilful', not to admit any visitors other than those hands required to keep up the steady flow of subtly spiced Morroccan dishes and sugared dainties required to refresh, replenish and reinspire us as we set about our latest writing project.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">We had recently purchased a glow in the dark ouja board and swiftly made contact with a disincarnate entity that claimed to be my guardian daemon, Moag – my invisible playmate and boon companion since childhood. In point of fact I don't normally place much store in 'channelling' but we had time on our hands and I was game for a laugh. After exchanging a few questions to establish that the daemon was indeed who he claimed to be we turned to the matter at hand, asking his advice on which project to focus on. We had been toying with several ideas for new screenplays all of which the daemon promptly rejected out of hand. Much to my surprise Moag asked us instead if we were familiar with a short story by Clark Ashton Smith entitled 'The Mother of Toads.'</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE_imjFtmrq9TDcMoEEZmcz44qx-Ik-p7NwIHqbdjvT0eXDmHr12rHVLp-vmqRLX4zL2AIzKWrUqPB-j3Vr6vbTIIN9yZem21czPP2csWu4izMIScAULlm_7tCtsnG8HlS4j8FR_UYM1tH/s1600/FEZ+-+Djin+and+tonic+-+day+2+003.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 242px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE_imjFtmrq9TDcMoEEZmcz44qx-Ik-p7NwIHqbdjvT0eXDmHr12rHVLp-vmqRLX4zL2AIzKWrUqPB-j3Vr6vbTIIN9yZem21czPP2csWu4izMIScAULlm_7tCtsnG8HlS4j8FR_UYM1tH/s400/FEZ+-+Djin+and+tonic+-+day+2+003.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652256471032800754" /></a> Above: The daemon Moag</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">I had read plenty of weird fiction in my time but this obscure yarn had hitherto escaped my attention. 'The Mother of Toads' ( henceforth referred to as 'M.O.T' for expediency's sake ) first appeared in 'Weird Tales' in July 1938 and having long since passed into the public domain is now widely available to casual readers over the internet. ( <a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/short-stories/143/mother-of-toads">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/short-stories/143/mother-of-toads</a> ) This cruel, erotic fable, running to little more than three pages, is set in medieval France in Smith's fictional woodland kingdom of Averoigne and concerns a young apothecary's apprentice who falls under the seductive spell of a venomous shape shifting witch named Mere Antoinette. Our disincarnate advisor was adamant that rather than mounting a direct adaptation we should use the original tale as the the jumping off point for a modern day homage to both Smith and the immortal H.P. Lovecraft, issuing us with a series of very direct instructions as to how to go about writing the screenplay.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The daemon insisted that the new scenario should open with two American tourists, a young anthropology student named Martin and his leggy girlfriend Karina, buying a pair of eldritch earrings in the market place at Mirepoix. Having moved with the times Smith's titular sorceress now suppliments her income by selling bizarre hand crafted jewellery based on designs drawn directly from the 'Necronomicon', Lovecraft's mythical grande grimoire. Intrigued by her claim that the book not only really exists but has been handed down through Mere Antoinette's family for untold generations Martin visits her cottage, setting in motion a series of events that ultimately places both him and his partner in mortal jeopardy. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The finished screenplay ran to roughly fifteen pages intended to evoke of the pulp fiction and EC and Warren comics of my youth, specifically the work of 'Ghastly' Graham Ingels and Berni Wrightson as viewed through the distorted visual aesthetic of those masters of European gothic cinema – Mario Bava, Dario Argento and Lucio Fulci. In short the finished piece was a sort of love letter to the genre that had nourished my creative roots but quite how we would go about realizing the beast remained a mystery to us at the time of writing.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyCNp5xTQNZ0qAl-aHnXIhW3RsW4izXo_Ye_6TfszbUp6mN0tizW2kZ904OD-j9tbfAuxdEynmBaeQt8YCnByTMTVORMM6m3fxSUvoN_1I0I57RlVQNPbqqu9C8tPkcd5nuJPGTR9_auK/s1600/23525_348361152970_117810727970_3637362_871562_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyCNp5xTQNZ0qAl-aHnXIhW3RsW4izXo_Ye_6TfszbUp6mN0tizW2kZ904OD-j9tbfAuxdEynmBaeQt8YCnByTMTVORMM6m3fxSUvoN_1I0I57RlVQNPbqqu9C8tPkcd5nuJPGTR9_auK/s400/23525_348361152970_117810727970_3637362_871562_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652313952048423906" /></a>( ii ) Occitania – May 2010<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg45cbfHmvYT9li-xnR4DH-fJSU3WG8SKAzAqH5S_05kessaUPgukqSJRrnpO6dP4G36J3mGbheAnIX-Jxe0xWlL5muTC5OSODZRxP7uXqGoV1EmNMj8AI7tDvLgNo_Xiydw-qGINMMB-g/s1600/P1020473.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 260px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg45cbfHmvYT9li-xnR4DH-fJSU3WG8SKAzAqH5S_05kessaUPgukqSJRrnpO6dP4G36J3mGbheAnIX-Jxe0xWlL5muTC5OSODZRxP7uXqGoV1EmNMj8AI7tDvLgNo_Xiydw-qGINMMB-g/s400/P1020473.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652274614554444434" /></a>On our return to Europe we recruited the aid of our friend Emilio Ranzani(above) whose similarly Lovecraftian short 'Langliena' had been attracting good notices on the festival circuit. Emiliano further honed what we had come up with in Fez, adding baroque curlicues to the gore scenes and enthusiatically encouraging us to take the whole, beserk endevour to the next logical level. Initially we had intended to shoot the thing in our own back yard using available materials, being well aware that finding funds or any form of distribution for a short subject of this nature would, under any sane or normal circumstances, be highly unlikely if not downright impossible. What we hadn't reckoned on, of course, was that this particular short was demonaically inspired and hence apparently exempt from the normal dreary rules of cause and effect.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Pug0QCuVaY0IgSqCFGBr4wbin8LK62HraBVbkIpcNJMfFOzpnw5EfGw9ZLBaKuFl_jhZkhre7i-t_0Dy46TPbXhsRj4Ks8eQGDEtlEUmPstnV4emRlI4d4dFbenDCv0eVxnm1CIsFxTB/s1600/home_page_feature.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Pug0QCuVaY0IgSqCFGBr4wbin8LK62HraBVbkIpcNJMfFOzpnw5EfGw9ZLBaKuFl_jhZkhre7i-t_0Dy46TPbXhsRj4Ks8eQGDEtlEUmPstnV4emRlI4d4dFbenDCv0eVxnm1CIsFxTB/s400/home_page_feature.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652374729573238834" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span>Within 24 hours of finishing the screenplay we heard that David Gregory at Severin Films ( who had recently distributed my earlier flick 'HARDWARE' on DVD in the States ) was preparing a new anthology film entitled 'THE THEATRE BIZARRE' based on Oscar M</span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span>été</span></span></span></span></span><span><span>nier's Le Theatre du Grand Guignol</span></span><span><span><span><i><span> (</span></i></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span> literally the 'Theatre of the Big Puppet' ) which was founded in 1897 in an old chapel in the Pigalle area of Paris with the intention of producing graphic, naturalistic horror shows, a form of provocative amoral entertainment, literally the forerunner of today's splatter films. We figured that 'M.O.T' might well fit the bill and sent David a copy of the script. His enthusiastic response caught us off guard. I was used to people passing on my material, usually without even bothering to read it. By contrast the speed with which the pieces fell into place on 'M.O.T' proved rather bracing. David was at the Cannes film festival so Miss Scarlett and myself bundled into the Shadow Theatre interceptor and high tailed it down to Montpellier where we rendezvoused at the railway station to clinch the deal. And so, without further ado, the project slid effortlessly into preproduction.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">David had put together an impressive roster of directorial talent with Tom Savini, Buddy Giovinazzo, Doug Buck, Karim Hussain and Jeremy Kasten lined up to shoot the other segments and the linking scenes that would ultimately feature Udo Kier as the show's beserk automaton M.C. We knew the budget wouldn't be able to stretch to much more than a five day shooting schedule and would require a huge amount of unpaid elbow grease but the challenge was irresistible. We hoped we might supliment our meager funds by getting the Pyrenean Film Commission on side and would have to find a French production company to hold the pieces together and assemble the key personnel.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Doug and Karim had previously dealings with a young producer named Fabrice Lambot whose production company Metaluna films was based in Paris. After some preliminary negotiation by cell and e-mail Fabrice agreed to hop a flight to Toulouse and rendezvous with us to tour the locations before drawing up a final budget and schedule for submission to the film commission. Of course that meant a suitable location would have to be found for him to tour.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFMpYtW7eOhOvwh8OdJ1zJJgQH3g76a7M7j_uySvfpbm_rys5mQuMX67pdjd5ABih3FVuGINm2LnVRMqiIANyulHJIbdiq4zIwlYLcIL5uWHsPf3bZ0YxLqwkth_hYn5jWc8TrOjMvfiS/s1600/P1010428.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFMpYtW7eOhOvwh8OdJ1zJJgQH3g76a7M7j_uySvfpbm_rys5mQuMX67pdjd5ABih3FVuGINm2LnVRMqiIANyulHJIbdiq4zIwlYLcIL5uWHsPf3bZ0YxLqwkth_hYn5jWc8TrOjMvfiS/s400/P1010428.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652334629364442258" /></a>As above, so below: The Metarie Blanche</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEf2cIEISHsJUrfFFC_Y6Q1KAaKTqyk1oCoraGjE1tNb-ZOjTK3ZXBmRiHOES6msvUdN3fBjnelREH6K9NKes3LiG4krxQn5HhUjDHBcleMbeZbD8O6r_niJkwKY1T5g5yj6e35N1oErvJ/s1600/P1010435.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEf2cIEISHsJUrfFFC_Y6Q1KAaKTqyk1oCoraGjE1tNb-ZOjTK3ZXBmRiHOES6msvUdN3fBjnelREH6K9NKes3LiG4krxQn5HhUjDHBcleMbeZbD8O6r_niJkwKY1T5g5yj6e35N1oErvJ/s400/P1010435.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652335913849360754" /></a><br />The derelect stone building known as the 'Metarie Blanche' that squats astride a densely wooded hill near La Serpent had always been at the back of my mind as a potential location for the witch's cottage in 'M.O.T'. The house had a curious history, having been built some forty years ago by one of our friends, Celia Brooke, the flamboyant grand daughter of Sultan Brooke, the white rajah of Sarawak. ( pictured below with myself and a portrait of her illustrious grand father )<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR52AydgShAlJ1Zoi4FTGcIq_51tewDQL-5AZzNpctgCDyNvItKkIex6cpGnAs89nJC5LTvbjge_LmCdjIXQMBFVTeKCozWXcrqoeDfCD25u0-MA7FD_1nA3B8dlj4W7u1bkO98sJcXiXS/s1600/_MG_5032.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR52AydgShAlJ1Zoi4FTGcIq_51tewDQL-5AZzNpctgCDyNvItKkIex6cpGnAs89nJC5LTvbjge_LmCdjIXQMBFVTeKCozWXcrqoeDfCD25u0-MA7FD_1nA3B8dlj4W7u1bkO98sJcXiXS/s400/_MG_5032.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652277395504940242" /></a>Celia and her husband, the leader of the international Sufi Movement, had purchased the property after a man she described as 'Hitler's clairvoyant' had accurately described it to her following a chance meeting at a party in swinging 70's London. The ageing German psychic had prophecied that she would one day find treasure there but after Celia and her first husband went their separate ways the property had fallen into disrepair. Celia moved out of the Metairie following a traumatic series of events in the early nineties ( * detailed in my previous blog – 'The Immortal's Feast' <a href="http://shadowtheatre13.com/thethreemothers18.html">http://shadowtheatre13.com/thethreemothers18.html</a> ) and the building's most recent tenant, the Sufi sheik, dolphin communication and zero point energy expert, the enigmatic Dr. Adam Truimbul had since upped stakes and relocated to Hawai. After several decades of legal manouevering the issue of who actually owned the property remained crucially unclear.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span>The Metairie's melancholic, gothic ambience was further enhanced by its location, a stone's throw from Rennes les Château and what our sorcerer friend, Uranie the hermit of the River of Colours, believed to be one of the seven dreaded gateways to Hell, the perfect setting for 'M.O.T's twisted tale of gloom and perdition. As long term followers of this blog are doubtless already aware Uranie is not only an accomplished geomancer but a huge fan of the genre, possessed of an encyclopaedic knowlege of early 80's Spaghetti horror. In fact I half suspected Uranie of having used his sorcerous powers to help bring the production together.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wKTh1UwexO2Hg7AXqbj9oWGy27JQGjOgnlu904N1iXFBx7gSkx69_FRf8ZQSvfSiM7SwhgPTpEVV4hJoRSkluCkGN6Kx142Ld6kgRe2BVbnL2wIxDf46r_xUaeuNSp9dHUNQ_jVurpVe/s1600/zone+perimeter.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wKTh1UwexO2Hg7AXqbj9oWGy27JQGjOgnlu904N1iXFBx7gSkx69_FRf8ZQSvfSiM7SwhgPTpEVV4hJoRSkluCkGN6Kx142Ld6kgRe2BVbnL2wIxDf46r_xUaeuNSp9dHUNQ_jVurpVe/s400/zone+perimeter.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652278600743189842" /></a>Among the installation art and Voodoo shrines surrounding his cottage I had come across subtly modified box covers for Lucio Fulci's 'Gates of Hell' and the 'The Beyond', a film whose plot hinged around another one of Clark Ashton Smith's creations, a black tome of eldritch lore referred to as the 'Book of Eibon'. Uranie claimed he had pinned the box covers to his fence in an effort to warn casual bypassers of their proximity to the infernal portal although I couldn't help but feel he had left them out as bait.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhreY0dVruu-2pt7a8slnc5KC8b9hJYOci2y7Zvy0OJ9EZx4TzIx36jOtoXQYWwyOeC1s_1V2tj1zE7sdr4MdIHrOEvm7lgLs-9fpCnjOZ3W1OYkkFUNY3BLygLBsJY7egfdq4eKeA6eD9X/s1600/richard+in+the+zone.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 344px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhreY0dVruu-2pt7a8slnc5KC8b9hJYOci2y7Zvy0OJ9EZx4TzIx36jOtoXQYWwyOeC1s_1V2tj1zE7sdr4MdIHrOEvm7lgLs-9fpCnjOZ3W1OYkkFUNY3BLygLBsJY7egfdq4eKeA6eD9X/s400/richard+in+the+zone.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652279159220721218" /></a>We had come across a copy of my earlier film 'Dust Devil' inside a box cover for Charle's Band's 'Tourist Trap' and noticed a unused ticket for Karim Hussain's 'La Belle Bette' ( 'The Beautiful Beast' - 2006 ) among the other mondo bizarro souvenirs propped on Uranie's mantelpiece. ( * see 'The Mark of the Beast' </span></span></span></span></span><a href="http://terraumbra13.blogspot.com/2010_05_01_archive.html">http://terraumbra13.blogspot.com/2010_05_01_archive.html</a> ) Karim had already volunteered to serve as 'M.O.T's director of phorography and regardless of whether or not some form of spaghetti voodoo was at work it seemed to make perfect sense to cold call the star of 'The Beyond', Catriona McColl, and ask her if she were willing to essay the pivotal rôle of Mere Antoinette, the dreaded mother of toads herself.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUThXtKrUtCzbJVjuK3_XUT3pdfsM949Ou5Ica9ZiBw3NlN0JH95PQdiM_vnGIe8AfHS91r3gJHF1heTPIW0NE7BthleGYSUAPVcdpcS23Ft1O0aO7Vld8mtWtOGisiyPnb6_f4e_48YMt/s1600/P1020352.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUThXtKrUtCzbJVjuK3_XUT3pdfsM949Ou5Ica9ZiBw3NlN0JH95PQdiM_vnGIe8AfHS91r3gJHF1heTPIW0NE7BthleGYSUAPVcdpcS23Ft1O0aO7Vld8mtWtOGisiyPnb6_f4e_48YMt/s400/P1020352.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652337311074715682" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">As above, so below: The Recce - Assistant director Lauri Loytokoski, Richard and Karim Hussain</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigv7DZ0MOrbVtncrHI7fcwAQsAz_mwQduCYdR9EWr1cdUoPlzP4CJ6fKNShG4eVwo_GHuWbhXKZ8x4aXgR6WSWdUmQXD3o985vwOBz3_owJijTwJX4lZpQU-1iGyWyCnRe1UTqw3_hhoEb/s1600/_MG_4268.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigv7DZ0MOrbVtncrHI7fcwAQsAz_mwQduCYdR9EWr1cdUoPlzP4CJ6fKNShG4eVwo_GHuWbhXKZ8x4aXgR6WSWdUmQXD3o985vwOBz3_owJijTwJX4lZpQU-1iGyWyCnRe1UTqw3_hhoEb/s400/_MG_4268.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652295069040842418" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-bottom: 0cm; "><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span>( iv ) </span></span></span></span></span>Extracts from the weblog of Scarlett Amaris</p><p style="text-align: center;margin-bottom: 0cm; ">La Serpent – July 2010</p><p style="text-align: center;margin-bottom: 0cm; ">It was nearing dusk when we made it up to what is left of the Metarie Blanche. Celia wandered around showing us where different gardens had once been planted and I got the sense of how much love and hard work had gone into building the place. It all seemed so far away now as we seated ourselves on the hillside to share a bottle of white wine. The rest of the crew still buzzed around the property, taking pictures and measurements and I was watching with one expectant eye as Richard took a phone call from Catriona MacColl. He paced back and forth at the top of the ridge. I could catch a word here and there, enough to tell that all was going well. Then I heard a car drive up and some kind of loud ruckus going on where we had parked the vehicles. Celia and I watched as a couple got out with an evil looking doberman snarling and straining at its leash as it's masters shouted for everyone to get off the property. <i>“It's my property,”</i> Celia was watching indifferently, <i>“Don't get up.”</i> We watched for a couple of minutes and it was clear that the situation was escalating. <i>“We're going to have to do something.</i>” I said casually as I took another sip of wine. “<i>I know, dear, but these situations are always so boring...”</i> Celia started to rise and I followed closely behind her. She opened out her arms dramatically wide as she neared the raised voices, <i>“I'm Celia. How may I help you? Welcome to my house...”</i> If looks could kill then Celia would have been a cinder, but I her grandiose entrance seemed to shock the screaming couple into submission. Everyone looked a little taken aback as phone numbers were quickly exchanged and the couple got in their car with the dog and burned rubber down the gravel road.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>“Do you think it was something that I said?</i>” Celia gave me a knowing half-smile. <i>“We left that half drunk bottle back on the ridge...”</i> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>“Say no more”</i> And we wandered back in the midst of the confusion to finish it off. Richard had been on the phone the entire time trying to shield out the screaming match. He looked half-pleased and utterly terrified at the same time as he walked over to the rest of the group where everyone was worked up into a tail spin. The story of who really owned that property will never be figured out, so many deals and double deals, forged papers, etc. Somehow I knew that we would get the place as a location and another part of me just wanted to leave it alone. That beautiful place had caused so much misery already. We packed everyone back into the cars and headed back to Rennes. “<i>Just like Rennes”</i> I thought, <i>“nothing is ever a straight shot, nothing is ever straight forward.”</i> We bid goodbye to Celia who told us not to worry about<i> 'those nasty people'</i>, she would make sure that everything worked out.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIEnQ7qdw-7EQ8_1evW4jx8ZMZQS88rf9ZOHxE3vbDykKhWM8BtZHZkvMpvD5Ar2KFkiJim7Z08EeYweiOcGFz9-jQfLGTWaW1km-yFxvsSHWagoIY-pYvYqqEg_V__wEOAb402PQf9i6E/s1600/41065_420435388595_673408595_4975282_6643820_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIEnQ7qdw-7EQ8_1evW4jx8ZMZQS88rf9ZOHxE3vbDykKhWM8BtZHZkvMpvD5Ar2KFkiJim7Z08EeYweiOcGFz9-jQfLGTWaW1km-yFxvsSHWagoIY-pYvYqqEg_V__wEOAb402PQf9i6E/s400/41065_420435388595_673408595_4975282_6643820_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652315574775192450" /></a>Next stop was Uranie's cottage to tell him what was going on and to talk over some of the symbols that we might need for the shoot if we ended up using the Metarie Blanche. Uranie looked wide eyed when we told him what had happened and said that the place had '<i>a very bad past.”</i> Then he consulted a pantheon of different esoteric charts and decided the day and time that would be best to have him come and bless the house. He didn't feel that it would be safe to shoot there otherwise and I had to agree with him. There was a sadness and a malevolence that seemed somehow cemeted into the very fabric that was still holding up those walls. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">There was no time to ponder these thoughts as our friend Alain, the dancing faun, came singing up the road. Alain has the most amazing ability to just show up, like he knows exactly where everyone is the moment that they step onto the plateau. He took an immediate shine to our producer Fabrice and while trying to concentrate on the different sigils that Uranie was explaining to me, I could hear Alain exuberantly telling Fabrice about the four different portals to the other world that existed in the area. <i>'One in Bezu, one in Bugarach, one in Rennes and one in Montsegur'.</i> He took Fabrice outside to show him the four directions of the portals and having just met Fabrice and him just meeting us, I thought it might be a little much to take onboard. But, hey, it's the Zone and it's got a high weirdness factor. Better to have it all out in the open. Uranie, Richard and I finished up a magical plan of attack and went outside where Fabrice and Alain were having a friendly, animated discussion. As we walked back towards the car Fabrice was shaking his head, “<i>that guy is amazing. You should definitely interview him. You wouldn't believe the things he had to say...</i>” We both smiled having heard Alain's speil before and partly in relief that Fabrice was taking it all in stride. Things looked good for MOT. Catriona MacColl was on board, the resident sorcerer Uranie was on the case and it felt like all the pieces were starting to fall into place.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSwrkBbB7PzsTAxswvG0ya4-ng0mgegVd_1gGJULED23oLLEa8oxR97J5qJ7mbPkTW81aFQKbOv-2r27Kr77jU_3vDYwAhkaR6TwukLCHuT_eGiOAYobtmdsLHcnKdmKRhFhRJpdAL9Ghw/s1600/40643_420454628595_673408595_4976286_2384329_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSwrkBbB7PzsTAxswvG0ya4-ng0mgegVd_1gGJULED23oLLEa8oxR97J5qJ7mbPkTW81aFQKbOv-2r27Kr77jU_3vDYwAhkaR6TwukLCHuT_eGiOAYobtmdsLHcnKdmKRhFhRJpdAL9Ghw/s400/40643_420454628595_673408595_4976286_2384329_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652292770272478818" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Above: Richard with MOT producer Fabrice Lambot at La Serpent</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Approximately a week later we returned to the Metairie to meet with Dr. Truimbul's partner and close the deal. Nancy was one of the strangest looking women that I had ever seen. Obviously American and dressed in a high end, sporty kind of way, her face was so perfectly smooth that it was impossible to tell her age and she just looked perpetually surprised. I'm not sure that those heavily botoxed muscles even functioned anymore. Her handlers hovered about her, seemingly terrified that she was talking with us and yet afraid of her at the same time. Richard told her the whole synposis of Mother of Toads and what we were planning on shooting in the house. She listened attentively although there was no way to read if anything registered with her. At the end she blinked and then started outside as we followed her. She turned to face us both, <i>“Mere Anoinette should drink green drinks.</i>' </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">I was utterly confused. <i>“You mean like energy drinks?</i>” I ventured. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>“Green drinks with flies.</i>” she answered. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>“Ohh...”</i> we both laughed, <i>“that could be a very fun idea.”</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"> <i>“Yes, it could be. But people do eat flies. I had a friend once who grew his own flies that he ate for protein.” </i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i> “Did he live around here?”</i> I couldn't help but ask. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"> <i>“No. He lived underground. He was an alien, but he's dead now which is probably a good thing.”</i> Rarely are we silenced but neither of us could figure out what to say to her. She went on like we were all the best of friends. <i>“We're going to dinner after this with some friends at the bottom of the road. Real peasants, real salt of the earth people. Their mother goes wandering from time to time. A couple of times they've found her up here. But now they tie her to a chair at night so she doesn't get out as much.”</i> I had to close my jaw that had hit the ground and without missing a beat, Nancy walked over to the stone bench and sat down on it. <i>“Have you sat on this bench yet?”</i> She asked Richard without waiting for an answer. <i>“You should make sure that it is in your movie.” “Why?”</i> asked Richard. <i>“Did something special happen here?”</i> For a second I saw an actual emotion try to pass across her face, but I'll be damned if I know what it was. <i>“It's a secret...” </i>she giggled and then wandered off to her handlers. End of interview and so typically Rennes.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">We started whispering as soon as she was out of ear shot.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>“Did she really say that the 'peasants' down the road tie their mother to a chair?”</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>“Yes.”</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>“And her fly eating friend was an alien?”</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>“Yes. Like I told you the rich are different.”</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>“That would be an understatement...”</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUyPxgBEtE6evMNI4PP3CnLyZojG64HOxaBSwFIejC8ijXRiiIrK0yPRcB68vpulmBJfxSltg96gQMJ4wodU22vVEpcBx_dPKQGucnoHbGOMzJh6fIprLH5KHxJcTnIXP-K4aXeGNGXsZ/s1600/ivan.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUyPxgBEtE6evMNI4PP3CnLyZojG64HOxaBSwFIejC8ijXRiiIrK0yPRcB68vpulmBJfxSltg96gQMJ4wodU22vVEpcBx_dPKQGucnoHbGOMzJh6fIprLH5KHxJcTnIXP-K4aXeGNGXsZ/s400/ivan.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652295965100578578" /></a></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>As above, so below: Mother of Toads concept art by Ivan de Castries</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPyvOxyIXD8zCt3wQj7i1NYeflbvj_2I-7Px9qBoHROxx4q-B6yjRt1OwNDnP14mdaTedtxS3f-pU0_1HiDDQCoMB4gk_NBhHqW2idBdTt9Bpv-BvvIJcC63MM6mTG8_1Q_VuXG3_fKL5G/s1600/ivan+toad+sketches+002.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPyvOxyIXD8zCt3wQj7i1NYeflbvj_2I-7Px9qBoHROxx4q-B6yjRt1OwNDnP14mdaTedtxS3f-pU0_1HiDDQCoMB4gk_NBhHqW2idBdTt9Bpv-BvvIJcC63MM6mTG8_1Q_VuXG3_fKL5G/s400/ivan+toad+sketches+002.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652296663404656162" /></a></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">( v ) Extracts from Richard Stanley's journal</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Montsegur – Morenci – Mirepoix – October 2010</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The period leading up to the commencement of principal photography on ' M.O.T' was a strange and arduous one. The principal toad monster was designed and redesigned as we struggled to find a way of achieving the beast on the funds and materials available and Karim scuffled to pull together an effective camera and lighting package. At length it was decided to bring in a top of the range Sony Red Mysterium X from Belgium for the principal photography while Emiliano would take care of the second unit photography using a Canon 5D.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOwKS9ll6ELzy0ecyysrHQKM4FnOHo5_saQJX2HvaARVU5XcN6g_LrI0xxbrVblW-nylV1PumcxFPNS9aXRbBvOBZxepUPevyb50PibuVrJqG0jv1i4hspcQUbXpHiGG8QgOc9Hzw9tYXZ/s1600/Karim+in+Rennes.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 344px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOwKS9ll6ELzy0ecyysrHQKM4FnOHo5_saQJX2HvaARVU5XcN6g_LrI0xxbrVblW-nylV1PumcxFPNS9aXRbBvOBZxepUPevyb50PibuVrJqG0jv1i4hspcQUbXpHiGG8QgOc9Hzw9tYXZ/s400/Karim+in+Rennes.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652297420189287938" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Above: Mother of Toads D.P. Karim Hussain with friend</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The highly professional crew, approximately 35 people in all, were assembled out of Paris and Toulouse and housed at Madame Couquet's auberge in Montsegur while the principal cast, rounded out by an easy going young Texan named Shane Woodward in the rôle of the doomed anthropolgy student and Argentinian soap opera star Victorian Maurette as his girlfriend Karina were billeted in a hotel in the neighbouring village. Coming up with the army of gigantic toads called for by our somewhat gonzo screenplay proved to be a rather more difficult matter.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP8dIPyRnoMcgx0hF9qC4MjESCRl0uAxLrZfhsKInjb4UfI5wYcptxunKMNBaTPKd7q-eXsv3ZIkGsNALSdgVWlFSKNdjk9QAaeFXfp6BDmH8738l7uwBRvjzlvbVG0_F9cBKi9zkETUuE/s1600/storyboards+MOT+001.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP8dIPyRnoMcgx0hF9qC4MjESCRl0uAxLrZfhsKInjb4UfI5wYcptxunKMNBaTPKd7q-eXsv3ZIkGsNALSdgVWlFSKNdjk9QAaeFXfp6BDmH8738l7uwBRvjzlvbVG0_F9cBKi9zkETUuE/s400/storyboards+MOT+001.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652354140750940866" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">As above, so below: Storyboard images by yours truly for 'The Mother of Toads'</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXE-lAIpY7z2Jee4P3q6uhn7LiecHqPkPVcT_32H-A6ACsp7fN8TUT_p8McRjnuO8eTqAyoT08u0ML9ABApb6VZKRQ7AehKhVwJRpnY8XQJ3p7aI3R_KMq6d95y5EFy3Qldv9DbIT3jY4k/s1600/storyboards+MOT.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXE-lAIpY7z2Jee4P3q6uhn7LiecHqPkPVcT_32H-A6ACsp7fN8TUT_p8McRjnuO8eTqAyoT08u0ML9ABApb6VZKRQ7AehKhVwJRpnY8XQJ3p7aI3R_KMq6d95y5EFy3Qldv9DbIT3jY4k/s400/storyboards+MOT.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652354696289235314" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">It was perilously late in the season and we had been forced to pull the dates of the shoot to accommodate the toad's life cycle in the hope of completing the necessary sequences before the beasts went into hibernation for the winter. By the time the first day of principal photography rolled around however we still had only one rather small and decidedly sleepy looking toad at our disposal.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><object width="320" height="240"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/466251198595"><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/466251198595" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="320" height="240"></embed></object></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">As is so often the case when you try to shoot anything the weather took a turn for the worse with a ferocious storm blowing in as Day One approached. Fortunately the driving rain and coiling, etherial mist that shrouded the treetops played in our favor, enhancing the sepulchral ambience and bringing out the toads in force. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">We rode out the worst of the tempest by shooting the spa scenes with Victoria Maurette up front, knowing full well that all the rain in the world wouldn't matter one jot so long as we were safely shooting indoors or underwater in a heated swimming pool.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh00LO5rVzC-YffwTWW8-i-h2X_3-9B8Rvt08u0ftxftmOk5_zSMgWjDGlarAA_3jaiRhSukoNJw8PULowBPy1peRmtJ_nFqStmlAmZTIE6w5jBgVNQ-CabPhfcLzI149BGjJB6NL77hPNJ/s1600/Morenci+cross.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh00LO5rVzC-YffwTWW8-i-h2X_3-9B8Rvt08u0ftxftmOk5_zSMgWjDGlarAA_3jaiRhSukoNJw8PULowBPy1peRmtJ_nFqStmlAmZTIE6w5jBgVNQ-CabPhfcLzI149BGjJB6NL77hPNJ/s400/Morenci+cross.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652298253923882818" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">As above, so below: Scenes from the shoot - Shane Woodward and Victoria Maurette go eyeball to eyeball with the Morenci cross.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6BR7N3KTDm8qPZ7CMe1MfUBhTPF_lkYtq2srVG4T3gXjUTZR5GfJTg-m8puRYUekUjOULEtLa1-_NzqKnz4IBD3r5_EyxQhNI27Fdsm-LX3INgBuZu21FY3OhGNYZYkauoLZ4TjFtdza3/s1600/motheroftoads1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6BR7N3KTDm8qPZ7CMe1MfUBhTPF_lkYtq2srVG4T3gXjUTZR5GfJTg-m8puRYUekUjOULEtLa1-_NzqKnz4IBD3r5_EyxQhNI27Fdsm-LX3INgBuZu21FY3OhGNYZYkauoLZ4TjFtdza3/s400/motheroftoads1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652301689134069154" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The Morenci cross scenes on the morning of Day Two proved a little more problematic and we all came away with damp socks although judicious framing and post-production magic managed to successfully disguise the fact that the entire crossroads sequence had been lensed in the pouring rain.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7viNAzFCJcZXsNcs2kzLnaP13VAwPTyhR-u2w2_qSMM0kx4lciGSc3cyUzNkopYDSkAqIchqe-efcna3WLtnJAQRyrs_xrsYBiwKNlcOSY22ufWKag1ABvSwOQcRQAg-016_QavtBPbtR/s1600/d.p.+Karim+Hussain+shoulders+the+camera+for+a+%2527toad+vision%2527+shot.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7viNAzFCJcZXsNcs2kzLnaP13VAwPTyhR-u2w2_qSMM0kx4lciGSc3cyUzNkopYDSkAqIchqe-efcna3WLtnJAQRyrs_xrsYBiwKNlcOSY22ufWKag1ABvSwOQcRQAg-016_QavtBPbtR/s400/d.p.+Karim+Hussain+shoulders+the+camera+for+a+%2527toad+vision%2527+shot.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652304277517721090" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Above: Karim shoulders the camera for a 'toad vision' shot at the Morenci cross</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">After completing our work at Morenci we repaired to Mirepoix where we managed to complete the scene in which the young leads buy the earrings from Mere Antoinette in a covered section of the market. Other than a weird, random encounter with a self-proclaimed 'psychic' who spotted us shooting and butted in to make a series of strident prophecies things went pretty much according to plan with the crew working smoothly together despite the language barrier and Catriona effortlessly stealing the show with her portrayal of Mere Antoinette. She had taken the opportunity to observe Madame Couquet's mannerisms during rehearsal and had picked up a tune she had heard her humming as she built the fire at the auberge the day before, a tune Catriona now repeated to suitably eerie effect in an improvised moment at the end of the scene.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb37cWrb-kGpO873QVXsAkC9dYzomPxzYD8s2iUIgGMYTunxpLQjw7f0BesYxgA6fqzu9D-IXryL7Ucefmqv3vV6hw36Ic6ZUXpUFUqLQSeldDgEaMzxPhnvzafdyXI0I0SbK8S-VTH2ka/s1600/M.O.T+-+Eyes+of+the+Sorceress.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb37cWrb-kGpO873QVXsAkC9dYzomPxzYD8s2iUIgGMYTunxpLQjw7f0BesYxgA6fqzu9D-IXryL7Ucefmqv3vV6hw36Ic6ZUXpUFUqLQSeldDgEaMzxPhnvzafdyXI0I0SbK8S-VTH2ka/s400/M.O.T+-+Eyes+of+the+Sorceress.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652302747840660722" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">By nightfall the rain had begun to slacken off and I started to believe that we might be able get this beast safely in the can after all.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_mCIwQpI80LjixJ09tpVpz-JB5dZeVpzWe8pN_idQ14eK3mBd5IvYXJxCaUSufTRnn7Ol71hQAWDvuLC-0CXcEw2Fn-3FpOZc03GyKGyTtJQ0wc6YsMHNEJpFp41Iyn7vIkczzhbCp4-/s1600/M.O.T+-+Shining+shot.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_mCIwQpI80LjixJ09tpVpz-JB5dZeVpzWe8pN_idQ14eK3mBd5IvYXJxCaUSufTRnn7Ol71hQAWDvuLC-0CXcEw2Fn-3FpOZc03GyKGyTtJQ0wc6YsMHNEJpFp41Iyn7vIkczzhbCp4-/s400/M.O.T+-+Shining+shot.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652302276856724418" /></a></p><div>( vi ) Montsegur – Day Three</div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">'<i>I like metal'</i>, muttered Eric the toad wrangler.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>'Yeah...uhm...I'm sure you do.' </i>Karim nodded, doing his best to humour him. Eric was one of our neighbours, a fellow Montsegurian with a penchant for collecting reptiles, spiders and amphibious critters of varying descriptions but right now he was four sheets to the wind which made his rambling monologue somewhat harder to follow than usual.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">'<i>I like to kill with metal.'</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>'Pardon?'</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>'I hunt pigs for my dogs. I like to kill pigs'.</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Karim nodded again, more slowly this time.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>'I like to bathe in the blood of the pigs. I bathe in the blood of the pigs for my dogs. I love my dogs...'.</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Karim turned, desperately looking to us for rescue. Eric had been hanging about our improvised production headquarters all evening but he had every right to celebrate having successfully delivered thirty more enormous Pyrenean toads that he had collected off the road after the storm. They would all be kept safe and handled literally with kid gloves on account of the psychedelic toxins secreted by their skin, before being turned loose after the shoot on the Montagne de la Frau ( Occitan for 'Mountain of Fear' ) on the other side of the river.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"> Toads have been associated with witchcraft in this part of the world since time out of mind, viewed in popular mythology as familiars or intermediaries between mankind and the 'otherworld' of faeries, elves and woodland elementals. Consequently it was of the utmost importance that the critters be treated with the care and respect. If the spirits of this place were to turn against us we wouldn't have a snowball's chance in hell of completing the remaining scenes on schedule, certainly not without the benefit of a weather cover set or any other form of insurance. Right now we were flying without a safety net and needed all the luck we could get. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>'That man's a lunatic!'</i> whispered Karim as soon as Eric was out of earshot.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><i>'I know.'</i> Miss Scarlett smiled. <i>'He says those sort of things all the time.'</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><i>'But you don't understand! How can you be so relaxed about letting him into your house? I mean he's quite obviously a psychopath!'</i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><i>' I guess you could put it that way'</i> I watched as Miss Scarlett and Emiliano gently loaded the toads into the tanks that would serve as their temporary habitats. <i>'But right now we need him'</i></p><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9pZe1y48BhDUnZY3SEAtnqc_301nF3hgXDlXXugbOGUcoDFdKQLDsTG5RC3upfPcI6lVLBZ1xGi_tG54UyyBas-p1-CZdS1cyTJ8dYoIOa7bwVvH8qVGtsZ-FdtBSaeGKJxarV-HXCOI/s1600/toadfire.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 331px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9pZe1y48BhDUnZY3SEAtnqc_301nF3hgXDlXXugbOGUcoDFdKQLDsTG5RC3upfPcI6lVLBZ1xGi_tG54UyyBas-p1-CZdS1cyTJ8dYoIOa7bwVvH8qVGtsZ-FdtBSaeGKJxarV-HXCOI/s400/toadfire.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652351350379640098" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>As above, so below: Could this be a major milestone in toad cinema?</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI3hgQ3aQwUtSBXl3XviWZH-fPh68EuiMJAHWM5AbMu4SdjqKyOo4pRNDCe2qwwv6xlHq6Mv_QOSRgOVGVJunLgNbMWbMtavfUj2YTGp3bciyVbvUYkQav-k4cqkhVA-QZz_2K-SPJoCyN/s1600/P1020398.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 311px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI3hgQ3aQwUtSBXl3XviWZH-fPh68EuiMJAHWM5AbMu4SdjqKyOo4pRNDCe2qwwv6xlHq6Mv_QOSRgOVGVJunLgNbMWbMtavfUj2YTGp3bciyVbvUYkQav-k4cqkhVA-QZz_2K-SPJoCyN/s400/P1020398.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652305051898764994" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Our schedule had gone into nights, shooting for two consecutive evenings in the woods at the base of the 'Mountain of Fear'. The Pyrenean Film Comission had sent a camera crew down from Toulouse to document the shoot and Fabrice was walking on eggs, trying to make certain that all concerned were on their best behaviour. Most of the crew had been instructed not to talk to the Toulousians for fear they might get wind of some of the more outlandish aspects of the production. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">I had prepared a piece to deliver on camera about how we were trying to create work opportunities for the locals and attract international investment to the area and had just finished my spiel without a hitch when Uranie showed up. He had driven over from Rennes les Château to watch the scenes with the toad monster which would be shot later that night and was dressed to the nines in a white frock and flamboyant eye make up. I winced as the Toulousian crew took an instant interest in him. Rising to the occassion Uranie fixed the televsion camera with his gaze as the generator whirred into life behind him. Karim's lights turned the woods into a shifting, phantasmal maze of light and shadow while Uranie launched into an animated address concerning the mythical 'white lady' of Montsegur, Esclarmonde de Foix, the castle's immortal chatelaine and the various other spirits that inhabitted the place, insisting that it was possible to capture the images of these disincarnate entities on film if you knew where to look for them. Deliberately turning a deaf ear I pretended to busy myself with setting up the next shot, leaving Fabrice to deal with the situation. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecv0WCu2QFlSiBQUecfGXOumGsoD57pVe6blpxNRJCTE_2pEVmMtLf1hAozh5p3_FWx7FIEyjcZ8cUdFoCeMAzbui_oIxo1Og3y7UQKpntvnEBbeYJuHxYjOpkfgn4tqcOsavDJjc5Sam/s1600/M.O.T+-+Victoria+in+jeopardy.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecv0WCu2QFlSiBQUecfGXOumGsoD57pVe6blpxNRJCTE_2pEVmMtLf1hAozh5p3_FWx7FIEyjcZ8cUdFoCeMAzbui_oIxo1Og3y7UQKpntvnEBbeYJuHxYjOpkfgn4tqcOsavDJjc5Sam/s400/M.O.T+-+Victoria+in+jeopardy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652305768539191410" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Above: Victoria Maurette in jeopardy. Below: Shane Woodward makes a shocking discovery.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtiyd0jJ1kJzZouPXGErEUgMMwGo6z5-pju4y5z_OG_d5MtlLHSwP3ctQH47XNz87bhq9OZMlsjcWjJnqgXOOu0i-wjxKMRy1IH7WCwppSTAbvPMBDHHSPblvIcaYovRIeLiIiPyLg4Nmj/s1600/M.O.T+-+Martin+finds+corpse+in+car.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtiyd0jJ1kJzZouPXGErEUgMMwGo6z5-pju4y5z_OG_d5MtlLHSwP3ctQH47XNz87bhq9OZMlsjcWjJnqgXOOu0i-wjxKMRy1IH7WCwppSTAbvPMBDHHSPblvIcaYovRIeLiIiPyLg4Nmj/s400/M.O.T+-+Martin+finds+corpse+in+car.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652306160913166834" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">It was a long, strange night and we were racing against the clock but we aquitted ourselves as well as could be expected and the mountain allowed us to get away with it, only raining on us a little during the lunch break. I know this place like the back of my hand, well enough to be fully aware that if the weather had turned on us it could have closed us down in seconds but remarkably the mountain's unseen guardians seemed to be strangely tolerant of our efforts. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZP-SnXCj-9_pXrweOLA-NcmtjrJsjmlF9_k-heS2SFlX5SyqhSpXi7HBOmH3qJBFBvBU0VN5Bkzeb16beF6eA-3peLDv1yGd8D40JO3c6eJvRJtTMhbeKQwkUCS9f4uTUO7PaMLK5TgVt/s1600/M.O.T+-+Martin+gets+it.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZP-SnXCj-9_pXrweOLA-NcmtjrJsjmlF9_k-heS2SFlX5SyqhSpXi7HBOmH3qJBFBvBU0VN5Bkzeb16beF6eA-3peLDv1yGd8D40JO3c6eJvRJtTMhbeKQwkUCS9f4uTUO7PaMLK5TgVt/s400/M.O.T+-+Martin+gets+it.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652307754513757490" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">As above, so below: Shane Woodward and Victoria Maurette meet the Mother of Toads</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ow5YqkZMXZpftj-FGCmImUp3MiBV_A4C7xluHSGw84wkoJue-fWuUvMU528KVIQu5pIzR_Fio6hZ_bkNzyEQ4fJwjvfGtKU6PgB0xndLRgwRdK4XQuk2PvgRzzlwUNBGKc7iOKyHInz7/s1600/M.O.T+-+Victoria+Maurette+in+jeopardy.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ow5YqkZMXZpftj-FGCmImUp3MiBV_A4C7xluHSGw84wkoJue-fWuUvMU528KVIQu5pIzR_Fio6hZ_bkNzyEQ4fJwjvfGtKU6PgB0xndLRgwRdK4XQuk2PvgRzzlwUNBGKc7iOKyHInz7/s400/M.O.T+-+Victoria+Maurette+in+jeopardy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652308503366921042" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">At the end of the evening the Toulousian camera crew came to say goodbye and I realized my earlier fears had been unfounded. Thanking me for allowing them to sit in on the shoot their director told me<i> 'I named my daughter Esclarmonde'</i>. Placing his palms together before him he bowed and his crew did likewise before turning and starting back towards their car. Perhaps it shouldn't have come as a surprise to learn that the good folk from the Film Commission were Cathars – or at least Cathar sympathizers – but it explained a lot, namely why they had bothered backing our efforts to begin with.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSzxxlQ28_CEI2ey2AnpiYH7WCU_HIJeq0qSa_kBgINwVXNm7XPUB3u7cLD19uVbUVDkMYZXybj2s7hEdDtoy-FbTLb-fimb-YVsz5NyTIzbcQok8SmavQF39ipAIlqW016saNr0_StpEh/s1600/P1020402.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSzxxlQ28_CEI2ey2AnpiYH7WCU_HIJeq0qSa_kBgINwVXNm7XPUB3u7cLD19uVbUVDkMYZXybj2s7hEdDtoy-FbTLb-fimb-YVsz5NyTIzbcQok8SmavQF39ipAIlqW016saNr0_StpEh/s400/P1020402.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652308904983993538" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Above: Scarlett Amaris on location in the 'otherworld'.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Extracts from the weblog of Scarlett Amaris – October 2010</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: ; ">By the end of the night I was feeling none too well after inadvertently absorbing a liberal amount of toad venom from doing the closeups with Emiliano and Laurie, even though we had all carefully worn gloves. Emiliano had managed to get it in his eyes and was looking kind of sorry. The toads, of course, were the stars of the show and when they were all done, we walked them up to the base of the mountain and set them free. They were none the worse for wear and even hung around for a minute or two before taking off into the underbrush.</span></p><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_1315733135100247" dir="LTR"><div id="yiv1001574162" dir="LTR"><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_1315733135100244" dir="LTR" style=""><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_1315733135100241" dir="LTR"> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">I was still sick and Richard was exhausted by the time we made it back to the house. Then I found a 12 inch worm sitting in a plastic bag on the kitchen table and I just sort of lost it.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i>“Lets get out of here”</i> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">We both went storming into the night, marching blindly down the winding pavement of the D-9 until suddenly we realized how far we had gone. Neither of us spoke a word as we stopped, recognizing that we were close to the neighboring village of Serre Longue. Utterly fatigued Richard lay down in the middle of the road to look at the stars and I went and sat quietly on the hillside rolling up a cigarette. Suddenly, I heard a strange crashing noise come out of the forest and then what sounded like running hooves. A dark shape came careening down the road heading straight for where Richard was lying. I thought about warning him, but then wondered if the animal really would run over him. Besides, didn't he hear it running straight at his head? At the last second the wild boar veered to the right nearly brushing him and went crashing back into the forest. Richard sat up quickly.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><i>“</i></span><span><span><span><span><span><i>What the hell was that?</i>”I didn't have time to answer because a second huge boar had emerged from the forest on the same exact trajectory as the first. Richard froze as his eyes met the animal's, who seemed more than a little surprised, swerving at the last second and following in the footsteps of his buddy.</span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><i><span>“</span><span><span><span><span><span>I think you were nearly mowed down by a sanglier, my dear”</span></span></span></span></span></i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><i>“</i></span><span><span><span><span><span><i>Christ that was close!</i>”</span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span>But the moment was so surreal and had such a Monty Pythoneque quality to it that the tension was broken and all we could do was laugh as we dusted ourselves off and headed back home to get some shut eye before another long day of shooting.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNTvLqkqeHi5uwP_hOK6YIJRrnESdWKzx4k1k5GPyd5EzZdfKtR9EHLkh21lX7OEGmCM-mMrjFiMEBtLdAAXRQfYqeBaexaLWNDGOXs3g_UJUFKrbMXkjOPlnXhTOHZoqvr6kOUNbXquxP/s1600/Richard+back+in+the+hot+seat.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNTvLqkqeHi5uwP_hOK6YIJRrnESdWKzx4k1k5GPyd5EzZdfKtR9EHLkh21lX7OEGmCM-mMrjFiMEBtLdAAXRQfYqeBaexaLWNDGOXs3g_UJUFKrbMXkjOPlnXhTOHZoqvr6kOUNbXquxP/s400/Richard+back+in+the+hot+seat.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652340356306718082" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></p> </div> </div> </div> </div> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">( vii ) La Serpent – The last days</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The next morning the clouds parted and we saw the sun again. The crew's spirits rose as they relocated to their new accomodation in the tiny village of Fa, within easy striking distance of the Metarie where we were to shoot the remaining scenes.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">'<i>We've finally gone too Fa</i>!' grinned Miss Scarlett as the interceptor barreled between the rolling, autumnal hills. The end of the shoot was in sight and like a team of horses that scents the stables the crew were pulling harder, anxious to get the film in the can and return to their lives and families back in the so-called 'real' world..</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjayLSjIqCmdlpfShVCmd_aKpB31Gi_eQ0m5nEyXnmvX3pvw76ncmAr7ZzU2qjf-C0iZk15Uv6KFLBQxfrQ2NFy1vy0C5UsFnIct4TlEil4AVQ5lN7n9MI2-BlKfYFocbeu_7oG8YhLEOq/s1600/P1020482.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 321px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjayLSjIqCmdlpfShVCmd_aKpB31Gi_eQ0m5nEyXnmvX3pvw76ncmAr7ZzU2qjf-C0iZk15Uv6KFLBQxfrQ2NFy1vy0C5UsFnIct4TlEil4AVQ5lN7n9MI2-BlKfYFocbeu_7oG8YhLEOq/s400/P1020482.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652318081407828866" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">My old friend, the composer Simon Boswell ( above left ) had flown in to Carcassonne after completing work on a new musical project for the Pope, commuting from the Vatican to the heretical heart of old Occitania, literally travelling from one spiritual pole to another. He wanted to familiarize himself with the regional folk music that would form a key element in his score for 'MOT' – a rich fusion of Occitan vocals and traditional giallo motifs evocative of the late seventies/early eighties Italian gothic thrillers that we sought to emulate. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Having arranged to meet us at the house Simon picked up a car at the airport and wended his way through the narrowing back roads to La Serpent where Uranie had completed his exorcism of the building, daubing complex blood red symbols on the walls drawn from the George Hay 'hoax' Necronomicon – a book believed by many students of the dark arts ( especially here in the South!) to have been partially based on an earlier work analogous to the mythical Cathar grande grimoire known as the 'Book of the Seven Seals'. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tcZeLa3r8n8teZySpJTHk_VxXWfmgNNMdREDFM9xVDYI048G1h0af5Gb2lambpfzgQmbgdvIxjRiENCUYwyOC3zkLcNTixNVzXd4nUDmaSFOqp3KBO8q32CuxRYlZhzB_VI3JEB1on8o/s1600/Belpech+-+bas+relief.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tcZeLa3r8n8teZySpJTHk_VxXWfmgNNMdREDFM9xVDYI048G1h0af5Gb2lambpfzgQmbgdvIxjRiENCUYwyOC3zkLcNTixNVzXd4nUDmaSFOqp3KBO8q32CuxRYlZhzB_VI3JEB1on8o/s400/Belpech+-+bas+relief.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652344176661347170" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">As above: 12th century bas relief in Belpech, south of France - a disfigured inverted cross forms the centrepiece. In the right hand corner of the cross can be seen the 'seal of Eibon' familiar to fans of Clark Ashton Smith and aficionados of Lucio Fulci's 'The Beyond' - proof perhaps of the mythical grand grimoire's reality?</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">So below: Catriona Mac Coll, star of 'The Beyond' explains the true facts of life to Shane Woodward</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP2HjQy5jlhV5gEioCVur18iOYUVTv1Hfr1bNGxLCcHtZTYTb3JhG0L1n2aOoRtNpYdMbKnwvRcbEaX40XPFmE6iBl8swXV6aNcO6nbwI7VqKdyN4gfzP_Eiir4dj4GhLE7DJLSOyXlvNB/s1600/P1020474.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP2HjQy5jlhV5gEioCVur18iOYUVTv1Hfr1bNGxLCcHtZTYTb3JhG0L1n2aOoRtNpYdMbKnwvRcbEaX40XPFmE6iBl8swXV6aNcO6nbwI7VqKdyN4gfzP_Eiir4dj4GhLE7DJLSOyXlvNB/s400/P1020474.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652339160352202402" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">A fire smouldered on the broad hearth where no fire had burned in all too many years and the interior of the building had been redressed by the art department into the murky sorceresses lair envisaged in our storyboards. Catriona, a consumate professional who had wanted to play a witch all her life effortlessly took command of the material, bringing Mere Antoinette to vivid life in a haunting performance that would seem to demand further exploration in some future extrapolation on 'M.O.T's central themes. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieAnjYAafGofRZb0KtliJtNL3OO6gzF_yTAmtcqTZj4NTFsclq5rozRCD4tXu4LrBhUWZNUMKOZ9gT8q7bk1FytJ8EbbLoTcKHJqAkZ0jQIW_SyNlZ1ZNqSSyF88eSvyyR5WOoYbTj1HiJ/s1600/M.O.T+-+Martin+and++Mere+Antoinette+2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieAnjYAafGofRZb0KtliJtNL3OO6gzF_yTAmtcqTZj4NTFsclq5rozRCD4tXu4LrBhUWZNUMKOZ9gT8q7bk1FytJ8EbbLoTcKHJqAkZ0jQIW_SyNlZ1ZNqSSyF88eSvyyR5WOoYbTj1HiJ/s400/M.O.T+-+Martin+and++Mere+Antoinette+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652321657874729186" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">As we filmed the scenes in which Mere Antoinette explained the meaning of the grotesque images portrayed in the grimoire to Shane Woodward's increasingly nervous anthropologist Catriona's voice fell to a chill, sibilent whisper and there was not one of us in the room that didn't feel a shiver running down our collective spines. Shane, a younger, less experienced actor was trained in the Meisner technique hence serving as the perfect naturalistic foil for Catriona's larger than life characterization leaving me in no doubt that their scenes together at the Metairie would form the core of our story, the dramatic spine around which the other events in the short subject would revolve.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8faT7Ms6PrdLS38Wtg3MtvJw_Jhux1-DG6o_u7LNvwpKAaIlj403J-tjZ5gVSr2ThnqJV9DE-6bsIqqSa8IDMeFm6YmJ5owcqAsJ1N7nW9SPQOBJRqSxdxOsFNEYjiXeZkVsoO_ofQ7pS/s1600/P1020468.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8faT7Ms6PrdLS38Wtg3MtvJw_Jhux1-DG6o_u7LNvwpKAaIlj403J-tjZ5gVSr2ThnqJV9DE-6bsIqqSa8IDMeFm6YmJ5owcqAsJ1N7nW9SPQOBJRqSxdxOsFNEYjiXeZkVsoO_ofQ7pS/s400/P1020468.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652329015942102706" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">As above: Catriona Mc Coll is the Mother of Toads. So Below: I prepare to shoot my first 'love' scene in 18 years.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-lmF-HNgIAvnf7davYyY19p-E54mxH4tNXbKcMRMgGQzZhVqretZDOau3dEPBN5Jdoe8Pw63plmwMy5OAtZVez-BbCsE9P-emwVXgTtAEw5uRL8ttlzbSl4H2NtTuS67IAfkEh4f753SC/s1600/P1020421.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-lmF-HNgIAvnf7davYyY19p-E54mxH4tNXbKcMRMgGQzZhVqretZDOau3dEPBN5Jdoe8Pw63plmwMy5OAtZVez-BbCsE9P-emwVXgTtAEw5uRL8ttlzbSl4H2NtTuS67IAfkEh4f753SC/s400/P1020421.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652329903187337746" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Shane had been extremely supportive throughout the shoot, performing above and beyond the call of duty, helping carry equipment between takes and even doing double duty as a toad wrangler during the night scenes in the forest. Now he faced his biggest challenge, stripping off for the film's central, slime laden love scene. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Our script called for Mere Antoinette to metamorphose back into her younger self after slipping a magic potion to the doomed scholar. Fabrice had succeeded in corralling one of France's most renowned porn stars, the notorious Lisa Crawford to play the rôle of the voracious succubus that enthralls and dominates Shane's hapless character. Emiliano had suggested the notion of her body secreting psychedlic toxins in a similar manner to her battrachian familiars. To this effect Miss Crawford's skin was liberally basted with a form of synthetic edible slime which poor Shane was forced to lick off on camera while his demonic seductress sat astride him, riding him like a mustang. None of us envied Shane in this supremely icky task but once again the young Texan acquitted himself admirably and the crew happily retired to their quarters for a good night's sleep before the final days shooting. To save time and avoid having to pull the set-up Miss Scarlett and myself opted to remain on set and guard the equipment as the budget had not been able to stretch to a night watchman. We endevoured to make ourselves as comfortable as possible in two arm chairs positioned beside the hearth and at length slipped into an uneasy slumber.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">I vaguely recall dreaming of how the Metairie was in byegone times, before it had fallen into disrepair and awoke in the early hours of the morning, tired and stiff to find myself alone.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk7HUN7_zAUCdd9gqLatipvFBvkfjElIDHzYCEDCLRubFvrN7KkCpS77yjY04G9vQpyvLmDNgBvYPceyu0u1piwk0LMKtWwRC-Rjqot7pqxYBzqHqbYdFhQ7jeg0_1IvIlrh-k1E6uqxmu/s1600/P1020469.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk7HUN7_zAUCdd9gqLatipvFBvkfjElIDHzYCEDCLRubFvrN7KkCpS77yjY04G9vQpyvLmDNgBvYPceyu0u1piwk0LMKtWwRC-Rjqot7pqxYBzqHqbYdFhQ7jeg0_1IvIlrh-k1E6uqxmu/s400/P1020469.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652330439683064914" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Above: Scarlett Amaris and Catriona Mc Coll</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Extracts from the weblog of Scarlett Amaris</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">By this point I had gone way beyond too far, having not slept for quite a few days. I was in that twilight state between awake and dreaming sitting in the chair in front of the dying fire in the spooky and chilly Metarie Blanche. Maybe I did fall asleep for a while, but the next thing that I knew I was walking down a misty path as the sun was just breaking through the clouds. I could hear a horse neighing in the distance as my feet walked as if by rote, taking me closer to the noise.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">A large white horse came trotting up out of the mists and whinnied in greeting like he had known me all of his life when he caught sight of me. I stood there scratching his muzzle and ears while he rubbed affectionately against me. <i>“Am I dreaming?”</i> I wondered. <i>“Is this really happening? I don't remember there being any horses around here. This is like something out of a David Lynch movie and any second the red curtains will come down and a dwarf will start dancing backwards and. then I'll be confonted by giant rabbits and ..”</i> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">In my half concious state I wasn't sure whether what was happening was real or not, but as I turned I spied the Metarie in the distance. As if reading my confused mind the horse suddenly wheeled and galloped away. I decided to walk back to the house to awaken Richard and make him be my witness that the horse was real and that I hadn't completely lost my mind. Richard was waiting on the doorstep when I arrived wondering where I had been. <i>“I need you to come and take a look at something for me...”</i> The horse was there, although he was housed in a distant pasture and was now grazing obliviously, uninterested in our presence. <i>“Whew”</i>, I thought. A night mare or ghost horse would have been a little much on the last day of shooting.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Extracts from Richard Stanley's journal</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">As the crew came back on and dixie cups of luke warm coffee were passed around word began to filter back to me, via Romain Basset the first A.D, that Lisa Crawford had had a pretty bad night. After completing her scenes the evening before she had been tormented by a vivid nightmare in which she dreamed she had awoken in her hotel room to find herself menaced by a mysterious nocturnal visitant. It sounded like a classic case of what psychologists refer to as the 'old hag' or 'nocturnal sleep paralysis', a fairly common albeit extremely unpleasant hypnogogic state but Uranie took the news very seriously indeed, especially when Lisa claimed the incubus had been an individual named 'Mario'. According to our nervous unit sorceror Mario Wolf was a rival black magician who had perfected the power of astral projection and was now up to his old tricks, stealing into other people's dreams to batten on their vital energy. Our activities in the Metairie Blanche had apparently caused a tremor in the telluric web and drawn him out of hiding, forcing Uranie to take various protective measures to make certain the cast and crew were fully protected and the shoot could be completed without any further interference from the 'otherworld'.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Uranie told me that Mario drew his powers from a magic crystal named 'Arki' that had been brought over from Glastonbury to the Rennes area at the time of the Rainbow Gathering in 1998. The stone had been magically charged by various neo-Druidic prayers and sorceries before falling into Mario's hands. Since then the black magician had bent the crystal to his own evil ends, using it to capture the souls of young women that were secretly harvested while they slept. I admit I didn't pay much attention to this yarn at the time although Uranie insisted that any number of innocent people in the area had already lost their minds as a result of Mario's morbid geomantic practises. The crystal was <i>'out of control' </i>he said and even Mario had begun to grow afraid of it.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZU5leir4q5cManlZ4aAfDqvwDDoKGVcErgK10xjYR-XreAK08dHWcLwg4TXMBBMIUunbfqOBFs4_v-uBpEuYbi6hzcE978btiZ4ZN-KEwpBAwueSkyQNDAxGdSzyxbHFzH1YJLJgT8ppK/s1600/motheroftoads4.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZU5leir4q5cManlZ4aAfDqvwDDoKGVcErgK10xjYR-XreAK08dHWcLwg4TXMBBMIUunbfqOBFs4_v-uBpEuYbi6hzcE978btiZ4ZN-KEwpBAwueSkyQNDAxGdSzyxbHFzH1YJLJgT8ppK/s400/motheroftoads4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652343121068134178" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Above: M.O.T - Scene 10: Take 3 the final set up</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">I had enough on my mind, completing the concluding scenes in which Shane's character struggles in vain to escape the eldritch enchantment woven about him. It was only later after the film was safely wrapped that I finally caught up with the rest of Uranie's story and pieced together what had really happened.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Not that I really cared at the time 'MOT' was finally in the can and all that remained was a raucous wrap party at the auberge in Fa where the cast and crew danced the night away. Personally I was feeling too dog tired to make more than a token attempt at shaking my hooves. All I could think of by then was getting safely back to Montsegur where my bed awaited me and a deep, hard earned sleep untroubled by marauding incubi.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">I gave Uranie a hug, kissing him on both cheeks.Then taking off my hat I waved goodbye as the sorceror clambered into his beaten up car, Melanie, and started back towards his lonely cottage at the base of the Rennes plateau, somewhere just south of the gates of Hell. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Later I learned that Uranie and his associates had set out to break the spell by destroying 'Arki' once and for all. Somehow they managed to track down the magic crystal which Uranie told me had cracked as a result of the spiritual abuse it had suffered at Mario's hands and was audibly weeping. Uranie's friends had taken the magic stone to the summit of Mount Canigou where they had rigged up an improvised lightning conductor from a statue of Saint Michael to shatter the crystal and free the curdled souls trapped within.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">After that the damaged power object apparently vanished. At least I doubt I will ever know what really became of it or the mysterious owners of that cursed house atop the hill at La Serpent. It was a pretty unlikely story by any normal standards but then there's nothing particularly normal about this neck of the woods. I'm sure there are a million other stories exactly like it drifting through the Zone. Drifting through eternity...</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFayVZCS5a9Os0xeqM0OUzvbOF5l_gGuXUvPREW6nSQeEumcoBRIDxsd5B0THuCoTHxKL1Pj6S1KH8lF9lTiJ70HKgn7vpqd45TenNMIb9e5xyvmNY3rPAa0GRiiKG4bgGFYGkvR32YO_/s1600/P1020465.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFayVZCS5a9Os0xeqM0OUzvbOF5l_gGuXUvPREW6nSQeEumcoBRIDxsd5B0THuCoTHxKL1Pj6S1KH8lF9lTiJ70HKgn7vpqd45TenNMIb9e5xyvmNY3rPAa0GRiiKG4bgGFYGkvR32YO_/s400/P1020465.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652331593660624306" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Above: Uranie meets the Mother of Toads</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSALI97r_9IiuezfOrJvQ1OITGVkXsoeWhdizkGk7egxQDf7fg12idUz28-jnE_HwaNEKnrXTrG3t1OveyiKL8UOqK2r3IhT9uQKFeUNEBQbpXEt_vrkCQl5LNrKV5lLda81SU1HnhAYA4/s1600/8734_1236734646607_1476450285_644324_5336742_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSALI97r_9IiuezfOrJvQ1OITGVkXsoeWhdizkGk7egxQDf7fg12idUz28-jnE_HwaNEKnrXTrG3t1OveyiKL8UOqK2r3IhT9uQKFeUNEBQbpXEt_vrkCQl5LNrKV5lLda81SU1HnhAYA4/s400/8734_1236734646607_1476450285_644324_5336742_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652319220699302194" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Above: From left to right: Scarlett Amaris, Richard Stanley, Doug Buck, Catriona Mc Coll, Buddy Giovinazzo and David Gregory outside the Theatre du Grande Guignol in Pigalle</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiWxs22C-6bHXQke7D9G3b8OebO_XmLySRKtxwzRknX8NG02wb7Ayo3ueCP7uxXPgeCAF2w0TV3t3c8Hyf_ytMGz2tqGw3avEPnC8ozhQqoPu5rnQvO_qtSHvj_GjyyrcX_q0lFJw5XU7_/s1600/theaterbizaaree101710.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 309px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiWxs22C-6bHXQke7D9G3b8OebO_XmLySRKtxwzRknX8NG02wb7Ayo3ueCP7uxXPgeCAF2w0TV3t3c8Hyf_ytMGz2tqGw3avEPnC8ozhQqoPu5rnQvO_qtSHvj_GjyyrcX_q0lFJw5XU7_/s400/theaterbizaaree101710.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652319983051017218" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">'THE THEATRE BIZARRE' the anthology film in which 'THE MOTHER OF TOADS' forms the opening segment premiered at the Fantasia Festival in Montreal in July 2011 to a rapturous reception from the audience and good reviews in the trades.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a href="http://www.dreadcentral.com/reviews/theatre-bizarre-2011" target="_blank"><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><u><span>http://www.dreadcentral.com/reviews/theatre-bizarre-2011</span></u></span></span></span></span></a></p> <div id="yui_3_2_0_1_1315996146971323" dir="LTR"> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2"><a name="yui_3_2_0_1_1315996146971320"></a> <a href="http://www.variety.com/review/VE1117945697/" target="_blank"><span><u>http://www.variety.com/review/VE1117945697/</u></span></a></p> </div> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2"><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><u><span><a href="http://www.severin-films.com/2011/07/22/notes-from-a-fantasia-world-premiere/" target="_blank">http://www.severin-films.com/2011/07/22/notes-from-a-fantasia-world-premiere/</a></span></u></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span> </span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><a href="http://www.imdb.com/rg/VIDEO_PLAY/LINK//video/imdb/vi2516229145/" style="color: rgb(19, 108, 178); ">http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi2516229145/</a></span></u></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2">'The Theatre Bizarre' will be coming soon to a number of festivals across Europe before receiving a limited theatrical release Stateside;</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2">Sept 15th&17th Oldenburg Film Festival - Germany</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2">Sept 16th Festival Europeen du Film Fantastique de Strasbourg, France</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2">Sept 18th Lund International Film Festival, Sweden</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2">October 7<sup>th</sup> and 9<sup>th</sup> Sitges, Spain</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2">October 21<sup>st</sup> Celluloid Screams, Sheffield, United Kingdom</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">October 22<sup>th</sup> Mayhem Festival, Nottingham, United Kingdom</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">October 23rd Toronto After Dark</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">October 29th Lincoln Centre, New York</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">November 20<sup>th</sup> Extreme Cinema, Toulouse, France</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Perhaps we'll see you there...</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p></div>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-26065610719264369692011-08-19T13:01:00.000-07:002011-08-20T04:12:04.049-07:00Ghosts of the New South Africa<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-3AA-RQ0efJEW2kXxpXEtXq9BfDBSN9JfVaeedBrgrgIX3rZSjJMR0M990KEH-oHUBmWDjEU3DIscLY5hICyQQj5QEo9H-fBs6ADll8u8IskgErg_uSFRkUJiRgWTUy1eGdciRtohCZDj/s1600/Poster2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-3AA-RQ0efJEW2kXxpXEtXq9BfDBSN9JfVaeedBrgrgIX3rZSjJMR0M990KEH-oHUBmWDjEU3DIscLY5hICyQQj5QEo9H-fBs6ADll8u8IskgErg_uSFRkUJiRgWTUy1eGdciRtohCZDj/s400/Poster2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642673400853103282" /></a>The Karoo – summer 2011<p></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: times, 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><i>'When I first caught sight of him through my binoculars he was standing right over there - next to that bush.'</i> Hannes November indicated a scrubby stand of cactus on the far side of the road that ran along the base of the koppie. It looked like barely a smudge in the moonlight, hardly the sort of hiding place one might expect for a mythical demon that I had been tracking since childhood.</span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'What did he look like?</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'He was wearing a long white coat and black trousers. He stood still with both hands behind his back whenever cars or people approached. Then he picked up a white sack and took blankets over to the bushes like he was trying to make a bed.'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'And how did you know he wasn't just an ordinary man? A vagrant looking for someplace to sleep.'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span>Hannes gave me a silent, long suffering look and for a moment I thought my question was too stupid or impertinent to warrant an answer.</span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'Because he didn't belong there. What he was doing didn't make any sense.'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'What do you mean? What didn't make sense?'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'He turned into a dog.'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'You saw him turn into a dog?'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span>Hannes November fell silent, shifting from foot to foot as he fingered his harpoon, a double bladed implement fashioned from sharpened sheep shears that he had devised in order to hunt the shapeshifter that he insisted had been prowling the settlement. At length he allowed his buddy, Luzuko, to speak for him.<i>'I first saw him on my way home. He only looked like a dog from a distance. Up close it looked like something I had never seen before. It was so fucking lelik* I hit him with my beer bottle.</i>' ( *ugly )
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCuVzm10X7FZ2STMp0qhkfiC6CBCxxPHj2VvgIEgjNoSR0JlYGH0wnaSkVDwlng_vJ2TtoQRYT7dWfkspP26KBUBMbzW6AljBX-jBKKTJoBvwEVgJ8Pvd7I-SASCb9NAlZlkQW0D47zm9I/s1600/68-Steytlerville-monster-strikes-again.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCuVzm10X7FZ2STMp0qhkfiC6CBCxxPHj2VvgIEgjNoSR0JlYGH0wnaSkVDwlng_vJ2TtoQRYT7dWfkspP26KBUBMbzW6AljBX-jBKKTJoBvwEVgJ8Pvd7I-SASCb9NAlZlkQW0D47zm9I/s400/68-Steytlerville-monster-strikes-again.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642879458445828818" /></a><i>'Then what happened?'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>''I chased after it but it grew wings and flew away!'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span>I nodded, realizing there was no point in asking any further questions.
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<br /></span></span></span></div><span><span><span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_349UVt66Wnrg4MHIS9fyRqkGUBOtX5WbxUDLb6oIOANnFm-w2WmHrLzB-2yxGCDZ-8RSVd7KQty5_BppLGm3usfpV3BMbntxydZluQq4i1x8MrG93nZLHYtQ3eNNSV-6L6SCxT2rJTC/s400/monster.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 254px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642880255336220530" /></span></span></span><p></p><p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "></p><p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "></p><p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; ">Reports like this had been coming in from folk in Steytlerville and the neighbouring towns of Klipplaat and Willowmore for some months now. No-one seemed to be able to agree on exactly what the creature looked like other than the fact that it was reputed to be a black magician' or 'nagloper' – something that 'didn't belong' in any sane or normal world. I had heard tales of these xenomorphic spirits before in both the Karoo and Southern Namibia, indeed had based my second feature film 'Dust Devil' on the myth which in many respects parrallels the European vampire tradition. The 'night walker's were said to be of either gender and roamed the veldt in the company of baboons and owls, often gathering at appointed spots like witches meeting at a coven. Sometimes they were said to strip themselves of all clothing or to adorn their heads with human finger or toe bones before entering the huts of their prey, often walking backwards so their footprints would be pointing away from their destination. The occupants, even the dogs, would fall into a death like stupor so that the night walker's could batten on their life force. These wandering nocturnal spirits could be halted however and even destroyed by the use of a magic kerrie, a carved wooden baton analogous to the sharpened stake favored by Western vampire hunters. If the nagloper could be tricked into stepping across the kerrie which was often left lying across the doorways of huts as a form of protection, he could be rooted to the spot and stripped of its power in the same manner that one might imagine a lightning conductor is used to earth static electricity and hence draw the teeth from a storm.</p><p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "><span><span><span>
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0_BWE_Zc1byMSvClCrbke1-zNZ7ZZBKAxJCR-VoTrVzZISKr0HfwoDkvfEx7FxQw7gMOKQLDpno45eiL6GwQ7Hb9D6v3ymVcplBzoDRPSv9r1uTktEsNm0Fwfev-336p-mq906HR6qjY/s1600/dust-devil-19922.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0_BWE_Zc1byMSvClCrbke1-zNZ7ZZBKAxJCR-VoTrVzZISKr0HfwoDkvfEx7FxQw7gMOKQLDpno45eiL6GwQ7Hb9D6v3ymVcplBzoDRPSv9r1uTktEsNm0Fwfev-336p-mq906HR6qjY/s400/dust-devil-19922.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642685332885000306" /></a>Above: Image from 'Dust Devil' (1992)
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<br />Tales of the nagloper had fascinated me as a boy and perhaps it should have come as little surprise to find that the faceless beast was still stalking the back roads of 21<sup>st</sup> century Africa. If the demon were really only a myth then it remained a very powerful one, a legend capable of endlessly reinventing itself, changing its colours and details to suit the times. The last thing I had expected was to find myself hot on the trail of the dust devil once more but despite the chaotic and far fetched nature of the first hand reports I'd hoovered up on my way across the Eastern Cape there was no escaping the unpleasant realization that here in Steytlerville the townsfolk were quite literally living in fear of something they could scarcely describe, let alone comprehend.</span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span>American's have their 'bigfoot' and Australians their 'bunyip' but despite sharing this neck of the bush with a burdgeoning population of baboons and other primates the South African's evidently felt no need to conjure up their own sasquatch, the more conventional furry humanoid, skin walker or yeti commonly reported abroad. The nagloper is an altogether more protean being, capable of defying the folklorist's attempts to readily contain, categorize or otherwise pigeonhole it's hallucinatory characteristics. While human in at least one of its facets the nagloper seems to be able to transform at will. Others hold that it may be the victim of a curse or even a resurrected corpse transformed by an evil witchdoctor into a bestial familiar sent forth to do his or her nocturnal bidding. All that anyone can agree on is that these beings seem drawn to towns like this one, sniffing out their fears and frustrations from a thousand miles away as a shark scents blood.
<br /></span></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjn-p-aQBVanv9UzCKLekqg673y5zJoKiTuvp6yt1qMzoN_CH-PRuTi-P8k-6NhVq0ejSdLparMGV9-vL0kvWjCNt6DNM80zsO7NETVRDQw-Z44ljJCJmKDIIuJB0QEudU6tYcn63HA8f/s400/BaviaanskloofRoute62CangoCavesTulbagh.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642666616852797730" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /><div></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">At face value Steytlerville is like any other one horse karoo town, with its dusty high street dominated by a white washed church and a central bar/hotel. This sleepy community was founded in 1786 by the Reverend Steytler and now stands at the centre of the Eastern Cape's wool and mohair industry. </div><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimTfQn_0dnjYYJ7BvFQokudWkVFnV83icqxIbAjh4KXhMQdHd-lynvZk4DJBBvAuu0GId1nmuFqISDMupfdYtUG2w76PuJL8O-Ck7aOubbHfZx2MbT_o1-SoCmWuCBJNe02svQVIhBnSQ/s1600/27092008-steytlerville-170-kl1+%25281%2529.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimTfQn_0dnjYYJ7BvFQokudWkVFnV83icqxIbAjh4KXhMQdHd-lynvZk4DJBBvAuu0GId1nmuFqISDMupfdYtUG2w76PuJL8O-Ck7aOubbHfZx2MbT_o1-SoCmWuCBJNe02svQVIhBnSQ/s400/27092008-steytlerville-170-kl1+%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642668140376177314" /></a>Above: The Royal Hotel - Steytlerville</div><div style="text-align: center;">Below: St Paul's church - the oldest building in Steytlerville. The tumbleweed hanging from the ceiling has been placed there to deter bats.</div><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitoCgyz0VjFmy3TCzZFYo-Zzig6ag-XOt2Bc1sX4JhGxYXtIvV7Nrd2fywtCSp0PUETqCV0RSyvRIB6dUrX_lXkjZ_-M7NkvI0n9Y_eniwB3u0Xk84Z4w5T11Gn_2spn4fqxX-EB12e8Qz/s1600/Steytlerville-churchTaken-b+%25281%2529.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitoCgyz0VjFmy3TCzZFYo-Zzig6ag-XOt2Bc1sX4JhGxYXtIvV7Nrd2fywtCSp0PUETqCV0RSyvRIB6dUrX_lXkjZ_-M7NkvI0n9Y_eniwB3u0Xk84Z4w5T11Gn_2spn4fqxX-EB12e8Qz/s400/Steytlerville-churchTaken-b+%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642668608794422866" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">To all intents and purposes the place should serve as a model of secure conservative values and Anglican rectitude were it not for the fact that the settlement stands at the very edge of baviaanskloof, the single largest remaining wilderness area on the subcontinent where previously unknown archaelogical remains and bushman sacred sites, not to mention whole new species of flora and fauna are still turning up on a daily basis. </div><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">In the summer of 2010-11 something else, something unimaginable crawled out of the African night to invade the town's collective consciousness.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBgJWYXL2yRQi8rh5B29u_wDWPjhzHM5YF0ichllqIfwX-Btc-AsEr6omyja30i2KRasjjm6aKigFbwmvmOpbbHzFlEUgKKqyilIEGSzK68AQBXGuryi_thtw5GvLgIyQ1M-uZKoiRkoo1/s1600/Karoo-picture-5.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBgJWYXL2yRQi8rh5B29u_wDWPjhzHM5YF0ichllqIfwX-Btc-AsEr6omyja30i2KRasjjm6aKigFbwmvmOpbbHzFlEUgKKqyilIEGSzK68AQBXGuryi_thtw5GvLgIyQ1M-uZKoiRkoo1/s400/Karoo-picture-5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642670071975405986" /></a>
<br />Hefting his double edged harpoon like some sort of latter day Ahab, Hannes November started warily down the barren slope towards the stand of cactus. Under normal circumstances Hannes ran the local 'gaming store', what amounted to two ratty looking pool tables and a collection of aging video machines that occupied one half of the narrow concrete shed he called home. Hannes, like the other denizens of the sorry looking grey walled settlement that had sprung up on the outskirts of Steytlerville, was the victim of a peculiar sort of post-liberation apartheid. In a fumbling attempt at land reform the African National Congress had passed a plethora of new laws, ensuring that any family that lived in one particular premises for more than three generations would have a legitimate claim to the property. Fearing a situation similar to the one in Zimbabwe where a great many farmers had seen their homesteads confiscated by their labourers the land owners had responded by summarily moving the workers off their property, shunting them into vast, hastily built settlements such as this one. Accordingly the farm labourers were obliged to commute to work by bus, a grinding journey of many dusty miles while their families were forced to live in a squalour every bit as bad as the conditions experienced by previous generations under apartheid rule. </p><p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; ">Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised that the sleep of reason had once again given birth to monsters...
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXiYlSZ2pXqz36pQnFeFeig2nXk3aHt-uxCCgZlEdfNTGn2NO1lMkIY6R5WoOpjXSC-axRAb5jMXNrSGa0bEUtlYNdFAAoQwcpATY8lYt7gqi4yEwrp-xUGDKOi4pd_rtsZ8qebWynPATk/s1600/Shapeshifting-monster.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 311px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXiYlSZ2pXqz36pQnFeFeig2nXk3aHt-uxCCgZlEdfNTGn2NO1lMkIY6R5WoOpjXSC-axRAb5jMXNrSGa0bEUtlYNdFAAoQwcpATY8lYt7gqi4yEwrp-xUGDKOi4pd_rtsZ8qebWynPATk/s400/Shapeshifting-monster.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642671212495947666" /></a>"As above, so below: Two fanciful artist's impressions of the 'Steytlerville Monster' currently circulating on the net.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisnjK4I0pLbeXG2V9FP_Dj6aHXxr3DIOsan6pT0T2LuZtt58C_yDfCTQKY3i0nDWnEWrdVDGXt3cN-8-jvywc2R1tuLTn2PDvdTgMICsXPakVXejjIepki-HQMK2eUeIgXHfbe-ROJOqRI/s1600/THE-STEYTLERVILLE-MONSTER.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisnjK4I0pLbeXG2V9FP_Dj6aHXxr3DIOsan6pT0T2LuZtt58C_yDfCTQKY3i0nDWnEWrdVDGXt3cN-8-jvywc2R1tuLTn2PDvdTgMICsXPakVXejjIepki-HQMK2eUeIgXHfbe-ROJOqRI/s400/THE-STEYTLERVILLE-MONSTER.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642671846962222386" /></a></p><p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; ">While the white farmers and townsfolk evidently believed in the shapeshifting demon that their Xhosa labourers referred to as 'Bawokazi' ( literally 'father's brother' or 'paternal uncle' – another word for 'big brother' one might say ) it was clear that they still felt reasonably secure behind the ramparts of their Dutch Reformed faith, white washed picket fences and broad, electrified streets. While the owner/manager of the Royal Hotel declined any comment on the affair he did make it clear that a guest at the only other hotel in town, the Theatrical Hotel on the outskirts of town, had seen the beast only a few days ago. He preferred not to think about such things and seemed of a mind to evict me from my room for having the temerity to mention them on his property. Here in the mean, lightless alleyways of the township sandwiched between the freeway and the open desert the dust devil was a living, breathing reality and grown men lay awake in their beds at night for fear of the nameless emanation from out of the wild that stalked their dreams and threatened their sanity.</p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span>There was no doubt that Hannes was crazy, of course, at least by any conventional definition of the term - one look in his eyes could tell you that immediately. The locals refered to him by his nickname, 'Bosvark' ( literally 'bush pig' ) and were evidently divided over what had really happened here but I couldn't help asking myself what it was about this stocky, bullet headed, God fearing man that had forced him to make a stand against the nameless nemesis that he believed had infiltrated and infected his impoverished settlement. When I asked him what had driven him to hunt the dust devil all Hannes could tell me was that he had been guided by the power of the Lord – 'die heerde' – to defend the community and his way of life.</span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: times, 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><i>'Two of my friends came with me. We came to within 25 metres of the monster,</i>' muttered Hannes, slowing as we warily approached the scene of his previous encounter with the beast.</span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'Did you challenge it or try to communicate with it?'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'That's when I took my spear and told it 'Jy for my, ek vir jou'*!' </i></span></span></span> </p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span>( * literally <i>'You for me, me for you'</i> – a challenge to one on one combat )</span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span>Hannes gestured fiercely at the cactus with his harpoon, speaking the words by rote as if he were recounting something seen in a movie. I surmised that he had told the story so many times to his family, friends, police and local journalists that it had already lost any sense of objective reality to him. </span></span></span> </p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'And that's when you saw him turn into a dog?'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span>He nodded slowly.<i> 'It was a black dog with white legs. But it didn't bark. It didn't make a sound.'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'Then he ran away. And all the lights in the houses went out as he passed,</i>' added Luzuko, making a sweeping motion with his hand. Behind him Hannes began to poke at an old sack lying at the base of the cactus, cautiously lifting it with the tip of his harpoon.<i> 'That's what he was using to try and make a bed.'</i></span></span></span></p><p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "><span><span><span>I glanced at the sack disinterestedly. I think Hannes wanted me to take a photograph of it but quite frankly there didn't seem to be any point. There was something faintly pathetic about the idea of this immortal demon searching for nothing more than a quiet place to lay its head and get some rest.</span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'Do you think he's still around some place?'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span>Hannes looked past me for a moment, gazing out at the silent veldt. </span></span></span> </p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'I heard he was in Klipplaat. Or maybe Willowmore. We hasn't come back here again.'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span>On the westernmost horizon a waxing crescent moon hovered above the dusty flatlands like a pair of huge crimson horns while above us the Milky Way shone with shocking clarity as if its stars were bright diamonds spread against the black velvet viewing board of the night. </span></span></span> </p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'You scared him off, huh?'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'It wasn't me. It was the power of the Lord.'</i></span></span></span></p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span><i>'If you say so.'</i> Reaching for my tobacco pouch I started back towards the dirt road where we had left the car. Beneath that scintillating cosmic panorama the tiny town of Steytlerville looked very small indeed, and not a little vulnerable. </span></span></span> </p> <p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "> <span><span><span>After Hannes's stand off with the demon the police had vigorously searched the surrounding area. While no trace of the elusive 'Bawokazi' could be found Warrant Officer Zandisile Nelani had decided not to take any chances and officially opened a file on the sightings, urging residents who saw the beast to try and get some photographs next time. Thus far no snapshots or any other material evidence to support the 'Steytlerville Monster's physical existence have been forthcoming, suggesting that the answer to what really took place here might be found buried deep within the community's unconscious, in the socio-political tensions that haunted the new South Africa rather than within the realms of cryptozoology. Yet how many identical files lie gathering dust in the charge offices of small towns like this one spread out across the Great Karoo, Namaqua land and Southern Namibia? A great many, I suspect – their details oftimes curiously familiar, the paper trail of the dust devil, the undying shape shifter who will continue to walk these roads until the stars grow dim and the sun grows cold</span></span></span></p><p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheG6RinrOhaiV3GQCnvNuPIZZzkpBx8A2phP_0zBJpHdues92IGX624wdZMkn7Jz4wMc4H51jOAheN0doaQyTsRxHrJHrrmL762DQM7mjuOYe_wuB3zZNMJKaxMmYXJobKSqlPqFLHt2Lx/s1600/dustdevil2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 223px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheG6RinrOhaiV3GQCnvNuPIZZzkpBx8A2phP_0zBJpHdues92IGX624wdZMkn7Jz4wMc4H51jOAheN0doaQyTsRxHrJHrrmL762DQM7mjuOYe_wuB3zZNMJKaxMmYXJobKSqlPqFLHt2Lx/s400/dustdevil2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642672547472996530" /></a></p><p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; ">To be continued....</p><p lang="en-US" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; ">
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<br /></p></div></div></div>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-23013843381065203742011-03-23T15:06:00.000-07:002011-03-27T09:14:57.698-07:00Kingdom of the Dead<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdecTzsr3vw1vwPMpzdvx6kVJrxqLr56FTD_wnfilLulKtbENUY_LG7koSvohFOuBm9DS-6kiW2MUh2e1tX91sl9VwVLCclMbL3SkV-5trQ-acUYcHF_nDb0Y1DocdH3aEdgV_ZaBmnn6g/s400/catacombs+4.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587429107103876338" />"How now, old bare bones! What word of the worm?" Clark Ashton Smith, 1893-1961.<div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUOBYdPpD-Z18G_gKxR09KayQPf5y9DaIsUUSd2nRFC47oczC396x0dWYh3Xp9W-6VeLeZF5JOO6I1tx-mvwjll-EEScA8nujcc7Z0avvGk3vucMjW0oYwlnY9v2ir-To3ZOiiMcxRt7p/s1600/DSC-1820Bis.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUOBYdPpD-Z18G_gKxR09KayQPf5y9DaIsUUSd2nRFC47oczC396x0dWYh3Xp9W-6VeLeZF5JOO6I1tx-mvwjll-EEScA8nujcc7Z0avvGk3vucMjW0oYwlnY9v2ir-To3ZOiiMcxRt7p/s400/DSC-1820Bis.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587430571970681362" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">On the first day of spring Miss Scarlett and myself ( above ) rendezvoused with our friends Alex Wawerka and his partner Sylvie to descend the narrow spiral staircase beneath Avenue Rene Coty, adjacent to the Metro station of Denfert-Rochereau, in the southern suburbs of the city of Paris. Leaving the warm sunlight behind us we entered a veritable realm of the dead.</div></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVx2uN05sfWDRt6djTDhgAAgeQJANv_uwc4VH7i0M7arZ7-Gb5o6tUWieVGVDK3bLklhDXqEEWiCTu3uDItBPBO2Ax0opmz-BKmMUHZU7abF3fESWkg3ggYeWkgwyJbm9UHW_T05o9tSsR/s1600/catacombs+5+.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVx2uN05sfWDRt6djTDhgAAgeQJANv_uwc4VH7i0M7arZ7-Gb5o6tUWieVGVDK3bLklhDXqEEWiCTu3uDItBPBO2Ax0opmz-BKmMUHZU7abF3fESWkg3ggYeWkgwyJbm9UHW_T05o9tSsR/s400/catacombs+5+.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587431858476345602" /></a></div><div>The legendary catacombs of Paris were created at the end of the 18th C. to serve as an ossuary. In 1780 Paris' largest cemetery, The Cimetiere des Saints-Innocents, located in the Les Halles district, was closed for public health reasons at the request of local residents. On the ninth of November the Council of State issued a decree requiring the removal of the human remains. The dolorous task of preparing the storage site fell to the quarries department which had been set up by the Royal Council for the purpose of protecting and reinforcing Paris' subterranean quarries and preventing subsidence. It was decided that bones from all the city's cemeteries would be stored in disused limestone quarries in the Tombe-Issoire district. This continued until 1860, notably during the extensive urban development carried out by Haussmann. </div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdPgvDorFNp5u8vSzWtI9jjugo8R5SSF7seFZxntxXxH-WEF14LJlgrcT9NtlCvolSgaok654eQ3HKdQ6FJ7-yCLp7RTYhUz9jvnw3_5XkbaR0SfqLDjR_DSPGxz3EnP6Ict5uTC5uHpC7/s1600/catacombs+6+.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdPgvDorFNp5u8vSzWtI9jjugo8R5SSF7seFZxntxXxH-WEF14LJlgrcT9NtlCvolSgaok654eQ3HKdQ6FJ7-yCLp7RTYhUz9jvnw3_5XkbaR0SfqLDjR_DSPGxz3EnP6Ict5uTC5uHpC7/s400/catacombs+6+.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587432534336103746" /></a></div><div>At the beginning of the 19th C, the catacombs were opened to the public, attracting large numbers of visitors. Inscriptions on the walls of the winding labyrinth provide the names of the streets above and details of works conducted in the corridors.</div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZiGJGJe4msQqh-jzZmQ96aUUpkmgQEJERUngCHwVUK9yus1GpS3AFAJMvY7aDMUuE99v5JNJglHe6iCNh0COg9gDZTqgNCyrlUeqM7enIQiA9aXMTAnr4eDtqkNR_dQlwZMhWElnhpzYH/s1600/ggggg.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZiGJGJe4msQqh-jzZmQ96aUUpkmgQEJERUngCHwVUK9yus1GpS3AFAJMvY7aDMUuE99v5JNJglHe6iCNh0COg9gDZTqgNCyrlUeqM7enIQiA9aXMTAnr4eDtqkNR_dQlwZMhWElnhpzYH/s400/ggggg.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587433204591193234" /></a></div><div>Moag, our benign, maleficent in-house daemon, ( above ) who accompanied us on our tour of the netherworld was particularly taken by the miniature buildings, towers and battlements carved into the walls of what has come to be known as the 'Port-Mahon' corridor. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3VmQn0Jjru01_pD7TPQbuU6DtDXQmiDQWkNFsMOlYp83klPt4LUr22Hyv6fkYFQPjZ4uRjtjF52RBZ-vT3NDZqvWG82_IohzVyz_qoGY2TXebaI1H6LnMe94MUfMfHwjJR4InIVPOTDb/s1600/catacombs+13.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3VmQn0Jjru01_pD7TPQbuU6DtDXQmiDQWkNFsMOlYp83klPt4LUr22Hyv6fkYFQPjZ4uRjtjF52RBZ-vT3NDZqvWG82_IohzVyz_qoGY2TXebaI1H6LnMe94MUfMfHwjJR4InIVPOTDb/s400/catacombs+13.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587434457788247058" /></a></div><div>These were apparently created by a mad quarryman named Decure, who had fought in the army's of Louis XV. Working alone in the darkness Decure sculpted an exact replica of Port-Mahon, the largest town on the island of Minorca, one of the Balearic Islands, where he is believed to have been held prisoner for man years by the English.</div><div><br /></div><div>The gateway leading to the necropolis is framed by two stone pillars decorated with curious geometric figures. The lintel bears the inscription 'Arrete, c'estici l'empire de la mort' ( 'Stop! This is the empire of death!' ) and further along other maxims ad reflections on the fragility of human life can be found.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3vfi8dTLNssMQ95z9D8_mFACgNNUQPBu8Zeboh0cwApnAYAGrgMx0hyphenhypheny8QTdZKS-majcZcSEo7Cd0IPJ8R16gvhyVQTWOHjYPEUYQ7cksxaqsNzMLZFEui9uqW72qHaP3u2lKWugiaaD0/s1600/DSC-1795Bis.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3vfi8dTLNssMQ95z9D8_mFACgNNUQPBu8Zeboh0cwApnAYAGrgMx0hyphenhypheny8QTdZKS-majcZcSEo7Cd0IPJ8R16gvhyVQTWOHjYPEUYQ7cksxaqsNzMLZFEui9uqW72qHaP3u2lKWugiaaD0/s400/DSC-1795Bis.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587435408230211730" /></a></div><div>Plunging deeper into the lightless labyrinth we found ourselves surrounded by the remains of some six million Parisians,stacked in the 780 metres of corridors that run below the quadrilateral formed by avenue Rene Coty, rue Halle, rue Dareau and rue d'Alembert. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHL5oFoGtN_oHhI44t8vVHXIUmm5IkV6svnUhz7LPoXw1-3MNYUGe85lqnCa26BNO1dUSN2Z3cQhsI17Rourh3eqnmkRIIj1gLCymId2kxUfAUpPY53TCPuuv0dJ1N231yH93-u4I7e2q/s1600/catacombs+3.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHL5oFoGtN_oHhI44t8vVHXIUmm5IkV6svnUhz7LPoXw1-3MNYUGe85lqnCa26BNO1dUSN2Z3cQhsI17Rourh3eqnmkRIIj1gLCymId2kxUfAUpPY53TCPuuv0dJ1N231yH93-u4I7e2q/s400/catacombs+3.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587436227509532978" /></a></div><div>There is no sign in this stygian underworld of the heavens of light or hells of fire promised by the priests, sibyls and hierophants, only the dull realization that bodies are made of dust and water, the last of which is evaporable, and the former capable of dissolvement, a funerial wisdom that unlike the iron bound books of the prophets and the mighty grimoires of the sorcerers and sages can be readily accommodated within a single skull. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-DfcnzTrJ_OZbH5cmlSGbCmBJDQo85SuC0AqsFKlRzTFbVnKnjCxtVAaJ9DBaJ7QXHum2bQIXHZWCbBzrAYgZ16W9-L8JBA0br2vOeocs9V39hAuYwATFcjuzedk1KLKeKiBuwiAZ_n9u/s1600/DSC-1822Bis2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-DfcnzTrJ_OZbH5cmlSGbCmBJDQo85SuC0AqsFKlRzTFbVnKnjCxtVAaJ9DBaJ7QXHum2bQIXHZWCbBzrAYgZ16W9-L8JBA0br2vOeocs9V39hAuYwATFcjuzedk1KLKeKiBuwiAZ_n9u/s400/DSC-1822Bis2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587437138441455074" /></a></div><div>The first bones were brought here in 1786 and simply thrown in the corridors. it was only in 1810, under the Empire, that General Inspector of Quarries Hericart de Thury had the Catacombs arranged in an orderly fashion, forming a decorative facade with the skulls and long bones, behind which the remaining bones were piled in a vast heap. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8iRRPpcvWnNbOuLqTYr1SsXcV0lb80WFeB_RBfzdj3CZyPM6qlyJZuCgiTsGPnRfj5nxFz15K_-IjsAYv1sSqkRAebdVONpdOpDno0kLLW9iNJax4u4xY9pN5cJVYDRvKJAG6DW8VAMZF/s1600/Scarlett+BW.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8iRRPpcvWnNbOuLqTYr1SsXcV0lb80WFeB_RBfzdj3CZyPM6qlyJZuCgiTsGPnRfj5nxFz15K_-IjsAYv1sSqkRAebdVONpdOpDno0kLLW9iNJax4u4xY9pN5cJVYDRvKJAG6DW8VAMZF/s400/Scarlett+BW.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587438139267406274" /></a></div><div>'A reservoir of darkness, black as witches' cauldrons are, when fill'd with moon-drugs in th' eclipse distill'd...'</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWrVyOSuk9AT3s5hxL8nDOHIl9WJI6fQiQIxGZzd4KIx0NF0NGa_ORudgP_7Bmk3lZPG8UMozvw4qBYhH-u25kXGqPwZZ9aUzBRyOq3US1Cy7pbCv8_ibzy_Ucty7o5GcS-QssnrGvHH0/s1600/DSC-1826Bis.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWrVyOSuk9AT3s5hxL8nDOHIl9WJI6fQiQIxGZzd4KIx0NF0NGa_ORudgP_7Bmk3lZPG8UMozvw4qBYhH-u25kXGqPwZZ9aUzBRyOq3US1Cy7pbCv8_ibzy_Ucty7o5GcS-QssnrGvHH0/s400/DSC-1826Bis.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587438801166761362" /></a></div><div>The tenebrous lanes of bone lead ever deeper into the irreverberate blackness of the abyss...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2y1bn0CLgM3FtKqoov3tPfstiJE2L_-9lV5fDJTwtrsk3D1Aw-xpNNAUqXK0GiRb3wZZ9c4kUtk0yHPa3M8oZZ3BZ_3ZShdUqeCyNhSqZfAsucWtqLP-5e7kHjQZtxyapDjKhsKY_asCk/s1600/catacombs+11.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2y1bn0CLgM3FtKqoov3tPfstiJE2L_-9lV5fDJTwtrsk3D1Aw-xpNNAUqXK0GiRb3wZZ9c4kUtk0yHPa3M8oZZ3BZ_3ZShdUqeCyNhSqZfAsucWtqLP-5e7kHjQZtxyapDjKhsKY_asCk/s400/catacombs+11.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587440322067091586" /></a></div><div>Down and down...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9yHeM5tNwrmyfIn-GRNR_GYfthzIl-6Do03derVaaY38xi8QFNAIBQegaqEsuyBgfbKYt1jAqidxD29rWK0wTCIStuwv5S2d9XTshO9pNewC96ubPTvUAVhcpBY_yBMGzp8h6dejkOj9F/s1600/catacombs+12.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9yHeM5tNwrmyfIn-GRNR_GYfthzIl-6Do03derVaaY38xi8QFNAIBQegaqEsuyBgfbKYt1jAqidxD29rWK0wTCIStuwv5S2d9XTshO9pNewC96ubPTvUAVhcpBY_yBMGzp8h6dejkOj9F/s400/catacombs+12.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587440759816550850" /></a></div><div>A spiral staircase leads still deeper to the 'bain de peds des carriers' or 'quarrymen's footbath', a pool of crystal clear groundwater uncovered by the quarry workers. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaiMln99MxahiAWJKv3vHl2lLx99AAlJbt3A5ImUFdwLZNktZdugWU-xjWcpGsRvAtdZXecdeyH2KRgHKMJN7X6mITZWg78wuWif5lgzJj4jhmyxU_qb-hSjkcF_oj52qBJQAl6SJjI-Nh/s1600/DSC-1809Bis2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaiMln99MxahiAWJKv3vHl2lLx99AAlJbt3A5ImUFdwLZNktZdugWU-xjWcpGsRvAtdZXecdeyH2KRgHKMJN7X6mITZWg78wuWif5lgzJj4jhmyxU_qb-hSjkcF_oj52qBJQAl6SJjI-Nh/s400/DSC-1809Bis2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587442052618185650" /></a></div><div>This eerie, silent pool never runs dry and was used by workers to mix cement during works in the catacombs.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIGrUUZQaF-pq8LgOYa90fsnTW6shVavOH-pmpeU8xuMiF842EBNo51EXQzjOAA7bXwxJ7OO_eVy7FRpryh2xmfvP9VkxjkRNSO_4O0C8tLzFCqA431Qr-gDu3t2HyUvKqAqiRfTRr9of/s1600/catacombs+1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIGrUUZQaF-pq8LgOYa90fsnTW6shVavOH-pmpeU8xuMiF842EBNo51EXQzjOAA7bXwxJ7OO_eVy7FRpryh2xmfvP9VkxjkRNSO_4O0C8tLzFCqA431Qr-gDu3t2HyUvKqAqiRfTRr9of/s400/catacombs+1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587441377840624802" /></a></div><div>Gazing down into the abysmal depths below I was reminded of the words of Thomas Moore: - '... Leaning to look if foot might pass down thro' that chasm, I saw, beneath, as far as vision could explore, the jetty sides as smooth as glass, looking as if just varnished o'er with that dark pitch the Sea of Death throws out upon its slimy shore...'</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0EZ8yiueahwXx9nONM294NfIroZ-guDikbTFXbWwo1DPs8yx25Pls7Eq2GbKGTPBdQNscuTiyEbKUQlTzck2lEfdLUnxjUirvQEsymYOcfRdFL8yWbygBmsTtaU4kZaw4Uwof4Ex3GWxq/s1600/catacombs+8.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0EZ8yiueahwXx9nONM294NfIroZ-guDikbTFXbWwo1DPs8yx25Pls7Eq2GbKGTPBdQNscuTiyEbKUQlTzck2lEfdLUnxjUirvQEsymYOcfRdFL8yWbygBmsTtaU4kZaw4Uwof4Ex3GWxq/s400/catacombs+8.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587444061471697282" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Deep within the bowels of the Catacomb I came across a skull that bore the unmistakeable mark of a bullet hole ( above ) and this curious, painted visage which reminded me of Mark 13 and the 'HARDWARE' poster.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguRlsb0LIcRgqmA3kWFAI58ieXPv2SZ24VV_2pY0S2gGscZzhq2Gkk2_nGCFV9jxWGyhtA7ELvmut1-xSAJRD5lilIdPxYc3TBw2G39JdkpW6V3Be8elWF_sYGIjKGpaJk9jL1Wqo7TQ_o/s400/catacombs+10.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587442609736534066" /></div><div>Et in Arcadia ego...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9j-ICHiH2oRONeq9uJnTxhVGp6FJvTqmG9dfTpkR1ZgISfqCj4zcOtH2kdjaXaNw_VdYhnfqcTPOzTG5tWccL8y6XawTGBtKCcRsrGedPLSm3qHQFnbRtrCsJUZIv0JnZzY5qmVNu6iH/s1600/DSC-1838Bis.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9j-ICHiH2oRONeq9uJnTxhVGp6FJvTqmG9dfTpkR1ZgISfqCj4zcOtH2kdjaXaNw_VdYhnfqcTPOzTG5tWccL8y6XawTGBtKCcRsrGedPLSm3qHQFnbRtrCsJUZIv0JnZzY5qmVNu6iH/s400/DSC-1838Bis.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587444674351451922" /></a></div><div>Returning to the surface we found ourselves curiously unmoved by the spectacle of mass death and our proximity to those old bones. Whatever it was that had once made them human seemed to have long departed, rendering them into little more than elaborate gothic decor. Reflecting on how little time we had left to us we made our way back towards the land of the living and the waiting railway station, knowing that there was still much work to be done this side of death and a great many more miles to go before we could afford to sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIw4Vnp5V9y6AEz6piHgxEBS5IyMMdOekdTbfOacGRjDk_aNqbsPSpIWcQsySiFlT08kNLXd2_HEzoNEdK2_kAVVSmFBNtHioji06jFRCGkZ5_JwL8pbC_ExZj6vajNtLrkLwuOL-HIoWN/s1600/catacombs+2.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIw4Vnp5V9y6AEz6piHgxEBS5IyMMdOekdTbfOacGRjDk_aNqbsPSpIWcQsySiFlT08kNLXd2_HEzoNEdK2_kAVVSmFBNtHioji06jFRCGkZ5_JwL8pbC_ExZj6vajNtLrkLwuOL-HIoWN/s400/catacombs+2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587445122575502626" /></a>To be continued...</div><div><br /></div><div>- Special thanks to Alexis and Sylvie for the amazing b&w shots and the pic of Moag.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-18151005149390524712011-02-24T14:02:00.000-08:002011-02-26T12:16:38.812-08:00The Art of LightAs the preparations for the Great Work traditionally begin in March, we thought we would offer for your amusement and edification this alchymical unveiling of the secrets of Notre Dame de Paris – written in the year of the Lord 2011 AD by the daemon Moag.<br /><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlicYNnWUXdI59CDNinSbxnn3B3PvgMUwqov_hbmvULzRY5VCpWLNRzJBNbsMt46Qqk6kKuSWugjSq7xB6lRzF-oNvxrJ9jXPd6EwZuV_9WxlDBSTK33G9ggV67yDCtKuOIcEZKwdX6q9I/s1600/paris+cathedrals14.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlicYNnWUXdI59CDNinSbxnn3B3PvgMUwqov_hbmvULzRY5VCpWLNRzJBNbsMt46Qqk6kKuSWugjSq7xB6lRzF-oNvxrJ9jXPd6EwZuV_9WxlDBSTK33G9ggV67yDCtKuOIcEZKwdX6q9I/s320/paris+cathedrals14.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577382836431677890" /></a></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span><span>If you should have the opportunity to visit Notre Dame de Paris and climb the 387 stone steps to the narrow catwalk that threads its precarious way around the cathedral's towers you will find yourself in what is undoubtedly the largest roosting place for gargoyles in western Europe, if not the world. All around this beetling, gothic facade, which was restored by Eugene Violet-le-Duc in the 19<sup>th</sup> century, swirls a frozen flux of gurning monsters, forgotten saints, rampant vices and unknown virtues. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWywCAJforNNbUFtaBlSS-QT-YKngpErWl2uNzmJpXuNuPdU-N3s4nhAG3wd5zxqvYapTkZHu3CehT0fqzldXPmXIS7N7NhYOdXG8IG0McBWTGlDqTb0DtV5Bjsb9pHaCb6L6WJw65eyR/s1600/notre+dame+gargoyles5.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWywCAJforNNbUFtaBlSS-QT-YKngpErWl2uNzmJpXuNuPdU-N3s4nhAG3wd5zxqvYapTkZHu3CehT0fqzldXPmXIS7N7NhYOdXG8IG0McBWTGlDqTb0DtV5Bjsb9pHaCb6L6WJw65eyR/s400/notre+dame+gargoyles5.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578078942968387362" /></a>A motionless tidal wave of winged, crawling, clinging creatures inundates the basillica, scuttling up it's vertiginous walls to perch on every pinion, glowering triumphantly down at the sluggish waters of the Seine from their lofty buttress heights, seranaded by pigs with harps and dogs playing bagpipes as they dream away the centuries in the shadow of the great belfry, the favorite haunt of Quasimodo the fictional hunchback, where the colossal 17<sup>th</sup> century Emmanuel bell can still be found that inspired Victor Hugo's celebrated and off-filmed romance. An icy wind croons in the distended jaws of the apex gargoyles as the haughty rulers of the roost rear their muzzles to the wintry sky while beneath them a ravening mob of lesser grotesqueries seethe and satanize, surging endlessly upwards to be trapped and caught forever in sockets of stone.</span></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span"> <p class="western"><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2U1zICK3SX0dmlWmUI03hyFnwtAtxw60d6TWJoxerS-7nvjU4GvHIJ4O7BGMd4r7dWqJSoVlhLp_xzMsDsvoJ7Kw4LqBYI3CVRC8Mjj6rGWpD8UwEvpV7_AwWkI1KxzFista1U4v4EsnA/s1600/notre+dame+gargoyles8.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2U1zICK3SX0dmlWmUI03hyFnwtAtxw60d6TWJoxerS-7nvjU4GvHIJ4O7BGMd4r7dWqJSoVlhLp_xzMsDsvoJ7Kw4LqBYI3CVRC8Mjj6rGWpD8UwEvpV7_AwWkI1KxzFista1U4v4EsnA/s400/notre+dame+gargoyles8.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577391621908351906" /></a>Amidst this delirious procession of lost idols, demonic demigods, chimarae and other nameless refugees from a medieval bestiary a solitary human figure stands aloof, leaning intently over the outermost edge of the parapet on one corner of the cathedral's north tower as if to draw our attention downwards towards the mighty edifice below. The unusual hat worn by this old man identifies him at once an adept, a master alchemist taking cogniesence of his completed work. The so-called 'Phrygian cap' is a red, conical hat associated in ancient times with the inhabitants of Phrygia, a region of central Anotolia and worn by the <i>sans-culottes</i><span style="font-style: normal"> during the French revolution. In the western provinces of the Roman Empire it came to signify freedom from slavery and is sometimes referred to as a liberty cap, bringing to mind both the most commonly found ( not to mention the most potent ) form of indigenous European magic mushroom, the Psilocybe Semilanceata containing the psychoactive compounds psilocybin and baeocystin and frequently associated in popular mythology with the faery folk, pixies and gnomes who, more often than not, are depicted wearing conical crimson hats. Small is wise, after all and was not alchemy referred to in times gone by as the </span><i>wise art</i><span style="font-style: normal">? </span></span></span></p><p class="western"><span><span><span style="font-style: normal">The Phrygian cap was worn by the Anatolian god Attis, the twins Castor and Pollux and the Trojan hero Paris as well as King Midas who hoped the hat would hide the donkey ears given to him as a curse by Apollo. Over the course of the centuries the cap has frequently appeared on coins and national iconography in France, Haiti and the Americas. It appears on the official seal of the United States Senate and the US Army War Office whose badge depicts a Phrygian cap on an upturned sword surmounted by the words '</span><i>This We'll Defend</i><span style="font-style: normal">'. This can be readily explained by the caps usage as a Masonic symbol and the supreme badge of initation, refered to as a </span><i>liberia</i><span style="font-style: normal"> in the Mithraic rituals. The occult scholar Pierre Dujols writes that '</span><i> for the grade of the Epopt in the Eleusian Mysteries the new member was asked whether he felt in himself the strength, the will and the devotion necessary for him to set his hand to the GREAT WORK. Then a red cap was put on his head, while this formula was pronounced: 'Cover yourself with this cap, it is worth more than a king's crown...' </i><span style="font-style: normal">The goal of that level of initiation was to elevate man above the human sphere into the divine and to asure his redemption by making him into a god and so conferring immortality upon him.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNKRjMwBkKVp78ozn9U6gtUX9HpXMuu6p_WxZp0yshGQBX1-B90NdbytaPxbYsUH7OkDYB-5PNzCT-gljJX-cNBJ9F7BHmuVyqLAgbfl28xcFhhTwiXaB0DTDSKLVeBiX5JmnYPXjZ2df/s1600/the+alchemist.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 277px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNKRjMwBkKVp78ozn9U6gtUX9HpXMuu6p_WxZp0yshGQBX1-B90NdbytaPxbYsUH7OkDYB-5PNzCT-gljJX-cNBJ9F7BHmuVyqLAgbfl28xcFhhTwiXaB0DTDSKLVeBiX5JmnYPXjZ2df/s400/the+alchemist.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577389823146349650" /></a>The alchemist of Notre Dames strokes his beard with one hand while keeping watch over the edifice beneath him, a vast symphony of stone that contains hidden within it's design and copious decoration the secret of the gods, the key to the so-called 'philosopher's stone' and immortality itself. If we follow the alchemist's direction and take the spiral staircase downwards armed with a copy of Fulcanelli's celebrated exegesis, '</span><i>The Mystery of the Cathedrals'</i><span style="font-style: normal">, it is still possible, even in this debased day and age for a dilligent student to unlock the symbollic message encrypted in Notre Dame's gargantuan book of stone and scry the secret of secrets passed down to us from elder times, hidden in plain sight, so to speak, yet readily intelligible to those who have eyes to see.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><span><span style="font-style: normal">It is not my purpose here to enter into any further debate over the master alchemist's true identity save to say that, to some extent, Fulcanelli's book broke the untold centuries of silence that surrounded the GREAT WORK by revealing to the layman</span></span> that gothic architecture contained a densely coded ‘<span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">secret language’ or 'argot' - ‘Argot’ is defined as a language peculiar to all individuals who wish to communicate their thoughts without being understood by outsiders, an idea Fulcanelli related to the legend of the Argo - the vessel that bore the precious cargo of the ‘Golden Fleece’ in the same manner as the coded architecture of the great gothic cathedrals carried within them the key to a hidden science, a ‘self-censoring secret’, communicable only to the ‘elect’. According to Fulcanelli, this symbolic code was the ‘language of the birds’, the mythic common language spoken by King Solomon and the philosopher Tiresias who was said to have ‘lived seven, eight, or nine ages of man’ and been ‘both man and woman’</span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal"> According to the master alchemist 'gothic art is in fact the art got or cot – the art of light or of the spirit' - a</span><span><span lang="en-GB"> self-censoring secret communicable only to the elect - w</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><span style="font-style: normal">hat Fulcanelli described as the "</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>language of a minority of individuals living outside accepted laws, conventions, customs and etiquette... the language of the humble, the poor, the despised, the rebels and wanderers, the vagrants of the Court of Miracles and the Freemasons of the Middle Ages, who built the gothic masterpieces we admire today.</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><span style="font-style: normal">..'</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">There would be no point in recapitulating the contents of Fulcanelli's magnum opus, the first volume in a projected trilogy left incomplete at the time of his death or, as some would have it, his transition to a higher plane of being. For those who do not already possess a copy of 'The Mystery of the Cathedrals' the full text is available for free download from Terra Umbra: -</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><a href="http://www.shadowtheatre13.com/mysterycathedrals.html">http://www.shadowtheatre13.com/mysterycathedrals.html</a> </span></span></span> </p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><span><span>What follows is intended as a suppliment and further illumination of this occult work which remains one of the finest esoteric guide books of its kind. For the general reader who has no stomach for this sort of advanced esoterica I suggest you tune out now and find something more immediately stimulating with which to occupy yourself – group sex, mah jong or alligator wrestling spring to mind. I promise the next installment of this infrequent 'blog will contain more conventional titilation with all the thrills, spills and conundrums you've come to expect from the Terra Umbra crew. For those who have a more abiding interest in penetrating the secrets of this gothic edifice our grand tour will continue, taking a sharp left turn into more willfully hermetic territory.</span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5VowC3AnYoJ4lfyQxHplA_F-K5JQn-xJb0TL4djxFToREVzQZbQgzZI4CX0GeHgFlGa3Q_LIChCAT9CLUVKJ_fw6r_XkIwH3wMa7nvEMQszX_AJRUwRAlMB3eupUfAWTAGh4crqOXaz0S/s1600/Alchemy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5VowC3AnYoJ4lfyQxHplA_F-K5JQn-xJb0TL4djxFToREVzQZbQgzZI4CX0GeHgFlGa3Q_LIChCAT9CLUVKJ_fw6r_XkIwH3wMa7nvEMQszX_AJRUwRAlMB3eupUfAWTAGh4crqOXaz0S/s400/Alchemy.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577392451842111378" /></a>Arriving at ground level we find ourselves, book in hand, facing the doors of the cathedral and the lavishly decorated grand porch – or Porch of Judgement. On the central column which divides the enrance bay can be seen the figure of a woman with her head touching the clouds. Seated on a throne, she holds in her left hand a sceptre, the sign of royal power, while her right hand supports two books symbolizing text and subtext, exotericism and esotericism. Note the manner in which she holds that sceptre and the curious position of her fingers. Leaning against her chest is a ladder with nine rungs – the <i>scala philosophorum </i>– representing according to Fulcanelli '<i>the patience which the faithful must possess in the course of the nine successive operations of the hermetic labou</i>r.' For the master alchemist this grand porch is the frontispiece of an occult bible, a Mutus Liber whose massive pages are made of stone. To become an adept the initiate must literally climb an analogic ladder of correspondences.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">To aid and abet your understanding of what follows I offer the following crib notes – a thumb nail guide to the substances involved in the great work and the symbols, colours and planets commonly associated with them.</p> <ol> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"></p> <li><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"> <span><span><span>Mercury, planet Mercury: the substance, the Matter to be worked on. originally you have to find out what it is. For the Hermetic Alchemists it is of course you yourself, what includes your body, your mind (=emotions and thoughts) and your divine essence.</span></span></span></p> </li><li><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"> <span><span><span>Lead, planet Saturn: the beginning of the state of Blackness. The Matter is putrefying and dissolving.</span></span></span></p> </li><li><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"> <span><span><span>Tin, planet Jupiter: the color gray that appears at the end of the process of Blackness, when the Matter has been purified to almost a perfect white. Jupiter is the son of Saturn, therefore he is the next stage.</span></span></span></p> </li><li><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"> <span><span><span>Copper, planet Venus: the citrine color. Venus is the next stage because she was born when the testicles of Jupiter, cut off by his father Saturn, fell into the sea.</span></span></span></p> </li><li><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"> <span><span><span>Silver, the Moon: the white color, corresponding to the state of Whiteness or Albedo. The Matter has been completely purified. In Greek mythology the Moon is symbolized by the huntress goddess Diane. Diane is the daughter of Jupiter and Latone.</span></span></span></p> </li><li><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"> <span><span><span>Iron, planet Mars: Mars is the friend and lover of Venus. Orange or rust-red color, like the light of dawn. It is the state during which the Matter starts to become red.</span></span></span></p> </li><li><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"> <span><span><span>Gold, the Sun: this is the last state; the red color or Rubedo. Here the Matter is called Red Sulfur, among other terms. The sun god Apollo.</span></span></span></p> </li></ol> <p class="western" style="margin-left: 0.05cm; text-indent: -0.08cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2">On either side of the cathedral's great doorway can be found two arched niches, each containing an enigmatic bas relief. On the left hand pillar can be found a representation of the alchemist discovering the mysterious fountain , a stream of living water that gushes from a hollow oak, a universal solvent, capable of penetrating every metal – gold in particular – it's volatile spirit indicated by a bird perched on the tree. In mythology this solvent, capable of accomplishing the great task, is called <i>Libethra </i>and is said to have been a fountain of Magnesia that issued from a large rock shaped like a woman's bosom, the water seeming to flow like milk from her two breasts.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGSJVa5m2WBtWkovprRcv1OSvUUXJzfA_J-5d8G-JUoEi2I4bD8jQZXmGurDAGmwx1afGMiNa6lfgNnGqxUweDxNxSpW-2l0a4jB6UItZLuSMizSgqngTU3AaNCCB2mzjZhqomBUZd1ju/s1600/the+old+oak.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 281px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGSJVa5m2WBtWkovprRcv1OSvUUXJzfA_J-5d8G-JUoEi2I4bD8jQZXmGurDAGmwx1afGMiNa6lfgNnGqxUweDxNxSpW-2l0a4jB6UItZLuSMizSgqngTU3AaNCCB2mzjZhqomBUZd1ju/s400/the+old+oak.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577393303647993186" /></a>Magnesia is in Pelion, the home of the centaurs from whence the Argos set sail. </span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">The word magnet comes from the Greek "magnítis líthos" (μαγνήτης λίθος), which means "magnesian stone". The names for the elements magnesium and manganese are also derived from this region, which in addition to the magnetic magnetite (an iron ore), produces certain ores of magnesium and manganese that were known to alchemists.</span></span></span><span> </span></span></span> </p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">In ancient times, two black minerals derived from Magnesia in what is now modern Greece were both called </span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">magnes</span></i></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, but were thought to differ in gender. The male </span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">magnes </span></i></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">attracted iron, and was the iron ore we now know as lodestone</span></span></span></span></span><span><span style="text-decoration: none"><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">or magnetite</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">. The female </span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">magnes </span></i></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">ore did not attract iron, but was used to decolorize glass. This feminine </span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">magnes </span></i></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">was later called </span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">magnesia</span></i></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, known in modern times as pyrolusite or manganese dioxide. Neither this mineral nor manganese itself is magnetic. In the 16th century, manganese dioxide was called manganesum (note the two n's instead of one) by glassmakers, possibly as a corruption and concatenation of two words, since alchemists and glassmakers eventually had to differentiate </span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">magnesia negra </span></i></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">(the black ore) from </span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">magnesia alba </span></i></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">(a white ore derived from Magnesia that was useful in glassmaking)</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span> .</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">Magnesium is the seventh most abundant element in the Earth's crust by mass and eighth by molarity.</span></span></span></span></span><span><span style="text-decoration: none"><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">It is found in large deposits of magnetite</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, dolomite</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, and other minerals</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, and in mineral waters, where magnesium ion is soluble. In 1618, a farmer at Epsom in England attempted to give his cows water from a well. They refused to drink because of the water's bitter taste. However the farmer noticed that the water seemed to heal scratches and rashes. The fame of Epsom salts spread. Eventually they were recognized to be hydrated magnesium sulfate, MgSO4.</span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span style="font-style: normal"><b>V</b></span></span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">irgin's milk, in alchemy, is the pure white texture created by the albedo and which could transform based metals into silver. The term is also applied to the white philosophical mercury--mercurial water or "water of life"--known as Mercurius.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpG9KG1dY-t9lsi4lz8hjoIZ6W61wGXswusPhZst8fVFkbqhyAMaUXH4E-suwpTwpLRFNzC0YWzFReWoLi0C_a83zmLg_Vkm8X5as6cI-lHlzQ9ccz0GFCm3wzdiKb04aJU6UdEjIh1Z11/s1600/ten+of+twelve+medallions+ND.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpG9KG1dY-t9lsi4lz8hjoIZ6W61wGXswusPhZst8fVFkbqhyAMaUXH4E-suwpTwpLRFNzC0YWzFReWoLi0C_a83zmLg_Vkm8X5as6cI-lHlzQ9ccz0GFCm3wzdiKb04aJU6UdEjIh1Z11/s400/ten+of+twelve+medallions+ND.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578084099501761970" /></a>On the lower part of the facade that extends below the three porches can be found twelve figures and twelve small bas reliefs arranged in two corresponding rows, a cryptic frieze designed by the venerable <span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">Guillaume de Paris in the early 13</span></span><sup><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">th</span></span></sup><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"> century. </span></span>The upper row would seem to represent the actions performed by the alchemist while the lower case, inset in circular niches, represent the resulting chemical reactions, reminding us once again of the first law of magic: - As above, so below.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Let us examine these curious panels in further detail...</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ohszhJtQlIA8xHSi60_5I9NMFkwqQN4kHrv2ExNvmW3OBJ1RtgHFMUgnzPRlqbANUY5li2EJtz5jGgLDOcy4z6iReL8UnIAhRS_20mEI4AiIVqfKGbNbdxURoVpF0Zp65JqFzkfLlZDQ/s1600/athenor.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 342px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ohszhJtQlIA8xHSi60_5I9NMFkwqQN4kHrv2ExNvmW3OBJ1RtgHFMUgnzPRlqbANUY5li2EJtz5jGgLDOcy4z6iReL8UnIAhRS_20mEI4AiIVqfKGbNbdxURoVpF0Zp65JqFzkfLlZDQ/s400/athenor.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577395435477542898" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 1 ) The alchemist protects the Athenor against external influences.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span>In alchemy an athanor is a furnace </span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">used to provide heat for alchemical digestion. An Athanor is a self-feeding furnace, designed to maintain a uniform temperature.</span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"></span></span></span>The athanor was also called Piger Henricus, Slow Harry, because it was chiefly used in slower operations, and because when once filled with coals, it keeps burning a long time. For this reason the Greeks referred to it as "giving no trouble", as it did not need to be continually attended. It was also called the Philosophical furnace, Furnace of Arcana, or popularly, the Tower furnace.</p><ol start="2"> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"></p> </ol> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.13cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; line-height: 0.42cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2"> <span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><b>A</b></span></span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">ccording to Philostratus in his </span></span></span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">Life of Apollonius</span></i></span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, Athanor is an occult hill, surrounded by mist except on its southern side which is clear. On it is a well, which is four paces in breadth, from which an azure vapor ascends, drawn up by the warm sun. The bottom of the well is covered with red arsenic. Nearby is a basin filled with fire from which rises a livid flame, odorless and smokeless and never higher or lower than the edge of the basin. Also, there are two black stone reservoirs, in one of which is kept the wind and in the other the rain. In extreme the water cistern is opened and clouds escape to water the whole country.</span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="widows: 2; orphans: 2"><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">Clearly this description should be interpreted as alchemical symbolism, since the Athenor is the furnace which supplies the heat for the alchemical process. The term Athanor is also employed to denote moral and philosophical alchemy</span></span></span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">.</span></i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="widows: 2; orphans: 2"><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKU15KCCZU8zV0YZU5zPkIvFx2IX-P8sukOfNdkDsnxnraonJ1IsuVhn5AbTg7MUyxpfwR0fw2gdqnyPaf-oyTEwMGz5l0-EX2mLSbjYSiiBH3FZM0d0pt5bVumzYmurrp0Fd8cK_JS58e/s1600/the+crow.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 336px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKU15KCCZU8zV0YZU5zPkIvFx2IX-P8sukOfNdkDsnxnraonJ1IsuVhn5AbTg7MUyxpfwR0fw2gdqnyPaf-oyTEwMGz5l0-EX2mLSbjYSiiBH3FZM0d0pt5bVumzYmurrp0Fd8cK_JS58e/s400/the+crow.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577396183229838514" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 2 )</span></span></span></span><span> The Crow – Putrefaction </span></span></span> </p><p class="western" style="widows: 2; orphans: 2">In the symbolic language of alchemy a veritable bestiary of animals are deployed to illustrate the key phases in the great work.</p> <p class="western" style="widows: 2; orphans: 2"><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">Blackening - Black Crow, Raven, Toad, Massa Confusa.<br />Whitening - White Swan, White Eagle, skeleton.<br />Greening - Green Lion.<br />Rapid cycling through iridescent colours - Peacock's Tail.<br />White Stone - Unicorn.<br />Reddening - Pelican feeding young with its own blood, cockerel.<br />Final transmutation - Phoenix reborn from the fire.<br /><br />The phase of Blackening which usually marks the beginning of the work, is brought about either by heating the prima materia in the process of Calcination (the 'dry way' ), or by the process of Putrefaction, a slow rotting or digestion over a period of weeks or months (the so-called 'wet way'). The Black Crow or Raven was often associated with this Calcination, for on vigorous heating the calcined material will usually carbonise and layers flake off and move like a crow's wings in the flask. The Toad is a better symbol of the Putrefaction, the decaying mass slowly pulsating and shifting as gasses are given off, while the substance rots down to a black mass. Another symbol of this stage is the dragon, a familiar inhabitant of the alchemist's flasks. The dragon however is a more complex symbol and is also used when winged as a hieroglyph for the spiritualising of the earthly substance. Thus to the alchemists the dragon appears at the beginning and at the end of the work.<br /><br />The alchemists paralleled these experiences in their souls as a withdrawal into the darkness of their interior space, a darkness pregnant with possibility. We have to a great extent lost the sense that still lived in the medieval and renaissance alchemists, that this darkness contained all potentialities. Like children we fear the dark, and for twenty-first century humanity darkness often holds only an existential dread - philosophers of science have in the last few decades brought us the terrifying image of the 'Black Hole' which swallows up and annihilates all that strays beyond it's event horizon. Perhaps we do not gaze enough at the blackness of the heavens, for if we look deep into the blackness of space on a clear night, we will sense more stars hidden between the known visible stars, especially in the vast star fields of the Milky Way. Cosmic space is pregnant with the possibility of other worlds as yet unseen. It is this image of blackness we must try to recover if we are to become alchemists. An echo of this perhaps remains in the often used phrase "a profound darkness". In alchemy, to meet with the black crow is a good omen. Thus in the Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz, as our hero sets out on his journey of transformation, he meets with a crow which by a turn of fate decides which among the various paths open to him is the one that will lead him to the castle of the King</span></span></span><span> .</span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="widows: 2; orphans: 2"><span><span><span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtLhhDK_a111LqlohvoxwgaNMGpy-VjriOQR0Du9cCrK3vXe-plUFgTpk3WmWCpmLh-gnLSvFeCSBEOFOPusRc-1yGtouXOy_2l7NbsA8UpL45cTjgt9GCtO00kwoaTUa5Hmh8mi99tvXH/s1600/mercury.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 277px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtLhhDK_a111LqlohvoxwgaNMGpy-VjriOQR0Du9cCrK3vXe-plUFgTpk3WmWCpmLh-gnLSvFeCSBEOFOPusRc-1yGtouXOy_2l7NbsA8UpL45cTjgt9GCtO00kwoaTUa5Hmh8mi99tvXH/s400/mercury.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577401239384896626" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 2 ) Philosophic Mercury</span></p><p class="western" style="widows: 2; orphans: 2"><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">The second bas relief shows a figure holding a shield that bears the caduceus, a snake coiled around a golden wand, a symbol that for Fulcanelli indicates '</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">the incisive and solvent nature of the Mercury, which avidly absorbs the metallic sulphur and holds it so powerfully that the cohesion cannot be later overcome...This reptile is the aspect of Mercury in its first state and the golden wand is the corporeal sulphur, which is added to it...It is the first class matter cooking in order to be transformed first into red sulphur, then into Elixir, and the third time into the universal Medicine.</span></i><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">..'</span></span></p><ol start="5"><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border: none; padding: 0cm"><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">The alchemists refer to three forms of mercury.<br />The first mercury is known as vulgar mercury<br />The second mercury is called common volatile mercury or conceptual mercury<br />The third mercury is philosophic<br /><br />The three essentials unified are the Triplex Mercury of the Philosophers. According to Artofferus: </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">"That which is Philosophical is not visible. But may become visible by condensation."</span></i></span></span></span></p> </ol><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFL0sDabiryutseo39LHgZTICzcyvJC1SJNvLVNWJaGyp1zNxqn8MEtFWfAuRQEv4nYk3w_kRdOLUy8qRIojX10MN3arjsSMP_S8wO9x5YnK-8DRy1aL7-PgspdakWwGMLak3xbupYIjXi/s1600/salamander.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 331px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFL0sDabiryutseo39LHgZTICzcyvJC1SJNvLVNWJaGyp1zNxqn8MEtFWfAuRQEv4nYk3w_kRdOLUy8qRIojX10MN3arjsSMP_S8wO9x5YnK-8DRy1aL7-PgspdakWwGMLak3xbupYIjXi/s400/salamander.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577403092878417282" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 3 ) The Salamander - Calcination</span></div> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.26cm; border: none; padding: 0cm"> <span><span><span>The next bas relief shows a woman with hair like flame who holds the disc of the salamander 'which lives in the fire and feeds on fire'. According to the master alchemist's treatise this represents the '<i>incombustible and fixed central salt, which preserves its nature even in the ashes of the calcinated metals and which the ancients called metallic seed. The parts of the body which can be burnt are destroyed in the violence of the igneous process, only the pure, unalterable parts resist and although they are very fixed, they can be extracted by percolation. This is, at least, the spagyric expression of calcination, a simile used by authors to exemplify the general idea which one should have of the hermetic work...</i>'</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; line-height: 0.45cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2"> <span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">The "</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">Starry Salamander That lives in the Fire</span></i></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">" is also known as the Mercurial Spirit of the </span></span></span></span></span><em><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">prima materia. </span></span></span></span></span></em><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">The salamander in its natural changeable form represents the mercurial nature of the adaptive psyche. Once the salamander is roasted, this changeable tendency is halted and turned to ash. As with all the alchemical procedures, the importance is not a literal performance but in understanding on a metaphorical and symbolic level. The psyche itself, comprised of </span></span></span></span></span><em><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">ego, self </span></span></span></span></span></em><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">and accompanying </span></span></span></span></span><em><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">complexes</span></span></span></span></span></em><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, is what undergoes these transformations. Each aspect moves from a conglomerate state to a more purified state. In other words, as the person becomes fully </span></span></span></span></span><em><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">individuated</span></span></span></span></span></em><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, this state is more evident.</span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2">The alchemy of transformation is driven by the bipolar of soul and spirit. The salamander, as a symbol of soul, is attracted to the blazing heat of the Sun, while the bird of spirit is attracted to the coolness of the Moon. This is similar in meaning to the Tai Chi symbol representing the interplay of the feminine yin and masculine yang energies. In this process, one thing takes on the characteristics of the other as it becomes its opposite. This is the relationship between Mercury and Sulfur in alchemy, and explains why Mercury is sometimes associated with soul and other times associated with spirit. The same is true of Sulfur. The alchemists believed that within this interplay could be found the source of the life force. Carl Jung called this overall process of one thing changing its opposite by the unfortunately unwieldy name of “inandromedria.” Together<i> Spiritus, Anima, </i>and <i>Corpus </i>(Spirit, Soul, and Body) form the Three Essentials behind anything, the celestial archetypes that the alchemists termed Sulfur, Mercury, and Salt.</p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2">Jung's original interest in alchemy came from a dream where he had an library filled with arcane tomes from Medieval and Renaissance times. He spent the next fifteen years collecting this library. Along the way he learned to recognize the major symbols of the unconscious after reading about them in alchemical treatises and hearing about them in his patients dreams and fantasies. Their projections told him of an inner quest, a sealed vessel, the conflict of opposites, a philosophical tree, a fountain of eternity, a golden flower, a Stone, a sacred wedding, etc.</p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2">Grossinger says that "what Carl Jung recognized was the stages, as if the alchemists also corresponded to a process of psychological individuation. The psychic stages were as precise and rigorous as the chemical ones. Futhermore, they generated a physical and even quantitative terminology for an undiagnosed tension of opposites in the human psyche arising from male and female archetypes, a struggle they sought to resolve by the creative unity of chemicals in the Stone." Alchemy sought to unite Spirit (male) and Matter (female) through a Royal Union (coniunctio) to create their synthesis in the homunculus, hermaphrodite, or lapis. This is an alchemical metaphor for the process of spiritual rebirth.</p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2"> <span><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsXwpvCfmF2x9smpg9lnlBoP3jz3I4WdtTBeAWEoa4psmkH-PhMk3S7obEslPuaW0dG3KUKKzN9UkRS9tUSjUysgQEMbWLfuBvIS11QAXogwbk7B48uhi-b4qX4dRC-_4y_hvLw7bgwRLW/s1600/universal+solvent.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 284px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsXwpvCfmF2x9smpg9lnlBoP3jz3I4WdtTBeAWEoa4psmkH-PhMk3S7obEslPuaW0dG3KUKKzN9UkRS9tUSjUysgQEMbWLfuBvIS11QAXogwbk7B48uhi-b4qX4dRC-_4y_hvLw7bgwRLW/s400/universal+solvent.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577437380786856370" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 4 ) Preparation of the universal solvent </span></span></span></span> </p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2">The many biochemical interactions occurring in living organisms—human, animal, and plant—could not occur in the absence of a solvent environment. Water is considered to be the earth's universal solvent. The fluid substance, mostly water, within and around the cell is a solvent that contains many dissolved substances called solutes.</p> <p class="western" align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2"> <span><span><span>Combining a solvent and a solute results in either a solution, a colloidal dispersion, a suspension, or an emulsion. These mixtures differ from each other based on the size or solubility of their solutes.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2"> <span> </span><span><span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">Alkahest</span></i></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"> is a hypothetical universal solvent having the power to dissolve every other substance, including gold</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">. It was much sought after by alchemists for what they thought would be its invaluable medicinal qualities. The name is believed to have been invented by Paracelsus</span></span></span></span></span><span><span style="text-decoration: none"><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">from Switzerland</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, who modelled it on similar words taken from Arabic</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, such as ‘alkali</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">’. Paracelsus' own recipe was based on caustic lime, alcohol, and carbonate of potash</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">. He believed that this element alkahest was, in fact, the philosopher's stone</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">. A potential problem involving alkahest is that, if it dissolves everything, then it cannot be placed into a container, because it would dissolve the container. However, philosopher Philalethe</span></span></span></span></span><span><span style="text-decoration: none"><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">specifies that Alkahest dissolves only composed material into their constituent, elemental, parts. Alkahest is also known as '</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">The Green Lion</span></i></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">', not so much because it is green in color as because it has not yet acquired those mineral characteristics, which in chemistry distinguish the adult state from the nascent one. In modern times water is sometimes described as the universal solvent as well, because it can dissolve a large variety of substances, due to its chemical polarity</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2"><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"></span></span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikBUA8VpDUurrJgmY7MyqM_Z6aKITx12UtRyRzcC2a7DmhZF6kmoCMnQu6XCILVEpMbNrlQZRywyy7JbmpYeNPsapa0KqgwqSmxRjuFpyxJ-yCxZif8780YO5tdW4hFfPjO_7TlN0sR2Vr/s1600/Evolution.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 304px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikBUA8VpDUurrJgmY7MyqM_Z6aKITx12UtRyRzcC2a7DmhZF6kmoCMnQu6XCILVEpMbNrlQZRywyy7JbmpYeNPsapa0KqgwqSmxRjuFpyxJ-yCxZif8780YO5tdW4hFfPjO_7TlN0sR2Vr/s400/Evolution.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577438055165871218" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 5 ) Evolution - colours and processes of the Great Work</span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; widows: 2; orphans: 2">The three colors succeed one another in an invariable order, going from black, through white, to red. But since, according to the old saying, <i>Natura non facit saltus</i> – nature does not proceed by a leap, there are many intermediate stages between these three principal ones. The artist does not attach much importance to them since they are transitory and fleeting. They serve only as a witness to the continuity and the progress of internal changes. As for the main colors, they last longer than these tranistory shades and have a profound effect on the matter itself, marking a change of state into chemical constitution. None of those fugitive and more or less brillant tints are meant here, which play upon the surface of the bath, but rather the coloring within the body itself, which are translated to the outside and which reabsorb all the others.</p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2"><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">The color black is given to Saturn - L</span></span></span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">ead, in alchemical terms, definitely has an androgynous nature with qualities of cold and damp allowing it to be called an arcane substance representing the lusterless prime matter. Lead represents the impurities of metals and humans. Meanings death, chaos, night, the black hen, the black dragon, the Cimmerian darkness.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2">Just as in the Book of Genesis days succeeds night, so light succeeds darkness. Its signature is the color white. The Wise assure us that when their matter has reached this degree, it is free from all impurity, perfectly cleansed and very exactly purified. It then takes on the appearance of solid granulationsor shining corpuscles, reflecting like diamonds of a dazzling whiteness. White is the color of the Iniate, because the man who abndons the darkness to follow the light , passes from the profane state to that of the Initiate, the Pure. He is spiritually renewed. The white swan.</p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2">As for red , the symbol of fire, it shows exhaltation, predominance of the spirit over matter, sovereignty, power and apostleship. This Philosophic Stone, obtained in the volatile and fusible form of crystal or red powder, becomes penetrating and capable of curing leprosy, that is to say of trnasmuting into gold those ordinary metals whose tendancy to rust renders them inferior, imperfect, 'sick and infirm'.</p> <p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2">The preparation of Vermilion ( mercuric sulfide ) from mercury and sulphur was worked out in all details. Vermilion and mercury itself were considered by some adepts to be the preliminary stage to the 'Philosophers Stone' – a magic substance which was capable of transmuting base metals into gold.</p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border: none; padding: 0cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2"><span><span><span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebfFi7gwmTAj-QqX98Iug41zcF6K9jUo5sibGvx7t8a1dMeYcfjZ7UeLnE3MPjYxxWvg5BdjMffy0cpkdyDWM8dINXAnxCbobJNQ_WE2gyZRXHmpQPw1P12OpO0zF0QQnqv_2_16Ifh1F/s1600/four+elements.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebfFi7gwmTAj-QqX98Iug41zcF6K9jUo5sibGvx7t8a1dMeYcfjZ7UeLnE3MPjYxxWvg5BdjMffy0cpkdyDWM8dINXAnxCbobJNQ_WE2gyZRXHmpQPw1P12OpO0zF0QQnqv_2_16Ifh1F/s400/four+elements.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577440533598294290" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 6 ) The four elements and the two Natures</span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "><span style="font-style: normal; "><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">The elemental system used in Medieval alchemy was developed by the Arabic alchemist</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span><span style="font-weight: normal; ">, Jabir <i>ibn</i></span></span></span></span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J%C4%81bir_ibn_Hayy%C4%81n" style="font-style: normal; "><span><span style="text-decoration: none"><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></a><span style="font-style: normal; "><span style="text-decoration: none"><span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">Hayyan</span></i></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span style="text-decoration: none"><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">and others.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span style="text-decoration: none"><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">His original system consisted of the four classical elements found in the ancient Greek traditions (air, earth, fire and water), in addition to two philosophical elements: sulphur</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, ‘the stone which burns’, which characterized the principle of combustibility, and mercury</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, which contained the idealized principle of metallic properties. The three metallic principles: sulphur to flammability or combustion, mercury to volatility and stability, and salt</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span style="text-decoration: none"><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">to solidity became the </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">tri prima </span></i></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">of the Swiss alchemist Paracelsus</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">, who reasoned that Aristotle’s four element theory appeared in bodies as three principles. Paracelsus saw these principles as fundamental, and justified them by recourse to the description of how wood burns in fire. Mercury included the cohesive principle, so that when it left in smoke the wood fell apart. Smoke described the volatility (the mercury principle), the heat-giving flames described flammability (sulphur), and the remnant ash described solidity (salt).</span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "><span style="font-style: normal; "><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"></span></span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1btpT4z3qGi5mm2OZ-fDpOJqXekleilEAgNuA80OWztGqBDY-nfoK6d7HiqI74tUqE8t8wHSxErT3EU49lbf5T-goE320Z6csGTqWELLnkzm8ogyn8s-YsVLHLYSvSdN83yGqdr2t_6Zb/s1600/Athenor+and+the+stone.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1btpT4z3qGi5mm2OZ-fDpOJqXekleilEAgNuA80OWztGqBDY-nfoK6d7HiqI74tUqE8t8wHSxErT3EU49lbf5T-goE320Z6csGTqWELLnkzm8ogyn8s-YsVLHLYSvSdN83yGqdr2t_6Zb/s400/Athenor+and+the+stone.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577441522897136258" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 7 ) The Athenor and the stone</span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; ">On the seventh bas relief of the series – the first one on the right – we see a vertical section of the Athenor ( the self feeding furnace ) and the internal appartus intended to support the Philosopher's egg. The human figure holds a stone in the right hand.</p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6PFLOEL4tGDiMdqdSjWGyMiUqh3LENQ_2lHqgY6t8hMBwZO6sgbEWGLPNxAPzwcRZfjuIoKb5jiHLaZ76acBvAgoiyBViGTpeklRXXSGVaUMMcW_xa4-LVdXyljfH5flVRttwsW7BhsMT/s1600/conjunction+-+sulfur+-+mercury.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6PFLOEL4tGDiMdqdSjWGyMiUqh3LENQ_2lHqgY6t8hMBwZO6sgbEWGLPNxAPzwcRZfjuIoKb5jiHLaZ76acBvAgoiyBViGTpeklRXXSGVaUMMcW_xa4-LVdXyljfH5flVRttwsW7BhsMT/s400/conjunction+-+sulfur+-+mercury.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577447131689698434" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 8 ) Conjunction of Sulphur and Mercury</span></p><p class="western" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0cm; padding-right: 0cm; padding-bottom: 0cm; padding-left: 0cm; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2; "><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">The Hermaphrodite represents Sulphur and Mercury after their Conjunction. </span></span></span></span></span><em><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">Rebis </span></span></span></span></span></em><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">(something double in characteristics) is another designation for this point in the alchemy of transformation.</span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="western"><span><span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">Nature obtains in this way pure Mercury, completely free of its earthy substance that no longer contains any foreign element. Then she unites it to pure Sulphur and produces at last in earth's womb the pure and perfect metals. If both principles are impure, so are the metals. This is the reason why in mines one finds different metals, which is explained by the different purification and digestion of their principles. This depends on the coction. </span></span></span></span></span> </p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><span><span><span>Matter and form are only contained (as saith the Philosophers) by the Generation of Nature, but they understand by the matter and form, the Agent and Patient, thin and thick, Sulphur and Mercury, male and female, and by consequence know Generation.</span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><span><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkkt8wQvIEQ3MW1EGEqkoQYm8R4ehy2zRtX2hOyZfDYgUja1qFQyjZGQY1rER_dODdWMC_pAJ-B_j1Cmz9LS1sQ2WmCpXjBvsBZUwpolGSprp5w31Vb7XhbQa_8WVypFVEOtv3-NE6E-eX/s1600/materials+neccesary+4+solvent.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 304px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkkt8wQvIEQ3MW1EGEqkoQYm8R4ehy2zRtX2hOyZfDYgUja1qFQyjZGQY1rER_dODdWMC_pAJ-B_j1Cmz9LS1sQ2WmCpXjBvsBZUwpolGSprp5w31Vb7XhbQa_8WVypFVEOtv3-NE6E-eX/s400/materials+neccesary+4+solvent.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577442709421775138" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 9 ) The materials necessary for making the Solvent</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><span><span><span>The ninth subject gives us the opportunity of learning again the secret for making the universal solvent. In it a woman shows- allegorically- the materials necessary for the construction of the hermetic vessel. She holds up a small piece of wood looking rather like the stave of a barrel, the nature of which is revealed by the oak branch born on the shield. Here again we find this mysterious spring, this fire of nature, without which nothing can grow down here. It is this spirit, spread over the surface of the globe, which the subtle and ingenious artist must capture as and when it appears. Also, I must add, a specific body is needed to serve as a receptacle; an attracting medium, containg a principle spirit and 'embodying' it. The spirit is the lodestone sealed in the belly of Aries, which must be seized with speed and skill at the moment of its birth.</span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><span><span><span></span></span></span>The Sulphur you must seek in the house of Aries, this is the magic fire of the wise, to heat the Kings bath, (which you may prepare in a weeks time) this fire lies concealed, which you may unlock in an hour's time, and afterward wash it with a silver shower.</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7elRDTlgOxmioxWho_su0qk-TMDfi0Ls1og_ttt5ykCAumYVkqTSBg7BnRTVQST7kxbYPUgW9ZdHo-WxAexPgJCDa8H9ok89DFvQVRZY6nXIGin8WxMyprKrl0ICf400GwIEF7mAGg0MK/s1600/the+fixed+body.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7elRDTlgOxmioxWho_su0qk-TMDfi0Ls1og_ttt5ykCAumYVkqTSBg7BnRTVQST7kxbYPUgW9ZdHo-WxAexPgJCDa8H9ok89DFvQVRZY6nXIGin8WxMyprKrl0ICf400GwIEF7mAGg0MK/s400/the+fixed+body.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577447773100658082" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 10) the fixed Body</span></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal">The emblem of the lion is generally the sign of gold, both alchemical and natural. It thus represents the physico-chemical properties of these substances. But the texts give the same name to the matter which is receptive to the universal spirit, the secret fire, during the processing of the solvent. In both cases it represents power, incorruptability and perfection, these being further indicated clearly enough by the warrior with drawn sword, the mail-clad knight, displaying the king of the alchemical bestiary.</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal">As far as the fixed body in mercury is concerned it is less mobile, it flows less quickly than the other Mercury; it leaves traces of its fixed body in the fire: one drop placed on a thin plate heated to red leaves a residue.</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx25sPpD6RGiGdcsGK43WuXv4mLuQJq9XBRojl8x4NN2W68tebtvSh8YyK3xuCaHcassv4TpJZTmsWh0ajxlpkU7VPMWPohZG5z8Wp-NC0xOWS7ka-IgsFbD9uWGoGYjmeEMjzoXHnDYZ4/s1600/Union+of+fixed+and+volatile.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 298px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx25sPpD6RGiGdcsGK43WuXv4mLuQJq9XBRojl8x4NN2W68tebtvSh8YyK3xuCaHcassv4TpJZTmsWh0ajxlpkU7VPMWPohZG5z8Wp-NC0xOWS7ka-IgsFbD9uWGoGYjmeEMjzoXHnDYZ4/s400/Union+of+fixed+and+volatile.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577448315173173202" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 11 ) Union of the Fixed and the Volatile</span></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">The object is to make a volatile subject fixed or solid, so that it remains permanently unaffected by fire. Alchemy knows a lot of opposite images, like water and fire, dryness and wetness, warmth and cold, the volatile and the fixed, the bodily and the spiritual, the Sun and the Moon, gold and silver, circle and square and so on. The union of these opposites already constitutes a coniunctio. Coniunctio is also the union of divine or spiritual energies with earthly energies k</span></span>nown as the chymical wedding or the sacred marriage</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheoWVVF7BbKNkZraXoGLCiv-2pahyphenhyphenMd27RA8Hsk67DEwNSbROtPnXb0Ehr6HMk4ZwTZY_cmWuYbQPRhpbNFWfDt2BhAryBi4cyKv6aOTDBAN37z5uA3RrDpT4u5IYEqgYQ1Q-EcPx4SHQY/s1600/philosophic+sulphur.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheoWVVF7BbKNkZraXoGLCiv-2pahyphenhyphenMd27RA8Hsk67DEwNSbROtPnXb0Ehr6HMk4ZwTZY_cmWuYbQPRhpbNFWfDt2BhAryBi4cyKv6aOTDBAN37z5uA3RrDpT4u5IYEqgYQ1Q-EcPx4SHQY/s400/philosophic+sulphur.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577448721819785378" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 12 ) Philosophic Sulphur</span></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal">Considered as a sign of the zodiac , this is the second month of the preparatory operations of the first work, and the first process of the elementary proces of the second. Since the bull and ox were sacred to the sun, just as the cow was to the moon, the bull as a symbol represents Sulphur, the male principle, the sun being described by Hermes as the father of the Stone. The bull and the cow, the sun and the moon, sulphur and mercury are thus hieroglyphics, identical in meaning and designating the primitive, contrary natures before their conjunction.</p> <p class="western">Sulphur is yellow in color and melts to a blood red liquid emitting a blue flame. In ancient times sulphur was known as 'brimstone' and was mainly found around hot springs and volcanic locations. The alchemists considered mercury to be the First Matter from which all metals were formed. They believed that different metals could be produced by varying the quality and quantity of sulphur contained within the mercury. The purest of these was gold and mercury was called for in attempts at the transmutation of base ( or impure ) metals into gold, which was the goal of many alchemists.</p> <p class="western"><span><span><span>Mercury forms alloys with most metals except iron and combines with sulphur at ordinary temperature. Mercuric Sulfide, Red ( Vermilion ) occurs in nature as the mineral cinnabar. ( Bright scarlet-red, cnsidered as a royal colour in some cultures )</span></span></span></p><p class="western"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0J4HiuHObNSFdYVxj-kuyEh8mWPozmRitUIBMUI4PXgQtFx5FSIJEdN7lzWRRq3WTpR37bA_9m4Pr3nNZxmey0ekhV9UaEt4u1O07q_WiHW0Gq5tNe9__BE6bU1WlW_nBUdBQcPOBlT7l/s1600/cohabitation.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 372px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0J4HiuHObNSFdYVxj-kuyEh8mWPozmRitUIBMUI4PXgQtFx5FSIJEdN7lzWRRq3WTpR37bA_9m4Pr3nNZxmey0ekhV9UaEt4u1O07q_WiHW0Gq5tNe9__BE6bU1WlW_nBUdBQcPOBlT7l/s400/cohabitation.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577449217880213602" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">(13 ) Cohobation</span></p><p class="western"><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">In pre-modern chemistry and alchemy </span></span></span><span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">cohobation</span></i></span><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"> was the process of repeated of the same matter, with the liquid drawn from it; that liquid being poured again and again upon the matter left at the bottom of the vessel.</span></span></span></p><p class="western"><span><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO5Wbi_Ouk6FX9QkAU010Xa3IC0OkCNQBP_79EEfBcEv6BrnKGjKbe0eRB-s-btB2nc7c3cHSr2OuRxxnxxI1NVhD2v299eYRthUQ2gyWpfI2d8reKQ1MI-jSe9KI_hqxoXi9sjLP3EG7l/s1600/origin+and+result+of+the+stone.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 391px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO5Wbi_Ouk6FX9QkAU010Xa3IC0OkCNQBP_79EEfBcEv6BrnKGjKbe0eRB-s-btB2nc7c3cHSr2OuRxxnxxI1NVhD2v299eYRthUQ2gyWpfI2d8reKQ1MI-jSe9KI_hqxoXi9sjLP3EG7l/s400/origin+and+result+of+the+stone.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577449934863443666" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 14 ) Origin and Result of the Stone</span></p><p class="western">On the second medallion, the Initiate holds up a mirror in one hand, while in the other he holds up the horn of Amalthea (the cornicopia of plenty). Beside him is seen the Tree of Life. The mirror symbolized the beginning of the work , the Tree of Life marks its end and the horn of plenty the result.</p><p class="western">The Alchemical tree of life:</p><p class="western">1Kether: Mercury</p><p class="western">2 Chokmah: Sulphur</p><p class="western">3Binah: Salt</p><p class="western"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">4Chesed: Luna</span></p><p class="western"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">5Geburah: Sol</span></p><p class="western"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">6Tiphareth: Mars</span></p><p class="western"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">7Netzach: Jupiter</span></p><p class="western"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">8Hod: Venus</span></p><p class="western"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">9Yesod: Mercury</span></p><p class="western"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">10Malkuth: Mercurius Philosophorum</span></p><p class="western"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">From the Alchemical tradition, the Tree of Life is a symbol of the <i>Opus Magnum</i>, the goal of the alchemical journey, which is to find "the gold", "the philosopher's stone" , "the elixir of life". A branch from the Tree of Life was said to protect the Alchemist on his or her journey through the alchemical stages of separation, decay and purification in fires of the underworld. A quote from the <i>Teatrum Chemicum</i> says, "Plant the Tree on the lapis that the birds of the sky can come and reproduce on its branches; it is from there that wisdom rises.'</span></p><p class="western"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6hq6YpyIedGZgNRNl65zOjjgKf7xumHth6Y_VFxZU737TNVM_SpbOfEagQ4Vz0ZYZ8Frzb7zhgSbyfWK8d8aM00kb8kH2Wigk15pmKCQajYBtPHxle8VgvuabTLBi0Qr6st1QT_4J3Jqb/s1600/knowledge+of+weights.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 382px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6hq6YpyIedGZgNRNl65zOjjgKf7xumHth6Y_VFxZU737TNVM_SpbOfEagQ4Vz0ZYZ8Frzb7zhgSbyfWK8d8aM00kb8kH2Wigk15pmKCQajYBtPHxle8VgvuabTLBi0Qr6st1QT_4J3Jqb/s400/knowledge+of+weights.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577450305187309778" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 15 )The Knowledge of Weights</span></p><p class="western"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">Next comes the allegory of the weight of nature in which the alchemist draws back the veil, covering the scales.</span></p><p class="western"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYgawRJDp8qRanpqx2s36MiWcNPeIHychiyc3CBIPwEVpMuB7zGnlqRxw4jTqEgAxv2Gt9WHyxO0gABzFAy680XK-2UZHVHbPF12ZBv85ahHGTQYE5kFCtON52EYx9k7wqtFffqsLJTe57/s1600/Servus+Fugitivus.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 395px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYgawRJDp8qRanpqx2s36MiWcNPeIHychiyc3CBIPwEVpMuB7zGnlqRxw4jTqEgAxv2Gt9WHyxO0gABzFAy680XK-2UZHVHbPF12ZBv85ahHGTQYE5kFCtON52EYx9k7wqtFffqsLJTe57/s400/Servus+Fugitivus.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577450905945310978" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 16 )The Queen kicks down Mercury, Servus Fugitivus</span></p><p class="western">Hermes describes Mercury as the Runaway Slave on account of the escaping moisture.</p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSMgY8tO4-xI_mt_83mwKUUZ4HKUyvB56UT1rq_6ue3uevE7xZFOD8mtHkQ7C9pbUvLDho8SjDQFzanqeZMnex30WDB8qJJFFFaFSQeGX9w-jXEwOdISUdZqjp5MGDC1KJkOmQUNhJEjOi/s1600/the+Reign+of+Saturn.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 391px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSMgY8tO4-xI_mt_83mwKUUZ4HKUyvB56UT1rq_6ue3uevE7xZFOD8mtHkQ7C9pbUvLDho8SjDQFzanqeZMnex30WDB8qJJFFFaFSQeGX9w-jXEwOdISUdZqjp5MGDC1KJkOmQUNhJEjOi/s400/the+Reign+of+Saturn.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577451355183553298" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 17 ) The Reign of Saturn</span></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal">A bent old man is huddled under the arch of the next medallion, his back stooped. Cold and feeble he leans on a block of stone. Fulcanelli recognizes in this bas relief the first phase of the second work, when the hermetic <i>Rebus</i>,<i> </i><span style="font-style: normal">enclosed in the ark of the Athenor</span> suffers the dislocation of its parts and becomes mortified. '<i>It is the active and gentle beginning of the fire of the wheel, symbolized by cold and by winter, the embryonic season when the seeds, shut up in the womb of the philosophic earth, are subject to the fermentative influence of humidity.</i>' The reign of Saturn, who devours his own children, is the time of old age, death and radical dissolution, of decomposition, the color black and the substance of lead. According tp '<i>The Chemist's Key</i>' by Henry Nollius ( 1617 ): - '<i> Of this lead or Saturn the poets have written much, telling us that Saturn devours all his children, etc. Note this. His sulphur consumes all that is hid in the matter enclosed in it's belly, digests and concocts it to it's ripeness. But Jupiter, observing this, with his sharp scythe cuts off the stones of Saturn and throws them into the sea, because the white sulphur, which in the operation appears after blackness abolishes by his piercing power, which is here called the scythe, the strong power of the black sulphur called Saturn and throws the same into the sea. The black sulphur comes to be dissolved and changed into a sea, out of which the fair Venus is generated which is the green colour. Saturn endeavors to devour Jupiter or the white sulphur, but instead of him he swallows a stone which was laid before him, which he spews up again upon the mountain of Helicon..</i>.'</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal">Mount Helicon in Boeotia, Greece is sacred to the muses. It is where the mysterious fountain, the Hippocrene spring, burst forth after Pegasus, the winged horse, kicked the rock with his hoof, thus symbolizing the beginning of the next phase of the GREAT WORK.</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal">One Demetrius was sent by the Roman Emperor to explore the British Isles, and in his report of them he says: “Moreover there is an island there in which Cronos (Saturn) is imprisoned, with Briareus keeping guard while he sleeps. Sleep, they say, is the bond forged for Cronos.”</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5jXAgVZiXoPqPLJeJ80rNQXVO2fxcA3HMLjyqvYkVHLAll1kaFfobVQcSPE6GUFQG-sCDE8zPfIN1FZmSasRf1RlMxCxR6e8zRkxV-BHC9TxVMBp-LILjxerpBchho7eN091e3pBtTGaD/s1600/the+subject+of+the+Wise.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 391px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5jXAgVZiXoPqPLJeJ80rNQXVO2fxcA3HMLjyqvYkVHLAll1kaFfobVQcSPE6GUFQG-sCDE8zPfIN1FZmSasRf1RlMxCxR6e8zRkxV-BHC9TxVMBp-LILjxerpBchho7eN091e3pBtTGaD/s400/the+subject+of+the+Wise.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577451668991641138" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 18 ) The Subject of the Wise</span></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal">The Adept is seen with his hands joined in an attitude of prayer and seems to be giving thanks to Nature, shown as the head and the shoulders of a woman reflected in a mirror. We recognize the hieroglyph as showing the subject of the wise, the mirror in which '<i>one sees the whole of nature disclosed'.</i></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><i></i><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">The Cosmoplolite writes in '</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">The Six Keys of Eudoxus</span></i><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">': -'... </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal">But, further, that you may not be deceived with the terms of the Compound, I will tell you that the philosophers have two sorts of compounds. The first is the compound of Nature, wherof I have spoken in the First Key; for it is Nature which makes it in a manner incomprehensible to the Artist, who does nothing but lend a hand to Nature by the adhibition of external things, by the means of which she brings forth and produces this admirable compound.</span></i></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><i><span style="font-weight: normal"></span></i><i>The second is the compound of Art; it is the Wise man who makes it by the secret union of the fixed with the volatile, perfectly conjoined with all prudence, which cannot be acquired but by the lights of a profound philosophy...'</i></p> <p class="western" style="margin-left: 0.05cm; text-indent: -0.08cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2"> <span><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxzf-LO-NsDetpoiGp3AAMO-HPXJcvHG6n_tfXfReXePwBA7p_Qb-OODiFG17odPGtPA3f1xtuKmYWutZv3Mrg83mbfj37XIgzxxJr0i5pbfPlGuRxg2h0FRfrvdhSiPplOfp8RYom_t8/s1600/the+entrance+into+the+sanctuary.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 382px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxzf-LO-NsDetpoiGp3AAMO-HPXJcvHG6n_tfXfReXePwBA7p_Qb-OODiFG17odPGtPA3f1xtuKmYWutZv3Mrg83mbfj37XIgzxxJr0i5pbfPlGuRxg2h0FRfrvdhSiPplOfp8RYom_t8/s400/the+entrance+into+the+sanctuary.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577452042928085266" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 19 ) The entrance of the Sanctuary</span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-left: 0.05cm; text-indent: -0.08cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2"><span><span><span></span></span></span>On the right of the porch, the seventh medallion shows us an old man ready to cross the threshold of the Mysterious Palace. He has just torn down the awning, which hid the entrance from the eyes of the uninitiated. The first step of the practice has been achieved, the discovery of the agent capable of carrying out a reduction of the fixed body in a form analogous to that of its first substance. The alchemists are alluding to this operation when they speak of reanimating the corpifications, that is to say giving life to the dead metals. The old man is none other than our Mercury, the secret agent, whose nature, method of action, materials and time of preparation have been reveled to us in senveral bas-reliefs. As for the palace, it represents the living, philosophic or base gold, despised by the ignorant and hidden under rags, which conceal it from our eyes, although it is extremely precious to one who knows its value.</p><p class="western" style="margin-left: 0.05cm; text-indent: -0.08cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFxz31L3LRIRxu0HITePFQiQbOXOsqxbj6nXZXCCNcww-inJr92d_UGBNebzpKvPt9GEWyr5CRzHUdYlL-wsNOOmwcgRBSbbR9gnv7OM0YIjxTld_w2IHysbAkey2hSD6YZov-T1Nwu5Aq/s1600/Dissolution.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 398px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFxz31L3LRIRxu0HITePFQiQbOXOsqxbj6nXZXCCNcww-inJr92d_UGBNebzpKvPt9GEWyr5CRzHUdYlL-wsNOOmwcgRBSbbR9gnv7OM0YIjxTld_w2IHysbAkey2hSD6YZov-T1Nwu5Aq/s400/Dissolution.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577452586785398818" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 20 ) Dissolution. Combat of two Natures</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-left: 0.05cm; text-indent: -0.08cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2">The next circle enables us to witness the encounter of the old man and the crowned king; the solvent and the body; the volatile principles and the fixed metallic salt, which is incombustible and pure. In the second method the hermetic mercury seems to attack the metal with chracteristic vigour, closely resembling chemical effervescence. The wise have said that in Conjunction violent storms arose and the waves of the sea presented the spectacle of bitter 'combat'. This describes the formation of the philosophical compound by comparing it to that of the terrestrial chaos, which results in upheavels and reactions of fire and water, air and earth. Here, the two natures are represented by aggressive and quarrelsome children, who have come to blows and hit each other unsparingly. At the height of the fray, one of them drops a pot and the other a stone. It would scarcely be possible to describe more clearly or simply the action of pontic water on the heavy matter and this medallion does a great credit to the master who conceived it. ( Pontic water, in case you were wondering, is a geological term pertaining to sediments deposited in deep and motionless pools such as an acumulation of black shales and dark limestones deposited in a stagnant basin )</p><p class="western" style="margin-left: 0.05cm; text-indent: -0.08cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXnxhZ8aNT32XAs5-OPeJDsV7ro6SfaZrYOvwwz55rU3-fiE42Huzg9qW822_uVqLFVcXgnenbY15qEM5JKNeFWwwx7IW6qcn_KSUkAtziXynE1mNAei4ScwYK3AIOmGQf7JNV-lI5SI2V/s1600/the+dog+and+the+doves.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 363px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXnxhZ8aNT32XAs5-OPeJDsV7ro6SfaZrYOvwwz55rU3-fiE42Huzg9qW822_uVqLFVcXgnenbY15qEM5JKNeFWwwx7IW6qcn_KSUkAtziXynE1mNAei4ScwYK3AIOmGQf7JNV-lI5SI2V/s400/the+dog+and+the+doves.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577453527677497090" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 21 ) The Dog and the doves</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-left: 0.05cm; text-indent: -0.08cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2">This is the dog of Corascene, which Artephius and Philalethes say one must know how to seperate from the compost into the state of black powder.</p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><span><span><span>As Kalid ibn Jazid (c. 700 CE) wrote in the Liber Secretorum: - "<i>Hermes said, My son, take a Corascene dog and an Armenian bitch, join them together, and they will beget a dog of celestial hue, and if ever he is thirsty, give him sea water to drink, ... and he will help you ... in this world and the next</i>." (Jung, MC 147)</span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><span><span><span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdr6524vZlQyy1_Ajg8_7kUOEA1WmNzu5ZKLhoAd6H4fh74MCxbByCukEJ_kveqGZxDVBt-k9x_5o-AlL9CkG8UxcxnQPfZmnnb4MKDTltRggp3Yl8-AsAwXOFoCnu-EIR4PilkU7yyo2X/s1600/Solve+et+Coagula.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 323px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdr6524vZlQyy1_Ajg8_7kUOEA1WmNzu5ZKLhoAd6H4fh74MCxbByCukEJ_kveqGZxDVBt-k9x_5o-AlL9CkG8UxcxnQPfZmnnb4MKDTltRggp3Yl8-AsAwXOFoCnu-EIR4PilkU7yyo2X/s400/Solve+et+Coagula.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577454335090198738" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span">( 22 ) Solve et Coagula</span></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal">This terrifying figure illustrates the alchemical maxim <i>solve et coagula</i>, which teachs how to achieve the elementary conversion by violatilizing the fixed and fixing the volatile - literally to separate and join together, to dissolve and coagulate. One of my favourite appearances of this particularly creepy symbol is in the outstanding short film by Dennison Ramalho '<i>Love for Mother only</i>' ( 2003 ) in which a possesses Santeria priestess is seen to carve the magical formula into her own living flesh with the tip of a sacrifical blade in an effort to sever her lover's emotional ties with his ageing mother and thus bind him to her and her demonic masters forever.</p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><i>If you know how to dissolve the fixed,</i></p> <p class="western" style="font-weight: normal"><span><span><span><i>And the make the dissolved fly. </i></span></span></span> </p> <p class="western" style="font-weight: normal"><span><span><span><i>Then to fix the flying powder,</i></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="font-weight: normal"><span><span><span><i>You have something to console yourself with.</i></span></span></span></p> <ol start="22"> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"> </p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"> </p> </ol> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><span><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixqhF1L-MTL5T2eaJeTkw3ND-5pJW2tGJkOpgYryZusUZnX2L0p_r-JP-HO5OCF0SbEclWz0G2wuesWDb6vr6uHeeJA2wHio4oLDvC3ooQcVHPWsN20uWd5Lqj35sFl19jHPVP8qtbUggY/s1600/Rose+window.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 338px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixqhF1L-MTL5T2eaJeTkw3ND-5pJW2tGJkOpgYryZusUZnX2L0p_r-JP-HO5OCF0SbEclWz0G2wuesWDb6vr6uHeeJA2wHio4oLDvC3ooQcVHPWsN20uWd5Lqj35sFl19jHPVP8qtbUggY/s400/Rose+window.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577455297197990306" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal">Having lingered on the porch long enough let us proceed into the ark of the cathedral to bask in the the genius of Guillaume de Paris ( also known as William of Auvergne 1180-1249 ), the designer of the motifs we have already admired and whose perspicacity we must bless, for he was able to forsee the damage that time would do to his work. Like the wise master that he was, he had the motifs of the medallions reproduced on the panes of the central rose window. Thus, glass compliments stone and, thanks to the help of the fragile material the hidden meaning regains its primal purity. The art of light shines forth in all it's timeless glory...</p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal">'..<i>.What a profound subject for meditation is offered to us by our ancenstral hermetic Idea, in all its harmony and unity! In stone on the facade, in glass, in the enormous orb of the rose window, it passes from silence to revelation, from solemnity to excitement, from inertia to vivid expression. Solid, worn and cold in the crude light outside, it flashes into multicoloured facets from the curstal permeates through the nave, vibrant, warm, diaphanous and pure as Truth itself.</i>”</p> <p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObBw6KO_Dh6m7xGGUxjZ7wv1TmLgSvUn8KDWRyholjDFLBXnElPJbrvjs-hYtP7hhspTBLTCFw6m8Dyw-VxOUsFIDe4qzve23ZNC4w61EExADMJJPzKhVHAzYJu9QQ1_0Vm05QjUtK1T6/s1600/paris+cathedrals13.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObBw6KO_Dh6m7xGGUxjZ7wv1TmLgSvUn8KDWRyholjDFLBXnElPJbrvjs-hYtP7hhspTBLTCFw6m8Dyw-VxOUsFIDe4qzve23ZNC4w61EExADMJJPzKhVHAzYJu9QQ1_0Vm05QjUtK1T6/s400/paris+cathedrals13.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577462918066013874" /></a>And so we have come to the end of our grand tour and yet we are still only beginning. The secret of life eternal is within our reach yet we still little more than children, playing on the outermost doorstep of eternity...</p> <p class="western"><br /></p></span>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-63461562551900844512010-06-24T11:57:00.000-07:002010-06-25T21:32:55.281-07:00The Door into Summer..."Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic" - Arthur C. Clarke (1917-2008)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpmMSxCBFgaAS-Md0ZMbAf2L-AXNhBOT-doHZUqP9NmMh5riMTpLYT7VqyM-cEk4VpK_fd-zg6esT6oIabxv3PWUWu2IpaRXq1LXOySYBrUttKbrUNlM4lBWuGrS3co7clZiGIPTe51vge/s1600/Solstice+2-10.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpmMSxCBFgaAS-Md0ZMbAf2L-AXNhBOT-doHZUqP9NmMh5riMTpLYT7VqyM-cEk4VpK_fd-zg6esT6oIabxv3PWUWu2IpaRXq1LXOySYBrUttKbrUNlM4lBWuGrS3co7clZiGIPTe51vge/s400/Solstice+2-10.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486420486537141234" /></a><br />From the private journal of Scarlett Amaris - Montsegur - 21 June 2010<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It had been raining for weeks on end, day after day of cold wind and gray skies. Even this late in June, Our Lady of the Snows made a return visit and had been seen creeping stealthily back down the Pic de Saint Barthelemy. Summer seemed like a fantasy, something that we tricked ourselves into believing every morning just to put up with another day of plummeting temperatures. This was surely not the way to celebrate the solstice. Christmas perhaps, but not the supposed midpoint of summer. Glamour and magic are hard pressed to prosper under dankness and frostbite. Still, even in these absolutely wretched conditions, the faithful gathered at the castle in the gloom of the early morning. The icy rain had washed out the pyrotechnic 'spectacle' originally planned for the night before forcing the pilgrims to take refuge in the town hall at Montferrier where the bedraggled survivors had been treated to an impromptu evening of Occitan folk music. Some were brave enough to weather the arctic conditions on the pog itself but we decided to take the darkened path once the wind had dropped in the early morning as the first hint of blue touched the skies.</div><div><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Storm clouds rolled across the horizon in an endless sea of grey and the bonfire built the night before still stood forlorn and unkindled on the 'camp de cremat'. The first rays of so-called sunlight were all but invisible, diffused through the relentless cloud cover. In the donjon tower room, people gathered from Chile, England, Norway, Germany and other places unknown, praying that the clouds would part and allow a beam or two through. People looked cold and some a little sleepy, but suprisingly no one looked upset or disappointed by the weather. There was a general sense of good feeling all around, of happiness to be in that place for the solstice no matter what happened - a sense that just making the journey there had been enough. Finally, the light did break and for a minute the sun shone through, affording those assembled a brief glimpse of the phenomena that they had come from all four corners of the earth to witness. For a moment those familiar, eerie red beams flickered across the tower walls. Then it was gone as fast as it came, but it was enough to set a collective gasp and murmur rolling through the onlookers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLMa6vuS_PMB0osYS27Btk7CPTMSwng9F-hfsPH_idFBiyHfTCwYrgZtNlgcFWZLo-zolongaRPmwut_iIDIpmJfOX1wzYXzLleRjFk5TncpF3Ga4yC6P74wT4juekL2WAQlNRG1Qj-hR/s1600/Solstice+1-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLMa6vuS_PMB0osYS27Btk7CPTMSwng9F-hfsPH_idFBiyHfTCwYrgZtNlgcFWZLo-zolongaRPmwut_iIDIpmJfOX1wzYXzLleRjFk5TncpF3Ga4yC6P74wT4juekL2WAQlNRG1Qj-hR/s400/Solstice+1-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486433583934972162" /></a><br />As above: Solstice light - Approx. 6.00 am (photograph courtesy of Ivan de Castries)<br />So below: Ivan, Richard and Ivan's brother - June 21 2010<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIULZOCRPiSd1dD3043jNPEz-6vrZEK17JFn1OhJOALG3baVVFDDazpkO5aqv61MyMx3MS2pXr0JpUjb_ZVrrp77grYm9N-JA3hzgTYM4mDreIImdCBT9d9Xyx8CsyeDYaK9lVSDwCE5Lq/s1600/Solstice+1-3.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIULZOCRPiSd1dD3043jNPEz-6vrZEK17JFn1OhJOALG3baVVFDDazpkO5aqv61MyMx3MS2pXr0JpUjb_ZVrrp77grYm9N-JA3hzgTYM4mDreIImdCBT9d9Xyx8CsyeDYaK9lVSDwCE5Lq/s400/Solstice+1-3.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486437131941318674" /></a></p></div><br />Extracts from Richard Stanley's weblog - Montsegur - June 21 2010<div><br /></div><div>"What are you doing here?" asked the parka clad journalist in broken English, clinging grimly to her note pad as she cast about herself in the early morning light in search of a story. "Are you here for a spiritual reason?"</div><div>"I live here." I brushed past her, swinging one leg over the gantry rail before jumping down onto the crowded floor of the tower room where our friend, Ivan, was holding forth to a bemused camera crew from T.F.1.</div><div>"Why do you have that cross on your shirt?" asked the interviewer, doggedly shielding his mike from the glacial wind.</div><div>"The Cathar cross? It's the symbol of your country", Ivan jabbed the tip of his finger at the emblem. "You should recognize it!"</div><div>The journalist nodded along, his confusion deepening. I didn't hear the rest of what Ivan had to say but I appreciated the sentiment. The press pack didn't seem to realize they were no longer in France but standing in the veritable throne room of free Occitania but that didn't really matter. Just being there was all that counted. Above us the last ruddy glow of the 'solstice effect', a curious red square projected against the upper reaches of the donjon wall, flickered and dimmed...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLF9DtZ60B8Qv7KFLEgz5Jvh04jl17bRnXwpYfuq2ekREshDBQ2z30fWNb6AbnN4-2L2vKs7ZvTNWDYn0K3UpZlpIk6IcotvP-9LLyizzhMW0oPu3Z0AEx0vEylyCA50QCop1bwCfMUaBc/s1600/Slstice+1-2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLF9DtZ60B8Qv7KFLEgz5Jvh04jl17bRnXwpYfuq2ekREshDBQ2z30fWNb6AbnN4-2L2vKs7ZvTNWDYn0K3UpZlpIk6IcotvP-9LLyizzhMW0oPu3Z0AEx0vEylyCA50QCop1bwCfMUaBc/s400/Slstice+1-2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486439835818403810" /></a></div><br />As usual we were the last to leave. None of us really wanted to go back to the world but the weather showed no sign of breaking and Ivan and his bro' were facing a long drive back to Barcelona. We talked of many things as we hit the downward trail, of Otto Rahn and absent friends and of Belibaste, the 'last parfait' who perished at the stake in 1321. Ivan was optimistic that Belibaste's prophecy, that the 'laurel will turn green again' after 700 years would be borne out, that the forces of evil and obscurantism would fail and that there would be a revival of interest in the history of the castle and its all but vanished faith before the anniversary in 2021.<div>Looking about myself, however, I couldn't help but wonder if we were really all that was left.</div><div>The last of the faithful...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdB864eFph_VOpmYO_qU9vT8LZa-89K3z35MQ15YX_HDKzO1cg9QY1Urai8kyHyX4LoiJ2wG7Ir0xBNduR8HFsrrAQDwWnXwgeQR_x-fZlVfNwolKjyBoYQCsn5ZCjEnmA-c4tAyuvRVhq/s1600/Solstice+2-17.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdB864eFph_VOpmYO_qU9vT8LZa-89K3z35MQ15YX_HDKzO1cg9QY1Urai8kyHyX4LoiJ2wG7Ir0xBNduR8HFsrrAQDwWnXwgeQR_x-fZlVfNwolKjyBoYQCsn5ZCjEnmA-c4tAyuvRVhq/s400/Solstice+2-17.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486445740893416562" /></a><br />As above: The memorial on the 'Camp de Cremat' commemorating the martyrs who were burned here in 1244<br />So below: The 'Camp de Cremat' or 'field of the Stake' - still ready for bonfire!!!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuDJhSB69oRS4ebdTrdjkHesz9OBWqH_jLtKlghtU61nxFia55djPXlUSN6SopB4_7W4GDVtUo4GaEADhPACWJ7GSv-d1U__5mqWqdGmfm5X1qwLg_ITVGVq9lZBXUY2UuchWGmZzPqGV/s1600/Solstice+2-18.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuDJhSB69oRS4ebdTrdjkHesz9OBWqH_jLtKlghtU61nxFia55djPXlUSN6SopB4_7W4GDVtUo4GaEADhPACWJ7GSv-d1U__5mqWqdGmfm5X1qwLg_ITVGVq9lZBXUY2UuchWGmZzPqGV/s400/Solstice+2-18.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486455088742689282" /></a><br />Montsegur - 22 June 2010<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJg5MTy0-jTOIjadgF_vnuVyCUqY6-V9tQi_Vo0HAsSdNpyr_w8RisEut8qS4XS_axrTZPKvZO5XOlHCSwLVkSGppUdav0EMKtG3RfvMLj-DRLvWyGG2Sz0YPn2gHQiVGyvlDQ32rlP5k/s1600/P1010344.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJg5MTy0-jTOIjadgF_vnuVyCUqY6-V9tQi_Vo0HAsSdNpyr_w8RisEut8qS4XS_axrTZPKvZO5XOlHCSwLVkSGppUdav0EMKtG3RfvMLj-DRLvWyGG2Sz0YPn2gHQiVGyvlDQ32rlP5k/s400/P1010344.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486463496605850802" /></a><br /></div><div>The crowd had thinned to a desultory handful by the following morning. The skies were clear but it was still bracingly cold. There were no journalists or television crews to keep us company this day in the pre-dawn chill and we shifted from foot to foot as we waited, unsure whether anything would really happen. But it did.<br /><br />And this time it happened in style...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5HXXigPZxjazHPDb2KxMBlLgr60BFPFXgzVWwFUPCTWXrmu9SW4R69HCC1Nah2R7ECvpZwoRDOVVkjIp6j8Zakz3a2egk9sBmvxeEv1UgQx2dGsNGUn9aUmaMJfB1Ew-4O6W8uIuJ1lnb/s1600/Solstice+2-1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5HXXigPZxjazHPDb2KxMBlLgr60BFPFXgzVWwFUPCTWXrmu9SW4R69HCC1Nah2R7ECvpZwoRDOVVkjIp6j8Zakz3a2egk9sBmvxeEv1UgQx2dGsNGUn9aUmaMJfB1Ew-4O6W8uIuJ1lnb/s400/Solstice+2-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486469321242562370" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>The Keep - 6.05 am</div><div><br /></div><div>As soon as the sun appeared above the horizon the first rays began to enter the east-facing arrow slits in the lower chamber of the donjon-keep, marking out a rectangle of light on the inner side of the west-facing slit in the opposing wall...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSFyHM5dtq0iKv7qBUuOSPP72Dh_86bcShlH-8CU10gvw2JCHoNzwXIkLdFSPKIt5Zmcpa5FUaToes2_BHl7fIa0iR7ChHxACwSkASDem9r4C9_QKgQhHVArVdFXdkwQKYSI6ErZd6pBa/s1600/Solstice+2-2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSFyHM5dtq0iKv7qBUuOSPP72Dh_86bcShlH-8CU10gvw2JCHoNzwXIkLdFSPKIt5Zmcpa5FUaToes2_BHl7fIa0iR7ChHxACwSkASDem9r4C9_QKgQhHVArVdFXdkwQKYSI6ErZd6pBa/s400/Solstice+2-2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486471676932156466" /></a></div><br />6.06 am<br /><br />As the sun climbs higher its rays intensify and the fiery colours visible within the West-facing slit deepen...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ6ALqLmwQnZ0LolqFpT9lZG32AyyMwUC3TNn59ICj8kfWbDHnXJ_a_Nna6G41NMJ0X138_zPQBMieH9_EJmL4ihSlPei8QrN0cqXtsCzbnnaJbcX6TA0Nbk_v-DmNXDBgDfwCU2r1lKHz/s1600/Solstice+2-3.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ6ALqLmwQnZ0LolqFpT9lZG32AyyMwUC3TNn59ICj8kfWbDHnXJ_a_Nna6G41NMJ0X138_zPQBMieH9_EJmL4ihSlPei8QrN0cqXtsCzbnnaJbcX6TA0Nbk_v-DmNXDBgDfwCU2r1lKHz/s400/Solstice+2-3.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486476596578269986" /></a><br />And brighten...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLrJPswK82ZJpX1oEFyeAPSmjSTNn46WB-wZkKKDYZPJlkl5Y-_Utt2ZBL8y-qbFMPSt-KmYd0sNdeEhyphenhyphensV3pU7kl6O1NDIUbXlHJqG_ObF5XdXMzJCeCmSQC0BsSgbzZC3_5BUjv9ZfJM/s1600/Solstice2-4.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLrJPswK82ZJpX1oEFyeAPSmjSTNn46WB-wZkKKDYZPJlkl5Y-_Utt2ZBL8y-qbFMPSt-KmYd0sNdeEhyphenhyphensV3pU7kl6O1NDIUbXlHJqG_ObF5XdXMzJCeCmSQC0BsSgbzZC3_5BUjv9ZfJM/s400/Solstice2-4.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486479392728649490" /></a>6.10 am<div><br /></div><div>By now a second rectangle has appeared in the adjacent arrow slit while three squares of light begin to illuminate the upper reaches of the chamber's Western wall...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYY8DgsutK7_1LF5DTPQ-tnJUZ2Mu3jRlf9OjwMTQ_2s4OBgH2dxVyMI_3rBng917CIh-vkjmXR74IUL0AKP68ryRCkiAuaOdyGxCVYO-53eOOlm_S9NGb0D__pWPjHkEsAQekhYIxmDZq/s1600/Solstice+2-5.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYY8DgsutK7_1LF5DTPQ-tnJUZ2Mu3jRlf9OjwMTQ_2s4OBgH2dxVyMI_3rBng917CIh-vkjmXR74IUL0AKP68ryRCkiAuaOdyGxCVYO-53eOOlm_S9NGb0D__pWPjHkEsAQekhYIxmDZq/s400/Solstice+2-5.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486482519000039778" /></a><br /></div><div>The castle is orientated towards the four points of the compass and built on such a strange plan that close study has led to the most unusual theories, including the notion that it was once a 'solar temple'. There is no documentary proof however of any connection between Catharism and sun worship any more than there is with the mythical civilization of lost Atlantis. Moreover, the castle we see today cannot be as it was in 1204 when Raymonde de Perelha, at the request of Esclarmonde de Foix, the venerable high priestess of the Cathar faith, fortified the existing ruins of what may have been a former pagan temple.. After the siege of 1244 the castle was given to the de Levis family who used it to garrison their troops, during which time the structure underwent a number of changes. The mysterious 'solar phenomena' have continued to manifest every year however, weather allowing, with stubborn regularity. Indeed, you could practically set your watch by them...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoz2zmsNVvsZpYoevSc99DjBEk59jEBSB0lxdR_Czailn-FDTiiUtM4ONstgAg1ogseMyRX4hSqMa4FqZq0gNC748dquPJFPexXehi4lIdC0pk4DT0uB95qyItXZEQxy0wVMTPHkXSPaHe/s1600/Solstice+2-6.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoz2zmsNVvsZpYoevSc99DjBEk59jEBSB0lxdR_Czailn-FDTiiUtM4ONstgAg1ogseMyRX4hSqMa4FqZq0gNC748dquPJFPexXehi4lIdC0pk4DT0uB95qyItXZEQxy0wVMTPHkXSPaHe/s400/Solstice+2-6.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486489091558054162" /></a><br /><br />6.13 am<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1KV3lll8wmgk9eYE1lBl-lUKW_qJOfXBcp151R6WZazQGxh3SRfK468hTw0S-R5tmDifSWD0ifaPW_9F6B5jxx6iVESaChMbsdGFvLRV8Cnk7utQwXNmlRwenuXouO8972FMQ9d1c3vi/s1600/Solstice+2-7.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1KV3lll8wmgk9eYE1lBl-lUKW_qJOfXBcp151R6WZazQGxh3SRfK468hTw0S-R5tmDifSWD0ifaPW_9F6B5jxx6iVESaChMbsdGFvLRV8Cnk7utQwXNmlRwenuXouO8972FMQ9d1c3vi/s400/Solstice+2-7.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486491063183521986" /></a><br />6.15 am<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSyNTXU-BHpb7oz3A4QxFpsr_szmfd4gSFQdXUh67GBwc9QHdMW1bjXvSrkWqz3FqxRB5mHk55v7rfhoPb5mSyjjgUi__RFkcKkzQ5zFZxcmv-mCrdYr4g01UWx-iZUsyF1ZtMPEVUJZe/s1600/Solstice+2-8.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSyNTXU-BHpb7oz3A4QxFpsr_szmfd4gSFQdXUh67GBwc9QHdMW1bjXvSrkWqz3FqxRB5mHk55v7rfhoPb5mSyjjgUi__RFkcKkzQ5zFZxcmv-mCrdYr4g01UWx-iZUsyF1ZtMPEVUJZe/s400/Solstice+2-8.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486493022482505650" /></a>6.20 am<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEs8czGw-4LNC4DCGgDAixLgbPYEKS0SmyLymerulkaMGHhB6yYUDZYxQauELKxxL1mF0NcFRQ0Pk9DB6fn0Ktwl1TJqCI6dlvPN3-a5vENGyIIUREqxLweQKzJMBYBBBMtEG_zvZLzZd0/s1600/Solstice+2-9.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEs8czGw-4LNC4DCGgDAixLgbPYEKS0SmyLymerulkaMGHhB6yYUDZYxQauELKxxL1mF0NcFRQ0Pk9DB6fn0Ktwl1TJqCI6dlvPN3-a5vENGyIIUREqxLweQKzJMBYBBBMtEG_zvZLzZd0/s400/Solstice+2-9.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486496362682995042" /></a><br /></div><div>The yearly light show in the keep is one of the only 'supernatural' phenomena on this haunted Earth courteous enough to not only be repeatable, but to stick to a regular schedule. Strangely enough the report filed by the Groupe de Recherches Archeologique de Montsegur et Environs ( GRAME ) who conducted the definitive archeological survey of the area in 1964 - 1976 concludes only that 'the alleged solar phenomena in the donjon tower have not been scientifically documented, witnessed or verified.<br /><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCm9vZauSbFO4n8N2xd94Q7_K0WlWxvrVV7knVtwxTj88cPPZr3kdrL8DuzThCkrQ9jk_navm8EdtSF3KJGTga6tUnj_Q2O-btmQgF33pVLsrImydLL93QIz7Sx66lVO8Re1S_bfzqXHxx/s1600/Solstice+2-13.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCm9vZauSbFO4n8N2xd94Q7_K0WlWxvrVV7knVtwxTj88cPPZr3kdrL8DuzThCkrQ9jk_navm8EdtSF3KJGTga6tUnj_Q2O-btmQgF33pVLsrImydLL93QIz7Sx66lVO8Re1S_bfzqXHxx/s400/Solstice+2-13.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486584989624680226" /></a><br />After reaching their apogee at approximately 6.20 the lights in the keep began to fade until by 6.30 no trace remained. As the sun climbed higher and the day warmed we started to believe that maybe summer would return ...</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNG3FHBWkPDnJ0fvHXWWRmi7CE-LKG7tFTObo_atX232O8Zi0kwXH8yCsjRWChidXnXFVkOr8EWlZ66M9JHPgNiLMp7iVw5cqhvAnoPFLkGH-hq9iwzXFefNxNENiCC7xMMexmjqfa4X2N/s1600/Solstice+2-12.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNG3FHBWkPDnJ0fvHXWWRmi7CE-LKG7tFTObo_atX232O8Zi0kwXH8yCsjRWChidXnXFVkOr8EWlZ66M9JHPgNiLMp7iVw5cqhvAnoPFLkGH-hq9iwzXFefNxNENiCC7xMMexmjqfa4X2N/s400/Solstice+2-12.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486581357201075458" /></a><br /><div>As above, so below: The pog - 6.30 am June 22 2010 ( note suitably dove shaped refraction in the camera lens )<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEaq7pfdqFw81kMrI3tb99Ea7f07QKjnCwg49FU0ZkVBs8tbY9DYfa3BAv_pKgPWW_86ojJvwayhnQAuIFopgBz7TmGVOX1uoTrfZuknRbDnxE3TZvmjV9XfhNdGXIBpQ8WkRcPEnZzUf0/s1600/Solstice+2-15.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEaq7pfdqFw81kMrI3tb99Ea7f07QKjnCwg49FU0ZkVBs8tbY9DYfa3BAv_pKgPWW_86ojJvwayhnQAuIFopgBz7TmGVOX1uoTrfZuknRbDnxE3TZvmjV9XfhNdGXIBpQ8WkRcPEnZzUf0/s400/Solstice+2-15.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486507083012887938" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>June 23</div><div><br /></div><div>We decided to have a bit of a lie in, leaving the 'scientific documentation' of the solstice effect to other hands. When we finally got back on our feet we heard from someone that we'd been featured in a slot on the evening news.</div><div><br /></div><div>June 24<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFufFZgDf5I9GeLsQA5FFQeb5R9Hcn_RKOlxPdMCDcUBMSmvD3_859lGUWbkj9XsGQf5bnBhT2D08ljRiqmY5TnQACpinjYz9uzpoB4sMHBbXGpd15Vb3jIu1a2YSGTg8I_kMXrKchU_ir/s1600/Solstice+3-1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFufFZgDf5I9GeLsQA5FFQeb5R9Hcn_RKOlxPdMCDcUBMSmvD3_859lGUWbkj9XsGQf5bnBhT2D08ljRiqmY5TnQACpinjYz9uzpoB4sMHBbXGpd15Vb3jIu1a2YSGTg8I_kMXrKchU_ir/s400/Solstice+3-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486512019729362338" /></a><br />It was a glorious morning. The air was warm and still, almost balmy. At approximately 5.45 we heard a curious metallic sound, a low reverberation that seemed to emanate from the Western wall of the donjon-keep. At first we thought we were alone on the pog and that we truly were the 'last of the faithful', but just as the first rays began to pour through the East-facing arrow slits a wizened old man with a grey beard appeared in the doorway of the tower room. He did not return our greeting and watched in silence from the rear of the chamber as the ' solstice effect' began to manifest once more...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij__tnS5tbRLuap66SpOGyO2uIGl_lvbSXzg105DmUnc0uiFt8I_lNy1NO7MLfh0z-pblgMHWfmom0zA_26XYFGYcPmJ9R5_Ed75huLWljtlGINyPFd3OG_9-vGhcf3sp_oXMHduyuSKGl/s1600/Solstice+3-2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij__tnS5tbRLuap66SpOGyO2uIGl_lvbSXzg105DmUnc0uiFt8I_lNy1NO7MLfh0z-pblgMHWfmom0zA_26XYFGYcPmJ9R5_Ed75huLWljtlGINyPFd3OG_9-vGhcf3sp_oXMHduyuSKGl/s400/Solstice+3-2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486514356103180930" /></a><br /></div><div>By 6.10 am the tableau in the tower room was much as it had been on the days before. Thanks to the clear skies the glowing rectangles that appeared in the West-facing arrow slits were, if anything, brighter and more clearly defined, their colours more vibrant..<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU-VfuLOETyYPBHzMaQzSrJjmDzE4ILVeP8SVgxrlBBb_j_P2qBa4IdZg4J_h5BQLIcCQGQTfL31KLux_ORm9jKyfGtNmwr0Eh_Nt187km_2xtEBRm45n4Z6_BL9pc3GFI-V05-pb8C3Wu/s1600/Solstice+3-3.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU-VfuLOETyYPBHzMaQzSrJjmDzE4ILVeP8SVgxrlBBb_j_P2qBa4IdZg4J_h5BQLIcCQGQTfL31KLux_ORm9jKyfGtNmwr0Eh_Nt187km_2xtEBRm45n4Z6_BL9pc3GFI-V05-pb8C3Wu/s400/Solstice+3-3.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486519475561039474" /></a><br />6.13 am - June 23 2010<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3Hvq44nOOBXjHdLbtrzlf9x6NASOGn44OtUiALkv2nLyuxSdcVxcG1W6Xs-MJQNChMuz_3CMmtx7-a4XCv6NEk-Xf1a-AyO9_FvYks53gZFTCT0sLxqV587C8nWqF2_5Vxa_Gl8nT7y0/s1600/Solstice+3-4.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3Hvq44nOOBXjHdLbtrzlf9x6NASOGn44OtUiALkv2nLyuxSdcVxcG1W6Xs-MJQNChMuz_3CMmtx7-a4XCv6NEk-Xf1a-AyO9_FvYks53gZFTCT0sLxqV587C8nWqF2_5Vxa_Gl8nT7y0/s400/Solstice+3-4.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486522973406873522" /></a><br />6.15 am</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJwWKMvUepLhyNZJ9y3ZPkV2Xkk8uMgan7yN-DMstCwkH3W8dGrCD95sDf2aoeJViC4UoOA_sPJkbexh52pbWcTn7fONY8f7Em5WmhSJUuluQmDPHpyVKW9suYI6nK_w7SP-vXIml3LXQ/s1600/Solstice+3-5.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJwWKMvUepLhyNZJ9y3ZPkV2Xkk8uMgan7yN-DMstCwkH3W8dGrCD95sDf2aoeJViC4UoOA_sPJkbexh52pbWcTn7fONY8f7Em5WmhSJUuluQmDPHpyVKW9suYI6nK_w7SP-vXIml3LXQ/s400/Solstice+3-5.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486525719521153250" /></a></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXfZ1T6Wmr-qaQ519fGKJyLv2QovapnsPh8hbcGdjgf3n2F0ghkD3fqlMxiPYVy-BfjzRZJlFJnG_k-XWGy5V-zewJAuqAA5QYfRP7xwTzSu6bpZJLEmqb8HEFOnwqlTTjLd84OeQ4hYqZ/s1600/Image-Pinhole.svg.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXfZ1T6Wmr-qaQ519fGKJyLv2QovapnsPh8hbcGdjgf3n2F0ghkD3fqlMxiPYVy-BfjzRZJlFJnG_k-XWGy5V-zewJAuqAA5QYfRP7xwTzSu6bpZJLEmqb8HEFOnwqlTTjLd84OeQ4hYqZ/s400/Image-Pinhole.svg.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486533021068586370" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>It has been pointed out that the floorplan of the donjon-keep is reminiscent of the design of early pinhole cameras, a principle that was probably put into practise in Roman, Greek and possibly even bronze age temples long before it was first described by rogue Jesuit Athanasius Kircher in his 'Ars Magna Lucis et Umbrae' ( 1646 )<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAmwIT2shtAVgkadA4oeYQEUbCY_Mp96NLEQKf3a5lj1sRLS30KQm0HEZBC3wYtpwS14tj2dWdsVy79KUc-1ekFhIcQuRxQNqKByBW6veqVBuiQJCSUXmI4fvsZflE8Q6o-k5Dwcug2uyk/s1600/camera+obscura.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 389px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAmwIT2shtAVgkadA4oeYQEUbCY_Mp96NLEQKf3a5lj1sRLS30KQm0HEZBC3wYtpwS14tj2dWdsVy79KUc-1ekFhIcQuRxQNqKByBW6veqVBuiQJCSUXmI4fvsZflE8Q6o-k5Dwcug2uyk/s400/camera+obscura.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486531802136948370" /></a><br />As above: Plate showing diagram of a camera obscura from Kircher's 'Big Book of Light and Shadows'</div><div>So below: The floorplan of the donjon-keep</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYrlcABf_5hUIrhaKXjBHNby96lxCUTLAGQhIK_JV4qYTjFT-iMvnesBxzJOWrIo4Yu19u3oa6U_WHU8Fqfd411KXQ53B6p5oOMkeKnnZJHF0Yt6S6lwwezyfU8GFIdWjsA5xTiU5g2LX/s1600/plan-montsegur-solstice.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 367px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYrlcABf_5hUIrhaKXjBHNby96lxCUTLAGQhIK_JV4qYTjFT-iMvnesBxzJOWrIo4Yu19u3oa6U_WHU8Fqfd411KXQ53B6p5oOMkeKnnZJHF0Yt6S6lwwezyfU8GFIdWjsA5xTiU5g2LX/s400/plan-montsegur-solstice.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486554384561082306" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>All of which is well and good but it doesn't explain why the castle was built that way, nor does it help us understand quite how it manages to split the light into its component colours in order to achieve those Jack-o-lantern oranges and richly infernal reds...</div><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyiFYJsDmkllfOsP63QeUDTWFVKZY2TUlx5SYAR94dr7cagaT0l4bxQmOpZBomqWGwIN5cAu6twu1Mkx5wNUQjKwli-pqcELRalFRYNdalYv61dBjaJG948JOnkoJmp8UFp4qD9Ri-04L4/s1600/Solstice+3-6.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyiFYJsDmkllfOsP63QeUDTWFVKZY2TUlx5SYAR94dr7cagaT0l4bxQmOpZBomqWGwIN5cAu6twu1Mkx5wNUQjKwli-pqcELRalFRYNdalYv61dBjaJG948JOnkoJmp8UFp4qD9Ri-04L4/s400/Solstice+3-6.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486528705606501746" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9erROOLzOKi6diSdXEv0BaojbRy4m8P-YNkPMFoo_QvUKKDyFzX2ViH3pC_WYQFiGQDB3QvW9b6FkFwQT8NGgNb2efawHgOe9bTbgkQMBfM36MtOpW2zev9xhCwERpWEUo77pQv-yXEH/s1600/Image-Light_behaviour_through_pinhole.svg.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 260px; height: 121px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9erROOLzOKi6diSdXEv0BaojbRy4m8P-YNkPMFoo_QvUKKDyFzX2ViH3pC_WYQFiGQDB3QvW9b6FkFwQT8NGgNb2efawHgOe9bTbgkQMBfM36MtOpW2zev9xhCwERpWEUo77pQv-yXEH/s400/Image-Light_behaviour_through_pinhole.svg.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486533540323589394" /></a></div><div>Normally to pull this kind of thing you'd need a prism. So what gives ?</div><div><br /></div><div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75iWDrhvacPHI9LZEn1NaskHADSKYVkPbNWqOxSC6aw3EhounV1nqQyOIP6CEjwf07VTnaVv2IWNIrnPpRfp26wyUUxD1sALvRznGtAMBgAKh00dtN-JZi3g0gUXZNgnErDRSloe6HJgC/s1600/Image-Drawing_Square_in_Perspective_2.svg.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 71px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75iWDrhvacPHI9LZEn1NaskHADSKYVkPbNWqOxSC6aw3EhounV1nqQyOIP6CEjwf07VTnaVv2IWNIrnPpRfp26wyUUxD1sALvRznGtAMBgAKh00dtN-JZi3g0gUXZNgnErDRSloe6HJgC/s400/Image-Drawing_Square_in_Perspective_2.svg.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486534114476403938" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhR2Nc39gPxYRxa5iFXqT2GF7hVyG4bC_Va_wWookw6rCGTNn3RC6_np2I19IRqvbmrocuFlrBka7i10Wj1VxgaUj2CbH7p2xUP5lDbeggBubH_r9C3t8rXMGY99t0oecB7A-eaS_qgyR/s1600/Solstice+3-7.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhR2Nc39gPxYRxa5iFXqT2GF7hVyG4bC_Va_wWookw6rCGTNn3RC6_np2I19IRqvbmrocuFlrBka7i10Wj1VxgaUj2CbH7p2xUP5lDbeggBubH_r9C3t8rXMGY99t0oecB7A-eaS_qgyR/s400/Solstice+3-7.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486535988496630754" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>We stood in silence, gazing wide eyed at this ghostly display, knowing that we were receiving a garbled message from the other side of time whose true meaning might never be known to us. Then at approximately 6.20 am the light began to fade...</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdKvooObpN4LTsx0DAaSwN9En0BE_tbm1STLEL3frAs2YtIlnvlBpgKx6Ux44a9HrYDL6n9zAbEAbrhBI6YXNzb5nDtPtKATZ6UNZF9LqQeVNnKs1JwMO7kWeubpFLlo1eQCSCGVAbs2Zw/s1600/Solstice+3-8.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdKvooObpN4LTsx0DAaSwN9En0BE_tbm1STLEL3frAs2YtIlnvlBpgKx6Ux44a9HrYDL6n9zAbEAbrhBI6YXNzb5nDtPtKATZ6UNZF9LqQeVNnKs1JwMO7kWeubpFLlo1eQCSCGVAbs2Zw/s400/Solstice+3-8.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486539670794320066" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Jagged shadows encroached on the dimming rectangles, like the slow, closing bars of a portcullis...</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA_zx5VPkqZrissHnUVccO5SuGjvqxodu-6lUNUCQ5bZTZDzFoYL-PtqPoIgJjBYlppZFnf2RjjQO0cv1TJsc1MHsWH6fndBCuq0_f96i2erflzUg6bIrbf3gemnolmfz_EbfI_pfcBy6C/s1600/Solstice+3-9.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA_zx5VPkqZrissHnUVccO5SuGjvqxodu-6lUNUCQ5bZTZDzFoYL-PtqPoIgJjBYlppZFnf2RjjQO0cv1TJsc1MHsWH6fndBCuq0_f96i2erflzUg6bIrbf3gemnolmfz_EbfI_pfcBy6C/s400/Solstice+3-9.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486542533730524738" /></a></div><div>By 6.30 am it was all over.</div><div><br /></div><div>The old man who had watched passively throughout finally broke the silence asking us in halting English whether we had ever been there for the winter solstice when the rising sun shines through the longitudinal arrow slit in the North Eastern wall. I told him we hadn't. Last winter the conditions had been just too darned inclement, even for me. The old dude smiled and silently shook his head, venturing no further comment.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfyH-C3Uqq6tIPa3JahWMO0QFT7L_WSVngSSkBuRr6JI9RrxAqVl5n9gpWJBKZ_LlSJmWFMS8g7cSy3a-OjMWuvs2WOiVmrkT3o4LAo6tM9GklXzhNT5dJ5Y8qQOaAWdr1HbgcU10mJCiJ/s1600/Solstice+3-11.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfyH-C3Uqq6tIPa3JahWMO0QFT7L_WSVngSSkBuRr6JI9RrxAqVl5n9gpWJBKZ_LlSJmWFMS8g7cSy3a-OjMWuvs2WOiVmrkT3o4LAo6tM9GklXzhNT5dJ5Y8qQOaAWdr1HbgcU10mJCiJ/s400/Solstice+3-11.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486549319682248290" /></a><br /><br />As we made our way from the tower room we felt a hot gust of wind against our faces.<br /><br />And, just like that, summer began...<br /><br />We wish to thank long term Shadow Theatre Irregular 'Marcoshark' for his welcome donation of a new Lumix and an accompanying Velbon tripod to the Terra Umbra cause, without which this documentation would not have been possible.</div><div><br />To be continued...</div></div>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-54564072011124200942010-05-21T15:32:00.001-07:002010-05-22T06:04:34.064-07:00The Mark of the BeastPreviously on 'Terra Umbra' : - Spanish film maker Nacho Cerda joins the team on a visit to Rennes-les-Chateau where a series of strange 'coincidences' cast a disturbing new light on the 'bloodline' conspiracy and the identity of the so-called 'black magician' prowling the Zone...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNxr7khZXtRbnDygOkhxlm9U59RTOXfZfG2WERjUA5AxDOHfa6xgDRXDrhT7F9g98taTdHh3OPSQ-XOVP087S4BHHDaFgyoQKRu-XG7KdNfnSLz9ogYAcgHMYqFRU-pzDP7EcKGUYTXGHu/s1600/l_33e3c7499799a88498984ac33aad0552.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNxr7khZXtRbnDygOkhxlm9U59RTOXfZfG2WERjUA5AxDOHfa6xgDRXDrhT7F9g98taTdHh3OPSQ-XOVP087S4BHHDaFgyoQKRu-XG7KdNfnSLz9ogYAcgHMYqFRU-pzDP7EcKGUYTXGHu/s400/l_33e3c7499799a88498984ac33aad0552.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474064704493889634" border="0" /></a><br />The Zone – May 2010<p></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The three saints of ice have finally packed their bags and headed south. The first breath of summer has touched the high pastures of the Ariege and the fallen trees, downed by the freak storm a couple of weeks ago ( * see previous 'blog ) have been dragged away and cut up for firewood. The cavaliers des faidits Cathare have already left on their yearly trek from Montsegur to Mirepoix and the crème de la crème of the European film industry, their stars, producers, entertainment lawyers and various hangers on have descended locust like on the French Riviera to bask in the gaudy, reflected light of the Cannes festival where lies are bought and sold by the yard like roughspun cloth. The assembled glitterati have little idea that behind the gleaming facade of the croisette another world awaits – an older, darker world where the fairytales of the horror movie business still have very real currency. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A mere two hours from downtown Cannes the tiny village of Rennes les Chateau stirs in May sunshine, awakening from its winter hibernation to shake off the cobwebs and set out its equally dubious wares. Ever since the emergence of the 'sacred bloodline' theory outlined in books such as 'The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail' and 'The DaVinci Code', Rennes has found itself at the centre of a labyrinth of hoaxes and conspiracy theories that continues to ramify to this day.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_JUxx3sSnUL57YD2Kh96keVmxXQPtMzZINi6mSRNx10NPXBSdZm_RQtfKB7yBlSs4fLe3vKqsZeTLkYZJjtCbCv_GmGvfbsu5DcGFzmNSpimPkXKhr_YGdKWbM42C6SjpPGNj8F852b3w/s1600/Rennes-puivert-emiliano-mark13+001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_JUxx3sSnUL57YD2Kh96keVmxXQPtMzZINi6mSRNx10NPXBSdZm_RQtfKB7yBlSs4fLe3vKqsZeTLkYZJjtCbCv_GmGvfbsu5DcGFzmNSpimPkXKhr_YGdKWbM42C6SjpPGNj8F852b3w/s400/Rennes-puivert-emiliano-mark13+001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473868293187416306" border="0" /></a>“These people here, they're like extras in a Mario Bava movie” whispered Nacho, leaning a little closer to Miss Scarlett, eyes casting nervously from side to side at the other denizens of Le Jardin, the outdoor cafe next to Sauniere's domain and the customary meeting place for local mystery hunters. Henry Lincoln had settled in his usual corner with a group of anxious looking pilgrims starting to gather around him eagerly clutching copies off his latest book.<br /><br />“Just another day on the devil's chessboard.” Miss Scarlett returned Henry's good natured wave. <br />“But this place is really nice,” said Nacho, relaxing a little in the meridianal sunshine. “At least the locals seem friendly enough.”<br /><br />“You don't know Rennes,” muttered Miss Scarlett, toying with her sunglasses. <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Nacho had driven up from Barcelona to discuss a new feature project only to find himself caught up in a real life supernatural narrative that might have sprung from the plot line of one of his own movies. We had last worked together in 2006 on the screenplay for Nacho's directorial feature debut 'Los Abandonados/ The Abandoned' a supernatural thriller concerning an American film producer who encounters her own ghostly doppelganger haunting a time warped farmhouse somewhere deep in the Russian countryside.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU1nYbfwQRce4raz1Op82vJX6UBD6eaZi1NmKywogiLeeSKzTGaomxLII5KfcquL4mAV-Ik9fGHTF7XneatPs2C6eJgoYs8bxXjveTxRAUrlRDQRf0CY0-yVtEKaiPVVJlV28K3jACRF7V/s1600/902014_big.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU1nYbfwQRce4raz1Op82vJX6UBD6eaZi1NmKywogiLeeSKzTGaomxLII5KfcquL4mAV-Ik9fGHTF7XneatPs2C6eJgoYs8bxXjveTxRAUrlRDQRf0CY0-yVtEKaiPVVJlV28K3jACRF7V/s400/902014_big.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473871832279051218" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: Nacho Cerda directs Anastasia Hille and Karel Roden in 'The Abandoned'( 2007 )described by www.esplatter.com/reviews as the 'scariest movie in years'<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnXT_Y_isUZhkNG0A6YUOIv0IL-U-Sg5yQNiLub1XLssrhv-DLANW6GdzEm5378gBSChLHiDcPByRbxJhL9BsVy-bRqoIK64B4nlwHWU2KiU3LF_IdW_A54YsmEulC8DVgiF0iqGW0JzA/s1600/protectedimage.php.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 187px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnXT_Y_isUZhkNG0A6YUOIv0IL-U-Sg5yQNiLub1XLssrhv-DLANW6GdzEm5378gBSChLHiDcPByRbxJhL9BsVy-bRqoIK64B4nlwHWU2KiU3LF_IdW_A54YsmEulC8DVgiF0iqGW0JzA/s400/protectedimage.php.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473872947292463538" border="0" /></a>'The Abandoned' opened wide in theatres all across the States and has since found an appreciative audience among genre fans on both sides of the Atlantic but Nacho and I, while proud of what we had accomplished under the circumstances, remained only too aware of the many compromises we had been forced to make during the project's long and at times painful gestation. This time around we were both determined to retain creative control over our work and craft a terrifying new vision worthy of our mutual talents.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In any event it was a pleasure to see my old comrade again and to find that despite all the water that had gone under the bridge Nacho hadn't changed one bit with all his familiar enthusiasms and obsessions still firmly in place. Miss Scarlett and myself, in turn, took no small pleasure in showing him around the Zone and introducing him to some of its myriad attendant mysteries. Nacho had blown into town the day after the feast of Saint Servais, the last of the 'three saints of Ice' ( * see previous 'blog entry ) and scaled the pog of Montsegur for the first time the following morning.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVi5n6XO9dpMAyyj-nhPrxjNeaZGQW6kREEZKYcuEseSOWmkwz3jR8ZX_IgqznbfHMt2Yh_vz9usA-emCumqLOTlGWbZ9lNhxtPJJGciRbMejziZ1s_7Wht03FBdJ-LIQarJqgBD2GwSVy/s1600/nacho+%26++richard+-+mont.+rennes+2010+005.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVi5n6XO9dpMAyyj-nhPrxjNeaZGQW6kREEZKYcuEseSOWmkwz3jR8ZX_IgqznbfHMt2Yh_vz9usA-emCumqLOTlGWbZ9lNhxtPJJGciRbMejziZ1s_7Wht03FBdJ-LIQarJqgBD2GwSVy/s400/nacho+%26++richard+-+mont.+rennes+2010+005.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473919060254054098" border="0" /></a><br />The walls of the keep were still drying out after the rains that have saturated the area for the last fortnight or so and we watched from the ramparts as the leaden skies finally began to clear over, the hazy, scarcely created landscape of the Zone unfurling itself slowly before our eyes, the misty treetops rolling away and away, seemingly to the very ends of the earth itself. For now at least the castle's weird energies lay dormant and the courtyard and adjoining tower room that had been the setting of so many wonders, terrors and strange encounters over the years gone by seemed no more imposing than any other ancient monument. We completed a circuit of the ruins before leaving the mountaintop to the first straggling tourists of the season and starting back down into the world in search of a hot cup of coffee and a goat's cheese salad.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClGrAX-h-mFhC9YLJAqj0alrhR5jjTpGwz9Hpn63VVKRl636sResxXMFrQYI07EA5JBxpbTHwPGDTfpIwd0XPkqKcXeFawbku1cImTEsVpE2zVQdX8QTtwUBL2yBN1vIerU_n9cQ2gGDo/s1600/nacho+%26++richard+-+mont.+rennes+2010+008.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClGrAX-h-mFhC9YLJAqj0alrhR5jjTpGwz9Hpn63VVKRl636sResxXMFrQYI07EA5JBxpbTHwPGDTfpIwd0XPkqKcXeFawbku1cImTEsVpE2zVQdX8QTtwUBL2yBN1vIerU_n9cQ2gGDo/s400/nacho+%26++richard+-+mont.+rennes+2010+008.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474010045716877378" border="0" /></a><br />The next stop on the magical, mystery tour was, quite naturally, the Rennes plateau where a series of unsettling surprises lay in store. The Aude valley was a few degrees warmer than the Ariege albeit a good deal windier and we watched from the Belvedere as the shadows of the clouds scudded across the undulating panoramic landscape that remained every bit as impressive as the day I first set eyes on it more than two decades ago. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's like a movie set,” Nacho took in the mock-gothic edifice of the Tour Magdala, his mind working overtime as usual, setting up potential shots and laying out invisible dolly tracks as if on a location recce for a sinister, untitled drama that was somehow writing itself as we walked.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The sky darkened as we left the museum, a malignant early summer squall blowing in from the west, a grey sheet of stinging rain following a moment later. We took the winding trail down from the plateau to find shelter in the home of one of our friends, the hermit of the 'River of Colours'.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjOgfeuuR2il92UtjFoBGdfgotmq9zrljcWLwtJypQ7d7AF4adJFpMczf7dh4nGjnNIf3R_8S7Ryp08HYWdZATJSpoa1_uVuSr8dRVQkabD-kKigNDoDc-ZWBHR4ej9PMFcJq4N22JR0O/s1600/4d+clock.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjOgfeuuR2il92UtjFoBGdfgotmq9zrljcWLwtJypQ7d7AF4adJFpMczf7dh4nGjnNIf3R_8S7Ryp08HYWdZATJSpoa1_uVuSr8dRVQkabD-kKigNDoDc-ZWBHR4ej9PMFcJq4N22JR0O/s400/4d+clock.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474012342556325218" border="0" /></a><br />A cauldron simmered on a distinctly medieval looking hearth whose embers cast a faint, ruddy glow across the cottage's one room living area, its walls and shelves crammed with maps, hand written grimoires, dismembered barbie dolls and lovingly hoarded movie memorabilia. Nacho settled himself into a chair beside the fire while we chatted with our friend about how cold and long the winter had been, the coldest apparently since 1938 although he insisted that '84 had been even worse.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Then Nacho spotted an unused cinema ticket pinned above the hearth.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're going to freak out when you see this” he said, shaking his head in disbelief .</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The ticket was for a screening of our old buddy Karim Hussain's 'La Belle Bete' which we had attended at the Sitges film festival in southern Spain some three years previously. Karim had been the first writer to work on Nacho's 'Los Abandonados', originating the screenplay that I'd overhauled during the frantic shoot in Bulgaria and the project's typically tempestuous post-production back in Barcelona. A dog eared business card was tucked against the wall beside it bearing the name and telephone number of 'Fangoria' magazine's former editor Tony Timpone.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But how is this possible?” Nacho looked dumbfounded.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I found it in a bottle out by the stone ring,” said the hermit.”Somebody must have left it for me. I don't know why.”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “Our friend is a big horror movie fan,” I offered, as if this were somehow an explanation in itself. Retrieving a copy of David Schmoeller's 1979 0pus 'Tourist Trap' from amidst the detritus of DVD's strewn among the doll parts Nacho immediately came across another disc slipped into its sleeve – a French language dub of my very own 'Dust Devil'.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “Damn. I wasn't expecting to see that here...”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “Where else but in Rennes?” mused Miss Scarlett, drawing our host's attention to the disc's credits.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “You made this?” It was the hermit's turn to look surprised as he took on board the bizarre fact that I was the writer director of the film he had only just watched. “I like this film very much!”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “Yeah. I made it all right...” I narrowed my eyes trying to puzzle out the different coincidences and connections. It was so typical of Rennes where people either seemed to be constantly burying and hiding things before leaving behind flamboyant, tell-tale clues.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ckJrH5MWlWbax3iJF1_oOv3sJvZ1ybKLP0RfqJb4ERWUuG1igFR5kqb1D8q52FRSbeAMrN9LfJHDSYNS4RxoiuW2vbZLiOAmDV55ESdLa3SIkJeh1qM1bTSNpgnhPaxkDEB1iMf5at0v/s1600/207499778_03ab83b90d.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 169px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ckJrH5MWlWbax3iJF1_oOv3sJvZ1ybKLP0RfqJb4ERWUuG1igFR5kqb1D8q52FRSbeAMrN9LfJHDSYNS4RxoiuW2vbZLiOAmDV55ESdLa3SIkJeh1qM1bTSNpgnhPaxkDEB1iMf5at0v/s400/207499778_03ab83b90d.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474020144290094386" border="0" /></a><br />In the last year there had been a rash of incidents where graffiti has mysteriously appeared on the crosses in the locality. Someone was changing the 'N' in 'INRI', the inscription exoterically to mean 'Jesus of Nazareth - King of the Jews' or esoterically 'Igne Natura Renovatur Integra' ( 'through fire nature is reborn whole' ), to the runic symbol of 'dagaz' ( above ) – the glorious light of the creator. A host of rumours surrounded the mysterious author of these ad hoc insignia. Some believed it was the work of a 'black magician' seeking to subtly manipulate the hypothetical grids of telluric energy running through the area to his ( or her ) own nefarious ends. Others hinted darkly that it might be somehow linked to the resurgence of the movement known as the '<i>Sovereign Order of the Solar Temple' ( or 'O.T.S' )</i> in the Rennes region.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvmoNmug2e-W8o0tirr_t8ZRNzTmK17SCDQ188TuKHi9m-N1t0dZQcEEwwQ7UH7RsZX5dFdfeMBeY458vFhmzLVOyx9MuzNzhkET5AO5QR9Adx5R-pu4WTgfzyYXTYTulWB3YPOCy6elbg/s1600/3b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 205px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvmoNmug2e-W8o0tirr_t8ZRNzTmK17SCDQ188TuKHi9m-N1t0dZQcEEwwQ7UH7RsZX5dFdfeMBeY458vFhmzLVOyx9MuzNzhkET5AO5QR9Adx5R-pu4WTgfzyYXTYTulWB3YPOCy6elbg/s400/3b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473880955280828338" border="0" /></a><br />The 'O.T.S' was founded in 1952 by the French author Jacques Breyer who based his plans for the Order upon the modern myth of the continuing existence of the Knights Templar. The Orders aims were apparently to prepare humanity for the Second Coming of Christ as a 'solar god-king'. The movement's activities were a mix of early Protestant Christianity mixed with New Age philosophy , using adapted Masonic rituals as well as drawing inspiration for its teachings from the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn and the British occultist Aleister Crowley who headed the Order of Oriental Templars ( OTO ).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDwglYPN1hJ3vU_DDFJ2VpKK1jsciYqQfO3it-CsgHYe6XchN1MQQLVplWuwKqDWjDVp0VspLzQSaCVrhBb0MuKRsa2ZKhlGZ1TyiHJYFKhYhOYwcsbeW1-okvHfYLN9h5KXyA3RlS1aa/s1600/3959782527_53268c7959.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDwglYPN1hJ3vU_DDFJ2VpKK1jsciYqQfO3it-CsgHYe6XchN1MQQLVplWuwKqDWjDVp0VspLzQSaCVrhBb0MuKRsa2ZKhlGZ1TyiHJYFKhYhOYwcsbeW1-okvHfYLN9h5KXyA3RlS1aa/s400/3959782527_53268c7959.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473880497239693218" border="0" /></a><br />The movement was revived in Geneva in 1984 by Joseph Di Mambro and Luc Jouret and lodges were established in Quebec as well as in France, Austria, Switzerland and Martinique, attracting a number of wealthy and influential members, including Princess Grace of Monaco who was reputedly initiated into the movement shortly before her death. The group's initiatory ceremonies included expensive purchases, jewellery, costumes, regalia and the payment of initiation fees. During ceremonies members wore crusader-type robes and were to hold in awe a sword which Di Mambro claimed was an authentic Templar artefact, given to him in a previous incarnation a thousand years ago.</p> <p>In October 1994 Tony Dutoit's infant son, Emmanuel Dutoit, aged three months, was killed at the group's centre in Morin Heights, Quebec. The baby had been stabbed repeatedly with a wooden stake. It is believed that Di Mambro ordered the murder, because he had identified the baby as the Anti-Christ whom he believed had been born into the order to prevent him from succeeding in his spiritual aims. A few days later, Di Mambro and twelve followers performed a ritual last supper before embarking of a spate of simultanious murders and mass suicides in Switzerland, and Quebec — 15 inner circle members committed suicide with poison, 30 were killed by bullets or smothering, and 8 others were killed by other causes. Many of the bodies when found were drugged, possibly to prevent the members from objecting. The buildings were then set on fire by timer devices, purportedly as one last symbol of the group's purification. 48 human beings perished in the wholesale slaughter that took place in Sion, Switzerland, where a number of the dead were found in a secret underground chapel lined with mirrors and other items of Templar symbolism. The bodies were dressed in the order's ceremonial robes and laid out in a circle with their feet together and their heads outward. Most of the dead had had plastic bags tied over their faces before being shot in the head. It is believed that the plastic bags were a symbol of the ecological disaster that would befall the human race after the OTS members moved on to Sirius. Farewell letters left by the deceased cult members stated that they believed they were leaving to escape the "hypocrisies and oppression of this world."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgv2PMYcK3mZjbgcf1sVIvACs9IvtLKU6b6kZeI5aIZiPvvGq1Bzxi1Ht2DkVUFb-9oJQAyZMFqC7SAz464nYjV-1kQM9-v48wi_1LK3hF4zWpEkAYjMYth8HTk0uwnBT27iZqUWq2akpt/s1600/solar+temple+murders.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 422px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgv2PMYcK3mZjbgcf1sVIvACs9IvtLKU6b6kZeI5aIZiPvvGq1Bzxi1Ht2DkVUFb-9oJQAyZMFqC7SAz464nYjV-1kQM9-v48wi_1LK3hF4zWpEkAYjMYth8HTk0uwnBT27iZqUWq2akpt/s400/solar+temple+murders.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474021022316956402" border="0" /></a>A mayor, a journalist, a civil servant and a sales manager were among the victims in Switzerland and records seized by the Quebec police showed that some members had personally donated over $1 million to the group's leader Joseph Di Mambro. There was also another attempted mass suicide of the remaining members which was thwarted in the late 1990s. All the suicide/murders and attempts occurred around the dates of the equinoxes and solstices in accordance with the beliefs of the group. In 1997 a small house exploded into flames in Saint-Casimir, Quebec, leaving behind a further five charred bodies for the police to pull from the rubble. Three teenagers aged 13, 14 and 16, the children of one of the couples that died in the fire, were discovered in a shed behind the house, alive but heavily drugged.</p> <p>Michael Tabachnik an internationally renowned Swiss musician and conductor, was arrested as a leader of the Solar Temple in the late 1990s and indicted for "participation in a criminal organization," and murder. He came to trial in Grenoble, France during the spring of 2001 and was acquitted. French prosecutors appealed the verdict and an appellate court ordered a second trial beginning on October 24, 2006. He was again cleared less than two months later on December 20 and rumours began to circulate shortly afterwards that the movement had joined forces with the OTO in the Rennes area where they have apparently tried to seize control of several properties in including an abandoned hotel and stables overlooking the plateau where I had lodged on my first visit to the Zone.</p> <p>The recent plague esoteric graffiti that has begun to crop up in the area first came to our attention in the spring of 2008 when Miss Scarlett and myself noticed a curious geometric sign cut into a rock just below the summit of Mount Bugarach.<br /></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><img style="width: 373px; height: 295px;" src="http://i959.photobucket.com/albums/ae80/terraumbra13/Terra%20Umbra%20I/Bugarachstar.jpg" name="graphics2" alt="Image" align="BOTTOM" border="0" /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">At the time we took it as a good omen, having already chosen the symbol - the eight pointed 'Star of Isis' or 'Rosette of Innana' - as the principal leitmotif around which the 'TERRA UMBRA' site and its attendant portals are designed...</p><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="width: 344px; height: 280px;" src="http://i959.photobucket.com/albums/ae80/terraumbra13/Terra%20Umbra%20I/Devilsarmchair-1.jpg" name="graphics1" alt="Image" align="BOTTOM" border="0" /><br /></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Approximately twelve months later I noticed that an identical sigil had been freshly cut into the back of the Devil's Armchair in Rennes les Bains... </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://i959.photobucket.com/albums/ae80/terraumbra13/Terra%20Umbra%20I/DSCF5213-1.jpg" name="graphics3" alt="Image" align="BOTTOM" border="0" height="240" width="320" /><br /></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">At face value this would seem logical enough. The seat, carved out of a boulder in an isolated glade near the source of the Madeleine, has after all been frequently referred to in modern day guide books as the 'Throne of Isis'. There is however little evidence to suggest that this appellation predates the publication of a very weird little book entitled 'GENISIS' ( 1985 ) in which the retired British surveyor and cartographer David Wood attempted to transpose the iconography of the Egyptian creation myth to the Zone's topography. Mount Bugarach and the Devil's Armchair both play a significant role in Wood's byzantine calculations which make great play out of the pattern of the tiles found on the floor of Boudet's church in Rennes les Bains - a familiar eight pointed configuration that the author rather melodramatically dubs the 'Sigil of the Beast'.<br /><br /><img style="width: 661px; height: 142px;" src="http://i959.photobucket.com/albums/ae80/terraumbra13/Terra%20Umbra%20I/churchfloorofRennes-les-Bains001.jpg" name="graphics4" alt="Image" align="BOTTOM" border="0" /><br /><br />Despite our best efforts none of us here at Shadow Theatre HQ can find any existing esoteric rationale behind Wood's conflation of the 'Star of Isis' with the so-called sign of the Beast outside of his own fanciful private cosmology. Mount Bugarach seems particularly dear to the author's heart, forming one of the cardinal points on his eponymous pentagram and according to our friend, the hermit of the 'River of Colours' an identical 'octogram' has recently turned up carved into a rock near Peyrolles, the head of the vague squiggly shaped formation identified by Wood as 'Le Serpent Rouge.'<br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><img style="width: 353px; height: 453px;" src="http://i959.photobucket.com/albums/ae80/terraumbra13/Terra%20Umbra%20I/woodmap0wt.jpg" name="graphics5" alt="Image" align="BOTTOM" border="0" /> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Wood seems intent on trying to define some abstract ( and at times rather graphically Freudian ) notion of the 'Goddess' through the rules and measures of conventional geometry to arrive at a sort of 'divinity by numbers'. His work, fuelled by what might be described as 'cartoerotic' mania, helped establish the notion of the Rennes pentagram back in the eighties and has undeniably helped shape our modern perception of the so-called 'mystery'. It appears however that someone is now deliberately trying to change the facts on the ground to fit the specifics of Wood's theory. According to the rumours one of Wood's former associates was apparently behind the recent outbreak of unprovoked sigil carving, possibly in an attempt to set up another phony twist in the mystery. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">On our last visit to the grotto of Saint Antoine in Galamus gorge we couldn't help noticing that someone had tampered with the puzzle box, altering the 'N' to form another 'dagaz' rune.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><img style="width: 215px; height: 384px;" src="http://i959.photobucket.com/albums/ae80/terraumbra13/Terra%20Umbra%20I/PuzzleBoxgraffiti-2.jpg" name="graphics6" alt="Image" align="BOTTOM" border="0" /><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Monsieur 'X' was at work again...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><img src="http://i959.photobucket.com/albums/ae80/terraumbra13/Terra%20Umbra%20I/PuzzleBoxgraffitidetail-1.jpg" name="graphics7" alt="Image" align="BOTTOM" border="0" height="129" width="459" /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Our hermit friend smiled knowingly, “ That's him. He's been very busy. You can always tell his work, he the one who changes the N in INRI, to make the rune dagaz for day. He is very clever and he has been using this shape.” He quickly sketched out the star of Isis.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “He's the one who's been carving those! First on Bugarach. Then the Devil's Armchair. He seems to be marking out all the points on the pentagram from 'Genisis'...”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “Yes, that's the book that he is working from.”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “But why? To rewrite the mythology? To make the mystery fit?”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “It is the mark of the beast.”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “What?”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “You must understand there are people here, very well connected and powerful people from the O.T.O and the O.T.S, who have come together to make their own cult. They would like to take over this place and use it for their own purposes...”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “But...”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “There's a lot of bodies around here...”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Nacho had been listening intently, “I told you this place was like living in an Mario Bava movie.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The rain had stopped . Digging through a pile of horror magazines our hermit friend retrieved an old issue of the French genre periodical 'Mad Movies' carrying a cover story on 'los Abandonados/The Abandoned' ( 2006 ) which Nacho duly signed for him. The fact that he just happened to have a copy on hand no longer surprised us. On departure our friend pressed a copy of 2008 pseudodocumentary entitled 'BLOODLINE' into our hands and we promised to take a look at it before returning it to him the next time he came up to Montsegur, the fact that Karim Hussein's initial draft for Nacho's 'Los Abandonados' was itself provisionally entitled 'BLOODLINE' just one more 'coincidence' in a seemingly endless chain of baffling synchronicity. Typical, really. Pure essence of Rennes.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Bruce Burgess's film purports to follow the real life escapades of self proclaimed 'tomb raider' Ben Hammot as he unearths a series of bottles buried at strategic locations in the Rennes area which apparently contain coded parchments written by Berenger Sauniere himself, a string of clues that are ultimately supposed to point the way to the tomb of Mary Magdalene. We couldn't help noticing the by now all too familiar 'dagaz' rune appeared on several of the parchments. The scrolls in question, in all honesty, didn't appear particularly old. Moreover one of the key clues in the 'Bloodline' scavenger hunt revolves around a chest containing a handful of old coins and other sacred relics unearthed from the floor of the 'Grotto of the Magdalene', a location already extensively excavated by numerous treasure hunters back in the eighties and early nineties, myself included. ( * see 'LACHRYMAE – Chapter 15: All roads lead to Rennes - <a href="http://shadowtheatre13.com/thethreemothers15.html">http://shadowtheatre13.com/thethreemothers15.html</a> )</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Below: Self in the Villa Bethanie - photograph by Nacho Cerda<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://s959.photobucket.com/albums/ae80/terraumbra13/Terra%20Umbra%20I/?action=view&current=nachorichard-montrennes2010037.jpg" target="_blank"><img style="width: 398px; height: 223px;" src="http://i959.photobucket.com/albums/ae80/terraumbra13/Terra%20Umbra%20I/nachorichard-montrennes2010037.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Looks like Monsieur 'X' has been keeping busy,” Miss Scarlett narrowed her eyes, hitting the pause button.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah, but what does he want? What does he hope to gain from all this?”<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't know. Maybe he's working for the Tourist board. I mean how else did they get the keys to the church?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I thought it over for a moment. It wouldn't be the first time a minister of tourism had been caught burying ancient artefacts in the Rennes area. Antonin Gadal ( below ) was apparently caught doing precisely that in the early part of the twentieth century – buying up jade Egyptians ornaments at museum auctions and secreting them in the caves of the Lombrive to be publicly exhumed at a later date.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrx8V7WnBd2WJ2zMuC0lacedYXiYgTyhc1LMnoWeaXdQ45gnTq0jgSSCNtBTHgnq2sc7s-I15893Gr1l38UQodaRjDtGOs77_QrQtIERq2O7AWNUUNrf5bQxnTWcLQyz4p8y93NaXvAgiq/s1600/250_gadal-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 321px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrx8V7WnBd2WJ2zMuC0lacedYXiYgTyhc1LMnoWeaXdQ45gnTq0jgSSCNtBTHgnq2sc7s-I15893Gr1l38UQodaRjDtGOs77_QrQtIERq2O7AWNUUNrf5bQxnTWcLQyz4p8y93NaXvAgiq/s400/250_gadal-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474024568577815234" border="0" /></a><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Probably just trying to rewrite history or get a publishing deal. Like everyone else.”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “It'd take more than one person to pull off something that elaborate.”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “It wouldn't be the first secret society to try and capitalize on the success of the 'DaVinci Code'. Remember how Opus Dei's membership sky rocketed after the film's initial release? When was this thing released anyhow?"</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> I keyed in the film's title, checking the internet database. “2008”<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There you go. Dan Brown meets the Santilli Roswell autopsy footage”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “Yeah. But something about it still doesn't add up.” I frowned, turning the disc in my hands. “I mean secret societies don't generally feel the need to advertise and only the film makers stand to reap any benefit.from the disc itself. The only reason to deliberately lay a false trail would be to either hide something in plain sight or take the heat off whatever's really going on.”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “So, what is going on?”</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “I dunno. We'll just have to wait and see what else Monsieur 'X' has up his sleeve.” I crossed to the window, looking out over the darkened treetops. It had been a weird enough run of events but then nothing is ever really too weird for Rennes, where 'coincidences' are commonplace and conspiracies a way of life. Somewhere out in the dark an owl hooted as if in agreement. “My guess is we'll find out soon enough...”<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Miss Scarlett was busy rummaging through the numerous shelves of the library. “Where's that Best of Bava box kit? And where the hell is the other bag of popcorn?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXIfRnjqXHilNx3HGqs_PHQZZMRANlStbrqVJOgAtTtgqXvVKEqQNPlmEhoZS3beR6vBmNmY_EKWdX4GTlW2YiMio767eMIepp6frtHo7uMkdYcLtVI-eLX0X0D9XPrYArAGqHcoZTBeO/s1600/zone+perimeter.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXIfRnjqXHilNx3HGqs_PHQZZMRANlStbrqVJOgAtTtgqXvVKEqQNPlmEhoZS3beR6vBmNmY_EKWdX4GTlW2YiMio767eMIepp6frtHo7uMkdYcLtVI-eLX0X0D9XPrYArAGqHcoZTBeO/s400/zone+perimeter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474026180661687058" border="0" /></a>To be continued...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-58248487988243770132010-05-05T06:36:00.000-07:002010-05-06T16:33:25.014-07:00The Three Saints of Ice<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfL5er2E7UlFEjbAWrxSZ9FFzxMjnJ9BFR1lQUs1oqI06jMAEhTPiGUcX-Q-s4uOGPCo-ni17N8x3JABLEGIhaKqcxhPRW5JaWQT7S5ihcs-ySHmqrxeEVvPmTC0ee2pw1vlwNMZSwOQ2/s1600/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfL5er2E7UlFEjbAWrxSZ9FFzxMjnJ9BFR1lQUs1oqI06jMAEhTPiGUcX-Q-s4uOGPCo-ni17N8x3JABLEGIhaKqcxhPRW5JaWQT7S5ihcs-ySHmqrxeEVvPmTC0ee2pw1vlwNMZSwOQ2/s400/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467790201363787874" border="0" /></a><br /><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } -</style>Previously on 'Terra Umbra' - the team experiences unexpected temporal phenomena during a nocturnal vigil in the heart of the mountain. Meanwhile, a freak storm closes the pass, cutting off all communication with the village...<br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Montsegur – April 28 - 2010</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">From the private journal of Scarlett Amaris<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Finding our way down the darkened path was not so easy. The moonlight streaming through the dense branches made the terrain seem strangely altered and not a little confusing. We descended slowly and carefully before parting the shadowy branches to find ourselves once more at the 'roc du coeur'.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3LFVZ5JB_W2H2aq_D0UoIFsUCwhaiIGLalfNNhbw27fVKeSogAjxO3IYz6Q60wvai0Rk-qFNFfJ6bduDMyDegOxejgJqe3p8ixLdL5CLYxQChfXXs7ukDbU9jraeIvAlSzUJNuthpzDWx/s1600/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+014.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3LFVZ5JB_W2H2aq_D0UoIFsUCwhaiIGLalfNNhbw27fVKeSogAjxO3IYz6Q60wvai0Rk-qFNFfJ6bduDMyDegOxejgJqe3p8ixLdL5CLYxQChfXXs7ukDbU9jraeIvAlSzUJNuthpzDWx/s400/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+014.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467797560692554658" border="0" /></a><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> </p> As above: Moon rise over the summit of Bidorta - April 28 - 9.30 pm<br />So below: Hare Moon over Montsegur -April 29 - 3.00 am<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UJ46cQ_ZhFiJNnEP5Ny0SnSxzM9oqYbDDoDaG7yRZxp1oueUglM4i-87sGjSB9Ud1HSEFgJunMzXUTDaLBmaEMBHKRFTfU2PhF9ew_F-gkBgI-8JN_o7OMGhwaz3cpHr34r5jD-hALKo/s1600/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+034.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UJ46cQ_ZhFiJNnEP5Ny0SnSxzM9oqYbDDoDaG7yRZxp1oueUglM4i-87sGjSB9Ud1HSEFgJunMzXUTDaLBmaEMBHKRFTfU2PhF9ew_F-gkBgI-8JN_o7OMGhwaz3cpHr34r5jD-hALKo/s400/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467801945254307506" border="0" /></a><br />The dead do not rest so easily here and it was the first time in a very long while that I have actually felt fear on the mountain. There was a desolate blackness in that space between the two rocks which during the day had seemed so powerful and holy. I hung back for a moment, not wanting to come into contact with whatever was waiting there. Closing my eyes I crossed through and quickly scrambled up the boulders on the other side to higher ground. We situated ourselves on the highest rock and lit a few candles. Even those small flickers of light could not ease the sense of anxiety that was plaguing me, the need to flee and run back to the safety of the castle. <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A thousand ambivalent eyes watched us from the shadows. There were scuffling noises and then the sound of footsteps running away ( two feet – not four although I tried to rationalize it as some kind of animal at first). A branch snapped loudly nearby and then I heard the footsteps running again. Richard went back into the place between the rocks to investigate and I elected to stay and watch the gear on the vantage point. The moon was steadily climbing towards the other side of the mountain and I mused on how difficult it was going to be to find our way back through the dense forest, over the spiny defences to the chateau. It had been my idea to come here on the full moon, and irrationally at that moment I wished that I was anywhere else. It wasn't that I was scared that something truly bad would happen, or that I would be faced with some supernatural phenomena but rather it was knowing that something breathed there, something so old and forgotten that it could not take shape in my mind...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Richard appeared from the darkness.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“All quiet”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do you get the feeling that there is something here that might be better left alone..?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Whatever the hell it is, it's gone now. At least for the moment ...”</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVB3DaZCON-VqoS1BxBUCoQgq_AQ6SIBcaf90vfh4kr0Ff_6shP1W4MWbxzVdpL5ChNp2zEvw5USY09tcysJM-zqdsd_las7V6Frw7_Pje3hp0zLMb0PX09U6M3deVvrY287HD6cstrvcf/s1600/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+021.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVB3DaZCON-VqoS1BxBUCoQgq_AQ6SIBcaf90vfh4kr0Ff_6shP1W4MWbxzVdpL5ChNp2zEvw5USY09tcysJM-zqdsd_las7V6Frw7_Pje3hp0zLMb0PX09U6M3deVvrY287HD6cstrvcf/s400/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467809454978709106" border="0" /></a><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Realizing that the moon was over the castle we started back up the pog. I clambered up the narrow, all but invisible path as quickly as possible and never once glanced back, keeping my eyes glued firmly on the rocky trail in front of me. It was only when I reached the ruined dwellings just above the treeline that I felt I could breathe again.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BdvH0SgxWHsk4tHeKgWDzdx_W0PzXILoQfEqKPUQyyi3IB_rEet1Frs4NC2O7_az864yqdHUwGOpgTpI9RfnIFmkCDkCrghb7DqutZNpsAj1wgEEneSeBEE_m0wGLY6KGuk7w4M3osmi/s1600/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+019.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BdvH0SgxWHsk4tHeKgWDzdx_W0PzXILoQfEqKPUQyyi3IB_rEet1Frs4NC2O7_az864yqdHUwGOpgTpI9RfnIFmkCDkCrghb7DqutZNpsAj1wgEEneSeBEE_m0wGLY6KGuk7w4M3osmi/s400/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+019.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467826322705622786" border="0" /></a>The courtyard was filled with brilliant moonlight. I walked through the door into this transformed kingdom to come into direct contact with a strangely warm patch of air. It was tactile enough to be able to feel around the edges of it. I stepped away as Richard came through the door and ran smack into the same thing, raising his hand in wonder. <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can you feel this?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know, I did the exact same thing. It seems to stop over here...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Other people had described this exact same phenomena before, but this was the first time that I had experienced it. At first I thought that it was something to do with the stones in the keep, but as we wandered away from the walls, we keep running into these tropical 'window area's' approximately every five feet or so which gave a new meaning to playing the game 'hot' and 'cold'. Then the whispering began. It's was a young woman's voice who was speaking very rapidly. We both turned our heads towards the dunjeon room where it seemed to be coming from. It wasn't loud enough to discern any words and the sound rose and fell as if carried by a non-existent wind.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The voice was oddly reassuring. Despite everything we somehow belonged there, safe and secure in the darkness of the early thirteenth century. Whoever she was that whispered to us from the shadows of the castle walls seemed to co-exist with us, with our time and our world. Perhaps on some level she was still human, just as we are but whatever lives beneath the 'Roc du Coer' is dead or perhaps was never alive to begin with. Perhaps it was a place where people went when they were sick, or where they went to die, to become part of the mountain. After we found the path up the sheer face of the pog and that strange, silent avenue of stones we all experienced disorientating and at times disturbing dreams. It was nothing that we could readily see with our naked eyes or apprehend with our waking senses but I think we all felt it in our hearts...<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglysmt7eImdzVhynL_f0SdzReQfLQurAtnVKBoI1t6Lyuatc41XHh1ExoWAVjz5WpCHO5mk0ZOawdI3O-pzecqReBjZ22WnAqldNz55epDDwkcJS7ftPgO_6SMODTNjT5BBblt7Npds_DO/s1600/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+031.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglysmt7eImdzVhynL_f0SdzReQfLQurAtnVKBoI1t6Lyuatc41XHh1ExoWAVjz5WpCHO5mk0ZOawdI3O-pzecqReBjZ22WnAqldNz55epDDwkcJS7ftPgO_6SMODTNjT5BBblt7Npds_DO/s400/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+031.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467827133301207602" border="0" /></a><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Extracts from private weblog of Richard Stanley</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Montsegur – May 1 - 2010</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">One world and then another, running like the frames in a strip of film or the links in an endless chain. One world treading on the heels of another world that plods just ahead like two dogs walking in each other's tracks in the snow. Like a long, endless row of ball bearings running down a groove, almost touching but not quite. One world's tomorrow, another world's today. And yesterday is tomorrow and the future is the past. Except, according to Dr. Stephen Hawking, there is no past, at least no past that we can reach, save for the figment of remembrance that flits like an eager, night-winged, bat in the fading shadows of our minds.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It's enough, I suppose, that Dr, Hawking reversed his thinking to admit the possibility of time travel to begin with, although he currently subscribes to the notion that time only flows one way, which explains why our paradigm is not already overrun by chrononauts from the future, neatly sidestepping the paradoxical possibility of changing the present by physically interfering with the past and altering the flow of events at source. Na Esclamonda and the castle's other defenders might be able to reach out to us through the mists of time, but, according to the good doctor, we cannot reach back to help them. We cannot step across that invisible line that separates one world from the next.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It has been seven hundred and seventy-seven years since the fall of Montsegur. Seven hundred and seventy-seven worlds stepping in one another's tracks. Although, it would be more than that, if I understand Dr. Hawking's words correctly. A world a day three hundred and sixty-five times seven hundred and seventy-seven. Or maybe one world a minute, or even one world a second. A second is a thick thing, thick enough to separate two worlds. Three hundred and sixty-five times seven hundred and seventy-seven times twenty-four times sixty times sixty. And yet, somewhere in time she lives. Somewhere a field of daisies raise their heads to the bright, spring sunshine. Na Esclarmonda lives and the beautiful Pelegrina de Bruniquel still walks between the rows of her vegetable patch with her water can in hand, somewhere just beyond our sense's further wall...</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbE4SAnztPosDWYdq5LSu3p1ByQB3iX3Py2wGiXLltpFfcvAyOG5Tc9Oe_yFA7LJ-GlOErniV0EfvkEapDFqvrIVihJh1s-qiCSyY1ucfHl8kpmtWWCf0eYAYPR2PSyr0M_Ej0bysZSHN/s1600/GFBonfire.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbE4SAnztPosDWYdq5LSu3p1ByQB3iX3Py2wGiXLltpFfcvAyOG5Tc9Oe_yFA7LJ-GlOErniV0EfvkEapDFqvrIVihJh1s-qiCSyY1ucfHl8kpmtWWCf0eYAYPR2PSyr0M_Ej0bysZSHN/s400/GFBonfire.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467827933742296178" border="0" /></a>Once upon a time Bel fires, named in honour of the Gaulish deities Belenos ( 'bright one' ) and his consort Belisama or Belisenna, would have been lit on every high hill in the land on May eve to mark the 'cross-quarter day', the mid-point between the spring equinox and the summer solstice when the herds of livestock were driven out to their summer pastures and mountain grazing lands. Accordingly on Walpurgisnacht we made our way to the highest vista in the village, a forbidding crag known as 'Hannibal's Point' where the famed Carthaginian general and his retinue of elephants is said to have crossed the mountains in days of old. A few minutes before the witching hour a strange, half luminous fog rolled in across the rooftops, filling the valley below like a bowl of dry ice in a black metal music video. Within seconds the landscape seemed utterly transformed, the outlines of the trees and buildings becoming vague and dreamlike, their distant lights splintering into murky, prismatic beams.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">For a while we stood stock still, gazing in wonder at the etherial panorama that unfurled before us. Then a cold wind blew in from the high pastures of the Thabor and we recalled Our Lady of the Snows and the story of the 'Three Saints of Ice' or 'Seins de Glace'.<br /></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqe5J_HSzpzUzAV7b_FfuTAp2ZmtjqkKN7KAZ_Q4kSbZ3AKz60U65YEqpWeb-WOxlKcD6P8W2ztNBo3mXJAttFB4wwq6mJfcpUmKQ0T-d64bvG46d9onFRPJwlDuD9-mqs0n1VUt0qb-u/s1600/3523876248_8bb91025de.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 209px; height: 358px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqe5J_HSzpzUzAV7b_FfuTAp2ZmtjqkKN7KAZ_Q4kSbZ3AKz60U65YEqpWeb-WOxlKcD6P8W2ztNBo3mXJAttFB4wwq6mJfcpUmKQ0T-d64bvG46d9onFRPJwlDuD9-mqs0n1VUt0qb-u/s400/3523876248_8bb91025de.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467828673510547794" border="0" /></a><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The first of the triad, Saint Mamert was an obscure Viennese archbishop who died in 475 whilst St. Pancras, the best known of the three, was a Roman martyr, beheaded in the year 304 for his Christian beliefs when he was a mere fourteen years of age and who is accordingly celebrated as a saint for children as well as the namesake of one of London's largest and busiest railway terminals. The martyr's body was apparently covered in balsam before being interred in a sepulcher in the catacombs of Rome while his head was placed in a reliquary that still exists today in the basilica of San Pancrazio.<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9PMR2jydhod-vbp80AWKKam6MPLPUc-nW7wQptmyHmHVVCps11Hfvnvu8ozGnUyPysG60FHWQWR23YAeAuUpPRX5exXNJmK8mLgFVnGwkr0xRmvcO_WeFpMkXordEqpnDzitrnllXiqyJ/s1600/3260643120_fdb1a4c10c.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 248px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9PMR2jydhod-vbp80AWKKam6MPLPUc-nW7wQptmyHmHVVCps11Hfvnvu8ozGnUyPysG60FHWQWR23YAeAuUpPRX5exXNJmK8mLgFVnGwkr0xRmvcO_WeFpMkXordEqpnDzitrnllXiqyJ/s400/3260643120_fdb1a4c10c.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467831458285435858" border="0" /></a>Along with Saint Servais or Servatius ( above ), the first bishop of Maastricht who brought Christianity to the Low Countries after ordering a church to be built over a Roman temple to Fortuna and Jupiter, the trio are jointly known as the 'Ice Saints' whose feast days fall respectively on the 11th, 12th and 13<sup>th</sup> of May, or at least they did until the Catholic church supposedly disavowed them for being a little too pagan. Their reign coincides with what is commonly known as the 'Pink Moon' or 'lune rousse', a word derived from “roussir” which means to turn brown, marking a period when nocturnal temperatures can plummet, spelling death to seedlings and fragile young plants.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbZLpCDX1tpGaQ7vzT4yTvPG-x4swJ248VRYzsuFPLUcUIna_M4WQHdzJ1KSKkJr-Sc88C7Ys4UAvP3awCbcoN_HKWPx3rZ2fSXzZh2FeM-xXgodvfNHGXEE8-izT2jqG1OCSYGFuGlB7/s1600/Shadow+Theatre+004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbZLpCDX1tpGaQ7vzT4yTvPG-x4swJ248VRYzsuFPLUcUIna_M4WQHdzJ1KSKkJr-Sc88C7Ys4UAvP3awCbcoN_HKWPx3rZ2fSXzZh2FeM-xXgodvfNHGXEE8-izT2jqG1OCSYGFuGlB7/s400/Shadow+Theatre+004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467849583526643138" border="0" /></a><br />Above: Self with Beltane Fire Society founder Mark Oxbrow - circa 1995<br /><br />Back in the day when I was still dressing up as a orc and designing and executing pyrotechnic displays for the Beltane Fire Society whose yearly gatherings on Edinburgh's Carlton hill involved a good three hundred scantily clad or near naked performers, drawing crowds of fifteen thousand or more, we used to take pride in the fact that our May eve celebrations were never derailed by rain or wind whereas the Druid's solstice sun wheel ceremony at Stonehenge was habitually drenched despite taking place a lot further south and a good two months later in the calender. Mother Nature always seemed to provide the Beltane crew with an appropriate weather window, a brief respite from the cold ( described by American horror author Stephen King as a 'strawberry spring', a 'false spring' or 'lying spring' ) before turning nasty again and blasting the very buds from the trees. At the time we kidded ourselves into believing that perhaps we were doing something right and our gaudy offerings had been accepted by the goddess but the sad wisdom that comes with age tells me that the clement conditions we experienced year after year had more to do with our fortuitous timing in relationship to the earth’s annual orbital trajectory which passes thereafter through a thick band of cosmic dust that may or may not be left over from the formation of the planets, rather than any hypothetical divine blessing. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Shortly after midnight we began to feel the first drops of rain against our faces and by dawn it had become a downpour. Yet despite the abrupt turn in the weather we were far from being the only celebrants abroad that night. In the cold light of day we came across a damp ring of embers beside the crossroads at Morenci, in the shade of the jagged rock known as 'Dentilhero', the natural spur that crowns the forested crest that rises to the northeast of the pog, which, in all probability, served in ancient times as a place of worship dedicated to the sun god Belenos himself. ( * see 'The Hand of Morenci' ) By the time we reached the hilltop whoever had lit the fire was long gone and we couldn't help wondering whether or not similar beacons had blazed atop Cardou, Canigou, Bugarach and Bidorta. The Beltane fog had simply been too thick for us to be able to see anything beyond the immediate confines of our valley.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73FpBEWnTAS4C-iWXt83p4JZOHfJBBccMjZ2GXVSiBHW5AF26zVcsIzhDlC3bIGDZVTQYKpEViZSthbcEvnfLGykI9NSi9773vGLcpOTHFg5tdoBTLhUoKF3pX0BLEFFHlemmXrStClc-/s1600/Snow+Blind+May+2010+Montsegur+027.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73FpBEWnTAS4C-iWXt83p4JZOHfJBBccMjZ2GXVSiBHW5AF26zVcsIzhDlC3bIGDZVTQYKpEViZSthbcEvnfLGykI9NSi9773vGLcpOTHFg5tdoBTLhUoKF3pX0BLEFFHlemmXrStClc-/s400/Snow+Blind+May+2010+Montsegur+027.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467834298604496178" border="0" /></a>Last week we were happily basking in the full heat of the Meridianal sun and have the tan lines to prove it but by this morning the snow outside our front door lay a good two feet deep and is still falling thick and fast as I write. The trees, already laden with their spring leaves, can scarcely bear the weight of the gathering snow and seem to be taking nose dives left, right and centre. While strolling in the fields above the Lasset this morning we watched as one of the listing trunks gave way and fell heavily across the path not a hundred yards from us as if it had been torn from its roots by some invisible behemoth. Another tree toppled across the power lines, abruptly plunging the entire village into freezing blackness.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc44jBfkpiQIt7yquREL1brEFX_gDBXY_8owNbQUqqw8IDG72ChH1dFJnLk82HMgXUsyao7y2X1kw_SS6nDIy5PXWigVnbeuU_5v_RkWXxGV9MUmNVo2YX8d857-dJe6ZnXhJ-oELB3x6K/s1600/Snow+Blind+May+2010+Montsegur+016.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 378px; height: 311px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc44jBfkpiQIt7yquREL1brEFX_gDBXY_8owNbQUqqw8IDG72ChH1dFJnLk82HMgXUsyao7y2X1kw_SS6nDIy5PXWigVnbeuU_5v_RkWXxGV9MUmNVo2YX8d857-dJe6ZnXhJ-oELB3x6K/s400/Snow+Blind+May+2010+Montsegur+016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467843575610816002" border="0" /></a>As above: Miss Scarlett and Jericho - the secret ruler of Montsegur</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So below: All work and no play makes Richard a dull boy...<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOdfLReE_b1f__o4sB_TQeJ2uQXz_EVSxu3fIj7mNmGYbEhGYBN9BTC2V6wesYqZGDpGlkXlvaw1BmAV7CYN0G6e-ew7n2hSUdHqSSpG_pixePScU1mkwf8mzom-Ln_3qGs3tgf7d4_edk/s1600/Snow+Blind+May+2010+Montsegur+021.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 367px; height: 279px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOdfLReE_b1f__o4sB_TQeJ2uQXz_EVSxu3fIj7mNmGYbEhGYBN9BTC2V6wesYqZGDpGlkXlvaw1BmAV7CYN0G6e-ew7n2hSUdHqSSpG_pixePScU1mkwf8mzom-Ln_3qGs3tgf7d4_edk/s400/Snow+Blind+May+2010+Montsegur+021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467839679011335138" border="0" /></a>Both the cell and land lines have been cut and we spent much of the afternoon crouched beside Madame Couquet's hearth, warming ourselves by the light of a dismembered chair and a couple of logs dragged up from the store room. After spending most of my life wishing I were back in the dark ages it comes as a bracing reminder of just how brutal life can be without the creature comforts of the 21<sup>st</sup> century. The wind races in the eaves and a shingle rattles as the wind marches across the roof with tripping, dancing feet. The pass is closed and we huddle closer to the embers as the fireplace talks with its sooty throat of other days, of other folk and other winds while outside the streets of Montsegur lie silent, wrapped in the chilly, choking embrace of the three Saints of Ice...</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMcmiG0YQ1IzXq6gTFYbnT-JwcEWAqXhuEHg-wI6G6I5IBHV4AjXCQqN8RHSn1lcTT6r4iGMhCmRhtQl0X5nsIB_PG2wacfOEWo9iynegPZWuHtsj_n6gV9IAdKImpD66KlKs9g6T4zFF/s1600/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+037.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMcmiG0YQ1IzXq6gTFYbnT-JwcEWAqXhuEHg-wI6G6I5IBHV4AjXCQqN8RHSn1lcTT6r4iGMhCmRhtQl0X5nsIB_PG2wacfOEWo9iynegPZWuHtsj_n6gV9IAdKImpD66KlKs9g6T4zFF/s400/La+lune+pleine+avril+2010+037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467841133549640658" border="0" /></a>To be continued...<br /></p>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-86049587549009946522010-04-21T08:06:00.000-07:002010-07-09T02:03:48.490-07:00Into the Heart of the Mountain<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=a62a808f191a2cdca1c8db4bf1d736a9&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS88mey1mUAI%2FAAAAAAAAAT0%2FJI832Ai1YNA%2Fs1600%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B012.JPG" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgECWUNOCqMPmPMv00qo8fq_t0Rnez7D2T78lgE68o1x5i7qgqm5chm00N3jD2iI9D3kmWTf0nMVeC-XfwTsU-wN1N7VnVI2BFlA_o7l4aiiRVCgAAD1w7VeH9i7h4qD2AH8f0k3xo0Xcfn/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+012.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: underline; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=93536e1442feb4c065735d9cee52a651&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS88mey1mUAI%2FAAAAAAAAAT0%2FJI832Ai1YNA%2Fs400%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B012.JPG" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><br /><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=ca1d36b0e54fbba21b1b52fd3802073c&url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS88n4VFejJI%2FAAAAAAAAAT8%2FjS9ZGa4JMM0%2Fs1600%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B011.JPG" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ46EQg_02sxjGOanzT9wxBpNOPUoz-jY2JLQEPAr4q7z2mkal47YF5CwhGyxwbGzeuRLE2ijRkcsKdUGfZCsUL78e-OngiAfYv3loAvpFh9HJfHNz4YvA0raWB762htGDTSbRMQ3ooybH/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+011.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=b71bb7fab5095326a766e90818a1a419&url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS88n4VFejJI%2FAAAAAAAAAT8%2FjS9ZGa4JMM0%2Fs400%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B011.JPG" style="text-align: left;border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">April 19 2010</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">Johnny Redhead crossed to the brink of the abyss, staring out over the winding gorge of the Lasset far below. Scarlett and J.B. slid down the scree behind me as I paused to catch my breath, slowly taking in my surroundings.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">The trail leading back down towards the village through the tangled thickets of box and scrub myrtle looked almost as forbidding as the way forward, a barely distinguishable path, seemingly more suited to animals than to mere mortals such as ourselves, that threaded its course steadily higher up the beetling cliffs. We'd gone too far for turning back to be a viable option. The only way left to go was up...</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=3a90e044eab924d3002f853aef6d44ba&url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS9C2RyQjxGI%2FAAAAAAAAAXU%2F01PIayq-De0%2Fs1600%2F27265_411170711179_567606179_4975550_4044400_n.jpg" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAd1OtlzWKRczcuh_vXsy0kCyIGGvfZQAv_FzZV5G0a3Lcmthc0d6kKMqRwMOuTKDIdhiAqczS0Jk5FD_yWH9u3Nn0Ixtw6VP9bANu8XOv2HMPP0v1cYCnHq5ufM9b0UniYWug89DIja2Q/s1600/27265_411170711179_567606179_4975550_4044400_n.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=916603fd1b34d43c8dd0505146c6da2c&url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS9C2RyQjxGI%2FAAAAAAAAAXU%2F01PIayq-De0%2Fs400%2F27265_411170711179_567606179_4975550_4044400_n.jpg" style="text-align: left;border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">Above: Master climber Johnny Redhead with village mascot 'Tiger IV'</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;"><br />Scrambling hand over hand up a bare rockface wasn't what we'd had in mind that morning, but it came naturally to Johnny Redhead. Johnny had founded the free climbing movement on Montserrat back in the day and was no stranger to the haute Pyrenee's. This was his third visit to Montsegur. He'd had plenty of time to scope out the terrain and now the early spring weather finally provided us with the perfect window of opportunity.<br /></span><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=8e30defb9ab19c35034e9fbb92611119&url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS9C1lPujZSI%2FAAAAAAAAAXM%2F329__B0pOcg%2Fs1600%2F27265_411169246179_567606179_4975511_3158894_n.jpg" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMiiEg2CpyFQxCui-MToVPJh-WaO97EjmKnKQZhKPCldwBXPpvd5aESTS1x1o2H0jCMTSUxkkMrYywsgNzdW51t4DWuGMHWBm77cTM9-jFBRT_h6bYSJTa5790gZQAGpDXvb5xqOuBs_CY/s1600/27265_411169246179_567606179_4975511_3158894_n.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=7f659d164ed0cfabe8236a3091baa15b&url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS9C1lPujZSI%2FAAAAAAAAAXM%2F329__B0pOcg%2Fs400%2F27265_411169246179_567606179_4975511_3158894_n.jpg" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">We first heard the rumours about the secret path up the sheer side of the pog during the shooting of 'The Secret Glory' in the summer of 1998. Indeed such rumours are hard to miss, repeated, as they are, in virtually every guide book and work of history or 'pseudohistory' to mention the castle's siege. The basic story has it that after holding out for ten months against the crusaders, the fortress fell to treachery. Accounts tend to differ as to who sold them out, but the basic consensus seems to be that a shepherd, possibly from the village of Camon, guided a group of variously described as 'Gascon mercenaries', or 'Teutonic knights accustomed to the alpine conditions', up the sheer side of the mountain via a precipitous 'secret path'. The defenders were caught off guard and either killed or wounded before being flung to their deaths from the top of the cliff. A chronicler relates that at sunrise the raiding party looked down in horror at the dizzying drop and swore that they never would have made the ascent by daylight. The route that they had taken was 'far too terrifying'...</span><p></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">It is widely believed that Pierre Roger de Mirepoix saved the treasures of the castle by hiding four parfaits in a crack in the rocks, and that during the night of the 15</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;"> of March, the very eve of the castle's capitulation, they were lowered down the sheer cliff face by ropes and made good their escape. There is little or no historical documentation however to support this popular account which made its first appearance in Napoleon Peyrat's 'Histoire des Albigeoise', 1870. Peyrat was a visionary, Protestant pastor who descended from a long line of religious dissedents that seemed to have held an multi-generational grudge against the Catholic church (see previous blog 'Secrets of the Oppidum') and who apparently saw the events happen in a dream. Despite it's shaky roots, this fable has formed the roots of any number of conspiracy theories from 'The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail' (Lincoln, Baigent and Leigh, 1982) to Colonel Howard Buchner's 'Emerald Cup – Ark of Gold', 1991, and is believed by some to have inspired certain elements of Lawrence Kasden's screenplay, 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'.<br /></span><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=0f426ed154b53bc7641af34e4224dcb4&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS9CWys3SOPI%2FAAAAAAAAAW8%2F0L3yiSkNCq4%2Fs1600%2FSecret%2BGlory%2B001.jpg" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1rLR07uyeS9inx0VHwnmoGz1c-p2ctzaYuQ9-9CZF4fNloP_GkhgsHmu6gRNG10aitm1azVmcZf5rCPH1cO7o5mS1x3FMoHgNkF-xpXLj0VM0RqG58B5w4x9SCn27gIu8je1piyBcpxS/s1600/Secret+Glory+001.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=a03a154286f8675b68411338252d445f&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS9CWys3SOPI%2FAAAAAAAAAW8%2F0L3yiSkNCq4%2Fs400%2FSecret%2BGlory%2B001.jpg" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">Above: Self with ballista ammunition from the crusader catapults (catalogued and numbered by the GRAME -Groupe de Recherches Archeologiques de Montsegur et Environs), pictured during an initial survey of the pog's eastern flank - circa 1998 ( photograph courtesy of James 'J.B.' Bourne )<br /><br />Unsurprisingly, the matter of whether or not the secret paths actually existed has been a matter of some debate here at Shadow Theatre HQ. Long-term Irregular, James 'J.B.' Bourne, and myself made our first attempts to pick up the trail back in the mid nineties. Although well intentioned, our early efforts were thwarted time and again. Every trail that we followed seemed to disappear into the rocks and the cliffs, forcing us to turn back crest fallen and empty-handed. At this stage of the game, some fifteen years further down the pike, it was pretty much a matter of do or die.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=ae72f00eb7b5944486b0154bcda02d6e&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS88wciWvYzI%2FAAAAAAAAAUc%2F-1ruAoExCkA%2Fs1600%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B038.JPG" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIUpUzg2TbRw6-GzM-LXwRNC_Fx8QduaEuolbI-YRkb1x5W2OAQaeWUr4gv0XSVYwpo3HO2MMSpJNaoJC-gZ54KKE1Wf3h4Su2RX5ytsTTNphuJcqrlt-50z1GdvIefCWILwU5I9U6Thl/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+038.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=c2e0a9a076c6a0c04f2c86759ca2ebc7&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS88wciWvYzI%2FAAAAAAAAAUc%2F-1ruAoExCkA%2Fs400%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B038.JPG" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">Gritting our collective teeth we followed Johnny Redhead up the narrow incline towards the waiting cliffs. It was already close to mid-day and the best part of the climb was still ahead of us.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“This is definitely a path.” He called back confidently.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“Yeah. But was it made by humans or animals?” I craned my neck upwards, doing my best to follow his eye line.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">Something crashed heavily through the bushes far below.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“Probably a wild boar that we scared off.” J.B. offered in response to our questioning faces.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“I can understand why men climb mountains. But animals?”</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“Didn't Thierre say to watch out for vipers?” interjected Miss Scarlett “That they've just woken up and are at their hungriest and deadliest this time of year..”</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“Yeah. But why do animals climb bloody mountains?”</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“I dunno. Maybe the boars get together to play poker in the keep”</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">We worked our way slowly higher, eyes fixed on a gap in the ridge ahead. We hit more dense scrub which we had to crawl through and then bare rock. It was a tough call which one was more difficult. The scrub clawed at our clothes and faces whilst on the rock we could only pray for hand and foot holds. We inched our way up the south eastern wall of the pog in a rising traverse, ascending cautiously from ledge to ledge, trying not to look down.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=ead81d9648f7ef3dd64109d56ed44460&url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS880NX2iytI%2FAAAAAAAAAUk%2F8-c_eeysXlY%2Fs1600%2F27265_411170681179_567606179_4975545_1573513_n.jpg" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvTUdkUpC4gn2C1qMCNS8ZMiTqBSuGirLnrLl5cF7ahxvdKfhYksz7i8jiJakkDaZrIGTFVqqn1r0jWNpP2tyvavctwVPTwSU1ymBJKnAKacpk8iB0Nm1CXpUCKYFbE137-pRBKFigqKr/s1600/27265_411170681179_567606179_4975545_1573513_n.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=3f4cc707fceb8687f85ceea1a49eb087&url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS880NX2iytI%2FAAAAAAAAAUk%2F8-c_eeysXlY%2Fs400%2F27265_411170681179_567606179_4975545_1573513_n.jpg" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">As above, so below: UP! ( photographs courtesy of Scarlett Amaris and James Bourne )<br />Sadly we didn't get any pics of the climb itself as we were all too busy hanging on for dear life to bother taking happysnaps.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=69f3f0e3734d623fa305467ad10dd537&url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS880syJ5KqI%2FAAAAAAAAAUs%2FNpyJXMnS3RM%2Fs1600%2F27265_411173446179_567606179_4975569_3863310_n.jpg" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLARFU1iLa9bwIT6lFwnNOV0ntAy5NPVtp7cIrYmM9lKlAmMcVm9oRH_20PNECTlyyhnndn1VfmjSyJH_cDoKhMzehRqWqiFU9MhFyPArWK0RSvCLOokzeFSEY0L7OeBCyaAHdAM3FfNAg/s1600/27265_411173446179_567606179_4975569_3863310_n.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=f88d33993830a7478b3d8b6fe9bfeb4a&url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS880syJ5KqI%2FAAAAAAAAAUs%2FNpyJXMnS3RM%2Fs400%2F27265_411173446179_567606179_4975569_3863310_n.jpg" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">Slowly the landscape took on a different aspect as unseen crests, troughs and valleys opened beneath us. A few hundred meters higher Scarlett missed a foothold, sliding abruptly downwards only to catch herself at the last moment. J.B. winced hearing the fearful sound of the pebbles dislodged by her feet trickling away into the gulfs below.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“You're a good little scamperer.” commented Johnny, plainly in his element.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“How much further to the top?” Ashen faced Miss Scarlett heaved herself over the lip of the spur.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“It's so close that I can smell it!” Johnny grinned, sniffing the warm, sweet breeze that blew down from the pog.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“Up...” I grunted, following him as he began to climb once more, not knowing exactly why, only knowing that I had to. Vertigo coursed through me but there was something within me that was stronger than fear that only seemed to deepen as I climbed, the desire to solve the mountain's riddle and penetrate to a still deeper layer of the enigma, to somehow find my way back through the maze to the good lady's side and wherever the hell it was I really belonged, my limbs going through the motions of an built in ritual that kept them moving long after the pilot had taken his hands from the joystick.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=f6ee0ced32307698b369c29765024aff&url=http%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS882jxgzomI%2FAAAAAAAAAU0%2F3_H6bVIICJY%2Fs1600%2F27265_411170571179_567606179_4975526_4974406_n.jpg" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3VpTffdVtqAwxO7fTFuHItgKwhQbvDnWbq1Z1kGU6XpBV6bt_MHHcVlhy5lGbSX5rJLsBd-BYXsGgCKfCI-8Um6641WtAkLIDH3nTaXgZwV1CRUS-cYwk9D-UHa5j9XOH97zKyFOMctez/s1600/27265_411170571179_567606179_4975526_4974406_n.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=de9af3ea3ca07e5fa221e2f01ee16caf&url=http%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS882jxgzomI%2FAAAAAAAAAU0%2F3_H6bVIICJY%2Fs320%2F27265_411170571179_567606179_4975526_4974406_n.jpg" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">As above, so below: Spring colors on the south eastern face of the pog ( photographs courtesy of James 'J.B.' Bourne )</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=d317b413e53a42b93a4404a9d4ecd83e&url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS882wq_lkmI%2FAAAAAAAAAU8%2FfIEOZQf9G9U%2Fs1600%2F27265_411170656179_567606179_4975541_4811783_n.jpg" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghj32YP9BVPA3HcFYbcQlNkBVDwpbqXoa7XtnxKTJme2B5cWhqdyigilfeLpQKm0ddjeNKZ2ZRFJaH9E7SpNN_4UMwlNwfyEdmai_ha-RWK3p2ue8i68-AV7WaWfZlU87323c95z39OKUm/s1600/27265_411170656179_567606179_4975541_4811783_n.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=9e6abd4d53f45ba393d4e6da56dcb366&url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS882wq_lkmI%2FAAAAAAAAAU8%2FfIEOZQf9G9U%2Fs400%2F27265_411170656179_567606179_4975541_4811783_n.jpg" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“Damn. That's perfect...” I exclaimed, eyes focussing on the foliage that ringed the cliff top. “The mountain's crowned by wild roses.”</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“Yeah. I just put my f****n' hand on one of 'em” Miss Scarlett shrugged, displaying her punctured palm.</span></p><p style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">We stopped for a minute letting the realization sink in that we had made it.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=09b306f0058e343d2b317462a17c5d24&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS9CTgJ7AjyI%2FAAAAAAAAAW0%2FekdmPOI5bM4%2Fs1600%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B036.JPG" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifNk5oU_1NKalnmcBDG4gCMS_K39oCfpcWa0UfYR944kAcVLRzf7nJmVzku5vkBRHAimPFVtIZxuILfcssJ6O9u6bLHZcxDtm_vKgGaq0dUS_4-KU6jRsUmGQDELtyK3cnm0uBLuTU_Ylj/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+036.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=6032ea1339eaddbf5362df8a49ba9b41&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS9CTgJ7AjyI%2FAAAAAAAAAW0%2FekdmPOI5bM4%2Fs400%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B036.JPG" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">We were finally standing upright on the summit of the pog. Large, alpine fir trees stood majestically towards the sunshine. This was a part of the mountain that none of us had ever been to before and the territory was wild, virginal and untouched, with the castle no where in sight.<br /><br />It didn't take long to come across a trebuchet ball, a large one fired by the crusaders so long ago, still lying on the forest floor. Evidently a fierce battle had been fought here during the closing days of the siege.<br /></span></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" size="11px" style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">Johnny paused, hackles rising.“The hell is this place ?”<br />Up ahead the path dipped into a shadowy hollow between two huge, moss encrusted boulders.“The place between two stones...” I muttered.“I think it was mentioned in one of the inquisition records. There's a brief but puzzling reference to how when Arnaud Narbona de Carol was was mortally injured they took him 'dans la grotte de ce chateau' although its said this might not have been a cave at all but only a “place between two stones”.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=af56827a6d8005e8d0cb19af9a1274c8&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS887EmU3B0I%2FAAAAAAAAAVc%2FO8-IwToqWzA%2Fs1600%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B030.JPG" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj272prFHlOAmOfoeloPk1IiqbitXDb2YkJZY7twp2M3ZWDKAG-Calqh-YeheJNSx_JY6VBao4KRZyRwx6H3byTUGLK9l0nfIMw3yktqwfER4r6etrgXYfoXgAz_vcPQ54fTkx4jDy7SBS0/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+030.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=9c241cf7dfd5cc0ae1f1b3197362200e&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS887EmU3B0I%2FAAAAAAAAAVc%2FO8-IwToqWzA%2Fs400%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B030.JPG" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“There's something down here all right.” Johnny raised his arm, short hairs standing on end as if divining something just beyond the limit of our senses.</span></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" size="11px" style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“This feels like the oldest part of the mountain,” whispered Miss Scarlett, dipping her voice as if we had just entered a place of worship, and, in a way, we had.</span></p><p face="'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif" size="11px" style=" text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“Older than the castle?”</span></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">She nodded, eyes scanning the sky line beyond the treetops as she slowly got her bearings. “It's the same feeling I had at Morenci. Like the two places are connected somehow. Aligned. Like the sun and the moon...”</span></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">I started forward into the shadows, recalling a story about another place between two stones. The crack in the rocks where Pierre Roger de Mirepoix was supposed to have hidden those fleeing holy men and their sacred treasure. But that was surely a myth, the dream of a deranged 19</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;"> century pastor yet the silent, shadowy aisle of stones at the head of the path seemed to fit that myth's murky outlines only too comfortably.</span></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; "><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=e1ded868b3f2ac3459fe1838861ce673&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS888w47CahI%2FAAAAAAAAAVk%2FzwNWl4XIo-A%2Fs1600%2F27265_411170631179_567606179_4975537_4275369_n.jpg" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGvxjH0glNrr8B8OSfzYawwqNXf_H4mErkl3LQYHI9kDnTMQrQq6HoG4Zj6RTAeti8nR1IEEYapR8rzaHVk0_XIc1D91iLMJcUbufS-lAQbaYmamB9BaX9EdhqjV0lobm1l-c1aHawIRTB/s1600/27265_411170631179_567606179_4975537_4275369_n.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=231e4f75c4385d8aa1f36072e7000441&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS888w47CahI%2FAAAAAAAAAVk%2FzwNWl4XIo-A%2Fs400%2F27265_411170631179_567606179_4975537_4275369_n.jpg" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">As we searched the maze of ancient boulders it became more evident that parts of this eldritch sanctuary had been apparently been shaped by human hands, smaller stones stacked over the larger ones, creating unusual shapes and alcoves. The rock seemed strangely porous, and the ground was so damp and soft that my stick sunk in a good two feet at one point. I hesitated, skin tingling despite the warmth of the afternoon, knowing I had come to the edge of something I could scarcely comprehend.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=6385da1aef219ade0621f3cf87a7ce42&url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS889vCEYFwI%2FAAAAAAAAAVs%2FM3xuCEDrZ-g%2Fs1600%2F27265_411170636179_567606179_4975538_3939687_n.jpg" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUeNQewFlvFAIgx2oyNZ87ovesu-Qtkm0mmj2inyf38ReSdUlX3YzrqLbtG0KHeDjbAlAi1cH13MYH1jawAxGuXvaOClM4rRCzTBpVr-c96LgNm7k4wI_qP_ShncDsWsUy_HO3OMUASJ1b/s1600/27265_411170636179_567606179_4975538_3939687_n.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=d13773d62ccaf4c2b01a620672d5418d&url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS889vCEYFwI%2FAAAAAAAAAVs%2FM3xuCEDrZ-g%2Fs400%2F27265_411170636179_567606179_4975538_3939687_n.jpg" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">Before us a dark cavity gaped amidst the maw of the rocks. Falling to my hands and knees in the deep, rich mulch of the forest floor I squirmed forward, getting my head and shoulders through the gap. It was about as far as I could go but it was enough. There was an oddly shaped hollow within the bosom of the stone through which the sun's rays streamed and for a moment it was as if I were staring into the heart of the mountain itself.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=61dd34ff551e191a0d3a003c8b02a16a&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS88-2nQ7jiI%2FAAAAAAAAAV0%2F3ECFQcopd10%2Fs1600%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B028.JPG" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirc6uPBuJlUxTfQArzytm9hpVTcZ40cdCSKUGXDPyOK-VHGPTJCTPAvgpKKC7B7wMTGN89j9UFmCZR1KFZktNOXsg0QR-nqtiOoGC5O5Ex16bB31Sc-PfcWzSLkj1jfMPZB6MmnrhyphenhyphenC8Fs/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+028.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=ef56f75953db8a0146d83595db56d45a&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS88-2nQ7jiI%2FAAAAAAAAAV0%2F3ECFQcopd10%2Fs400%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B028.JPG" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">As above, so below: Sacre Coeur</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=0af165b86b33012fafe4ffb40aee1570&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS88_1YMot8I%2FAAAAAAAAAV8%2F9IcKiWxoAF0%2Fs1600%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B026.JPG" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibD4A64vjeXQwvZ_TfXwbCCL3jsgEt1fqb9qEdFvXTo79RcPs05Ci9YVpqXtLv3ztKVa6FQgsIwotxY5j5Mladesptnj8GkmqbSXf63gf7Z7FjgMKS2wSl3Tl1PlD4-oLMV1mkZR2mjGdm/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+026.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=039df5514dc56ae40be1cf8915f7a0d3&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS88_1YMot8I%2FAAAAAAAAAV8%2F9IcKiWxoAF0%2Fs400%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B026.JPG" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">We emerged, breathless and a little giddy, from the tree line below the stone terrace that Miss Scarlett had investigated only a few days previously in the company of our shaman friend. ( * see previous 'blog – 'Secrets of the Oppidum' ) Now we realized the terrace formed a convenient marker, pointing the way towards the stones beyond and the path that lead down the south eastern face of the pog, a trail we have decided to name 'La Route du Coeur'.<br /></span><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=4403f16c4ff41cef743aba30abc520d9&url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS89A_kdW_fI%2FAAAAAAAAAWE%2FQwJOh-5wErc%2Fs1600%2F27265_411170716179_567606179_4975551_2781879_n.bmp" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoConbZf070pI23wJaHI5VArqF3dwQ5FV3Yv1AIaVeI3erWdI6jEeiQ199-kdXgXzwlKA1eawZxUlD_ukvXJI29x_E3Sz2lZ0nxAZK4nQx88AdUJuh7Ropg_09hq_1uHLB1h1z8QAY3aTw/s1600/27265_411170716179_567606179_4975551_2781879_n.bmp" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=9555c1432b5da519a5725465256976bb&url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS89A_kdW_fI%2FAAAAAAAAAWE%2FQwJOh-5wErc%2Fs400%2F27265_411170716179_567606179_4975551_2781879_n.bmp" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">As above, so below: La Route du Coeur</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=141d6d0456a05208ba0a4d6281e2af53&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS89BP3Ki8VI%2FAAAAAAAAAWM%2FqhJ58IPoIhg%2Fs1600%2Fmontsegur%2B%2Btopshot.jpg" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvOhL9UGtfzSQQJ4nlNPseHopsCmn4t90vugNb7fqx_wCSZdAeK2L-RjMXkT1p1tKNEGdE39_KUprhBO4K4b0Lcat4WhlOJWvS1ghh3wQfjSLv4yt7ooqY-lJE9QZ59dptgBlvwp6IdaW/s1600/montsegur++topshot.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=318d754bf3c61686dea8735e97673d4b&url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS89BP3Ki8VI%2FAAAAAAAAAWM%2FqhJ58IPoIhg%2Fs400%2Fmontsegur%2B%2Btopshot.jpg" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">There are many ways to climb the holy mountain some more difficult than others. A winding path, almost certainly used by the crusaders, ascends the northern slope, connecting the ford at Benaix to the Roc de la Tour, and there are persistent rumours concerning a hidden trail on the seemingly impassable western flank. Every time we gain some incremental insight into the mystery it is as if consensus reality is forced to concede for a moment, and we are handed another tiny piece of the puzzle. Slowly, bit by bit a larger, older truth begins to fall into place.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=483c6d0634be671cd6e6bbb780269528&url=http%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS89CO-knhQI%2FAAAAAAAAAWU%2FXrhBkxzY_JE%2Fs1600%2F27265_411170686179_567606179_4975546_6225827_n.jpg" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaGAMo-z5-FF-zhjhU52XoaNOH0poumRDN_mzCwWaVpUUdeK-A6dPouROliLi8qeEqxmrDmCqgEhSdzHR1Oez8x-KdoWAwoT-mhnfKVKnNqEHTkLarGhzMQ6IRumtIERd_rKrMfnndQ76x/s1600/27265_411170686179_567606179_4975546_6225827_n.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=b5183de773a43e6e538df5c3424dba2b&url=http%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS89CO-knhQI%2FAAAAAAAAAWU%2FXrhBkxzY_JE%2Fs400%2F27265_411170686179_567606179_4975546_6225827_n.jpg" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“I can't believe we finally did it!” J.B. Stretched out on the embankment beneath the castle wall, soaking up the sun and enjoying the sensation of being back on solid terra firma.”After all these years...”</span></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“Yeah,” I inclined my head, looking down into the valley far below, watching the backs of the eagles turning over the soft green hills where Esclarmonde d'Alion once rode. “After all these years...”<br />“Sometimes all it takes is a li'l chance and a li'l will. That and the right company.” I nodded towards Johnny who stood on the edge of the cliff, gazing towards the dim, volcanic outline of Bugarach that rose tier upon Babelian tier on the easternmost rim of the earth, his head already aswim with thoughts of climbs to come and fresh trails to blaze.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=654f6294e5115fa65facae7086850da5&url=http%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS9Czi7Yq7mI%2FAAAAAAAAAXE%2FYAaHH0fh6BA%2Fs1600%2F27265_411170691179_567606179_4975547_1192240_n.jpg" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6v2L-wxUpYhb-pJNr-QfudRKeApRfvv8kqfsD8EQyuHomx9IBClBE5CY8M0C6k3u8XsSpqbQA7a8gJSKg2MCrq_tl90NKT0ELBeA9YwCgcdGgHAbgfs1EobFXRaePqzXcddJtSExSgydh/s1600/27265_411170691179_567606179_4975547_1192240_n.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=7238be4928439dab0d7980b261dbe7e2&url=http%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS9Czi7Yq7mI%2FAAAAAAAAAXE%2FYAaHH0fh6BA%2Fs400%2F27265_411170691179_567606179_4975547_1192240_n.jpg" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">“Some people say when you climb a mountain don't look down. But why not? The view is beautiful...” - Viktor Suvorov ( Soviet tank commander )<br /></span><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note_redirect.php?note_id=440752130992&h=2b7e735090992cc0daefbefd78104708&url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS89DxWq_ctI%2FAAAAAAAAAWk%2F89VciRLCLdQ%2Fs1600%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B043.JPG" target="_blank" title="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh252EeOsUQwSu7xSxgXpO7pN0qx-sY8Ge5A30h6W6fPq3J8OQls8EVlrUFLWcYflep7_aKcuSl770enkGaJJ5ekl_MmgNYPAj0d6xFGWHtr1k75pJLV53AsXT9yLHT5vj3rwx90aj0vbfP/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+043.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><img class="ext_img img" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=51e508353c08f6ccd54f582ece9c230d&url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F_b-F--HpOGWI%2FS89DxWq_ctI%2FAAAAAAAAAWk%2F89VciRLCLdQ%2Fs400%2Fpogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010%2B043.JPG" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">To be continued: -</span></p></span><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.2</style><br />Previously on 'Terra Umbra' – After twenty years of frustration and near misses, the team seems to be on the verge of finally cracking the mystery as free-climbing guru, Johnny Redhead, galvanizes efforts to find the secret path up the sheer face of the pog. Typically however, the solution to this long running riddle only leads to a further enigma ... <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ46EQg_02sxjGOanzT9wxBpNOPUoz-jY2JLQEPAr4q7z2mkal47YF5CwhGyxwbGzeuRLE2ijRkcsKdUGfZCsUL78e-OngiAfYv3loAvpFh9HJfHNz4YvA0raWB762htGDTSbRMQ3ooybH/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+011.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ46EQg_02sxjGOanzT9wxBpNOPUoz-jY2JLQEPAr4q7z2mkal47YF5CwhGyxwbGzeuRLE2ijRkcsKdUGfZCsUL78e-OngiAfYv3loAvpFh9HJfHNz4YvA0raWB762htGDTSbRMQ3ooybH/s400/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462628721709976722" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">April 19 2010</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Johnny Redhead crossed to the brink of the abyss, staring out over the winding gorge of the Lasset far below. Scarlett and J.B. slid down the scree behind me as I paused to catch my breath, slowly taking in my surroundings. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The trail leading back down towards the village through the tangled thickets of box and scrub myrtle looked almost as forbidding as the way forward, a barely distinguishable path, seemingly more suited to animals than to mere mortals such as ourselves, that threaded its course steadily higher up the beetling cliffs. We'd gone too far for turning back to be a viable option. The only way left to go was up...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAd1OtlzWKRczcuh_vXsy0kCyIGGvfZQAv_FzZV5G0a3Lcmthc0d6kKMqRwMOuTKDIdhiAqczS0Jk5FD_yWH9u3Nn0Ixtw6VP9bANu8XOv2HMPP0v1cYCnHq5ufM9b0UniYWug89DIja2Q/s1600/27265_411170711179_567606179_4975550_4044400_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAd1OtlzWKRczcuh_vXsy0kCyIGGvfZQAv_FzZV5G0a3Lcmthc0d6kKMqRwMOuTKDIdhiAqczS0Jk5FD_yWH9u3Nn0Ixtw6VP9bANu8XOv2HMPP0v1cYCnHq5ufM9b0UniYWug89DIja2Q/s400/27265_411170711179_567606179_4975550_4044400_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463066764665668706" border="0" /></a>Above: Master climber Johnny Redhead with village mascot 'Tiger IV'<br /><br />Scrambling hand over hand up a bare rockface wasn't what we'd had in mind that morning, but it came naturally to Johnny Redhead. Johnny had founded the free climbing movement on Montserrat back in the day and was no stranger to the haute Pyrenee's. This was his third visit to Montsegur. He'd had plenty of time to scope out the terrain and now the early spring weather finally provided us with the perfect window of opportunity.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMiiEg2CpyFQxCui-MToVPJh-WaO97EjmKnKQZhKPCldwBXPpvd5aESTS1x1o2H0jCMTSUxkkMrYywsgNzdW51t4DWuGMHWBm77cTM9-jFBRT_h6bYSJTa5790gZQAGpDXvb5xqOuBs_CY/s1600/27265_411169246179_567606179_4975511_3158894_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMiiEg2CpyFQxCui-MToVPJh-WaO97EjmKnKQZhKPCldwBXPpvd5aESTS1x1o2H0jCMTSUxkkMrYywsgNzdW51t4DWuGMHWBm77cTM9-jFBRT_h6bYSJTa5790gZQAGpDXvb5xqOuBs_CY/s400/27265_411169246179_567606179_4975511_3158894_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463065999481988386" border="0" /></a> We first heard the rumours about the secret path up the sheer side of the pog during the shooting of 'The Secret Glory' in the summer of 1998. Indeed such rumours are hard to miss, repeated, as they are, in virtually every guide book and work of history or 'pseudohistory' to mention the castle's siege. The basic story has it that after holding out for ten months against the crusaders, the fortress fell to treachery. Accounts tend to differ as to who sold them out, but the basic consensus seems to be that a shepherd, possibly from the village of Camon, guided a group of variously described as 'Gascon mercenaries', or 'Teutonic knights accustomed to the alpine conditions', up the sheer side of the mountain via a precipitous 'secret path'. The defenders were caught off guard and either killed or wounded before being flung to their deaths from the top of the cliff. A chronicler relates that at sunrise the raiding party looked down in horror at the dizzying drop and swore that they never would have made the ascent by daylight. The route that they had taken was 'far too terrifying'...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It is widely believed that Pierre Roger de Mirepoix saved the treasures of the castle by hiding four parfaits in a crack in the rocks, and that during the night of the 15<sup>th</sup> of March, the very eve of the castle's capitulation, they were lowered down the sheer cliff face by ropes and made good their escape. There is little or no historical documentation however to support this popular account which made its first appearance in Napoleon Peyrat's 'Histoire des Albigeoise', 1870. Peyrat was a visionary, Protestant pastor who descended from a long line of religious dissedents that seemed to have held an multi-generational grudge against the Catholic church (see previous blog 'Secrets of the Oppidum') and who apparently saw the events happen in a dream. Despite it's shaky roots, this fable has formed the roots of any number of conspiracy theories from 'The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail' (Lincoln, Baigent and Leigh, 1982) to Colonel Howard Buchner's 'Emerald Cup – Ark of Gold', 1991, and is believed by some to have inspired certain elements of Lawrence Kasden's screenplay, 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1rLR07uyeS9inx0VHwnmoGz1c-p2ctzaYuQ9-9CZF4fNloP_GkhgsHmu6gRNG10aitm1azVmcZf5rCPH1cO7o5mS1x3FMoHgNkF-xpXLj0VM0RqG58B5w4x9SCn27gIu8je1piyBcpxS/s1600/Secret+Glory+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1rLR07uyeS9inx0VHwnmoGz1c-p2ctzaYuQ9-9CZF4fNloP_GkhgsHmu6gRNG10aitm1azVmcZf5rCPH1cO7o5mS1x3FMoHgNkF-xpXLj0VM0RqG58B5w4x9SCn27gIu8je1piyBcpxS/s400/Secret+Glory+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463032145781078258" border="0" /></a>Above: Self with ballista ammunition from the crusader catapults (catalogued and numbered by the GRAME -Groupe de Recherches Archeologiques de Montsegur et Environs), pictured during an initial survey of the pog's eastern flank - circa 1998 ( photograph courtesy of James 'J.B.' Bourne )<br /><br />Unsurprisingly, the matter of whether or not the secret paths actually existed has been a matter of some debate here at Shadow Theatre HQ. Long-term Irregular, James 'J.B.' Bourne, and myself made our first attempts to pick up the trail back in the mid nineties. Although well intentioned, our early efforts were thwarted time and again. Every trail that we followed seemed to disappear into the rocks and the cliffs, forcing us to turn back crest fallen and empty-handed. At this stage of the game, some fifteen years further down the pike, it was pretty much a matter of do or die.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIUpUzg2TbRw6-GzM-LXwRNC_Fx8QduaEuolbI-YRkb1x5W2OAQaeWUr4gv0XSVYwpo3HO2MMSpJNaoJC-gZ54KKE1Wf3h4Su2RX5ytsTTNphuJcqrlt-50z1GdvIefCWILwU5I9U6Thl/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+038.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIUpUzg2TbRw6-GzM-LXwRNC_Fx8QduaEuolbI-YRkb1x5W2OAQaeWUr4gv0XSVYwpo3HO2MMSpJNaoJC-gZ54KKE1Wf3h4Su2RX5ytsTTNphuJcqrlt-50z1GdvIefCWILwU5I9U6Thl/s400/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+038.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462638139840357170" border="0" /></a>Gritting our collective teeth we followed Johnny Redhead up the narrow incline towards the waiting cliffs. It was already close to mid-day and the best part of the climb was still ahead of us.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“This is definitely a path.” He called back confidently.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah. But was it made by humans or animals?” I craned my neck upwards, doing my best to follow his eye line.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Something crashed heavily through the bushes far below.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Probably a wild boar that we scared off.” J.B. offered in response to our questioning faces.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I can understand why men climb mountains. But animals?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Didn't Thierre say to watch out for vipers?” interjected Miss Scarlett “That they've just woken up and are at their hungriest and deadliest this time of year..” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah. But why do animals climb bloody mountains?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I dunno. Maybe the boars get together to play poker in the keep”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We worked our way slowly higher, eyes fixed on a gap in the ridge ahead. We hit more dense scrub which we had to crawl through and then bare rock. It was a tough call which one was more difficult. The scrub clawed at our clothes and faces whilst on the rock we could only pray for hand and foot holds. We inched our way up the south eastern wall of the pog in a rising traverse, ascending cautiously from ledge to ledge, trying not to look down.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvTUdkUpC4gn2C1qMCNS8ZMiTqBSuGirLnrLl5cF7ahxvdKfhYksz7i8jiJakkDaZrIGTFVqqn1r0jWNpP2tyvavctwVPTwSU1ymBJKnAKacpk8iB0Nm1CXpUCKYFbE137-pRBKFigqKr/s1600/27265_411170681179_567606179_4975545_1573513_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvTUdkUpC4gn2C1qMCNS8ZMiTqBSuGirLnrLl5cF7ahxvdKfhYksz7i8jiJakkDaZrIGTFVqqn1r0jWNpP2tyvavctwVPTwSU1ymBJKnAKacpk8iB0Nm1CXpUCKYFbE137-pRBKFigqKr/s400/27265_411170681179_567606179_4975545_1573513_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462642277369432786" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: UP! ( photographs courtesy of Scarlett Amaris and James Bourne )<br />Sadly we didn't get any pics of the climb itself as we were all too busy hanging on for dear life to bother taking happysnaps.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLARFU1iLa9bwIT6lFwnNOV0ntAy5NPVtp7cIrYmM9lKlAmMcVm9oRH_20PNECTlyyhnndn1VfmjSyJH_cDoKhMzehRqWqiFU9MhFyPArWK0RSvCLOokzeFSEY0L7OeBCyaAHdAM3FfNAg/s1600/27265_411173446179_567606179_4975569_3863310_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLARFU1iLa9bwIT6lFwnNOV0ntAy5NPVtp7cIrYmM9lKlAmMcVm9oRH_20PNECTlyyhnndn1VfmjSyJH_cDoKhMzehRqWqiFU9MhFyPArWK0RSvCLOokzeFSEY0L7OeBCyaAHdAM3FfNAg/s400/27265_411173446179_567606179_4975569_3863310_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462642817005857442" border="0" /></a>Slowly the landscape took on a different aspect as unseen crests, troughs and valleys opened beneath us. A few hundred meters higher Scarlett missed a foothold, sliding abruptly downwards only to catch herself at the last moment. J.B. winced hearing the fearful sound of the pebbles dislodged by her feet trickling away into the gulfs below. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're a good little scamperer.” commented Johnny, plainly in his element.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How much further to the top?” Ashen faced Miss Scarlett heaved herself over the lip of the spur.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's so close that I can smell it!” Johnny grinned, sniffing the warm, sweet breeze that blew down from the pog.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Up...” I grunted, following him as he began to climb once more, not knowing exactly why, only knowing that I had to. Vertigo coursed through me but there was something within me that was stronger than fear that only seemed to deepen as I climbed, the desire to solve the mountain's riddle and penetrate to a still deeper layer of the enigma, to somehow find my way back through the maze to the good lady's side and wherever the hell it was I really belonged, my limbs going through the motions of an built in ritual that kept them moving long after the pilot had taken his hands from the joystick.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3VpTffdVtqAwxO7fTFuHItgKwhQbvDnWbq1Z1kGU6XpBV6bt_MHHcVlhy5lGbSX5rJLsBd-BYXsGgCKfCI-8Um6641WtAkLIDH3nTaXgZwV1CRUS-cYwk9D-UHa5j9XOH97zKyFOMctez/s1600/27265_411170571179_567606179_4975526_4974406_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3VpTffdVtqAwxO7fTFuHItgKwhQbvDnWbq1Z1kGU6XpBV6bt_MHHcVlhy5lGbSX5rJLsBd-BYXsGgCKfCI-8Um6641WtAkLIDH3nTaXgZwV1CRUS-cYwk9D-UHa5j9XOH97zKyFOMctez/s320/27265_411170571179_567606179_4975526_4974406_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462644861237961314" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: Spring colors on the south eastern face of the pog ( photographs courtesy of James 'J.B.' Bourne )<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghj32YP9BVPA3HcFYbcQlNkBVDwpbqXoa7XtnxKTJme2B5cWhqdyigilfeLpQKm0ddjeNKZ2ZRFJaH9E7SpNN_4UMwlNwfyEdmai_ha-RWK3p2ue8i68-AV7WaWfZlU87323c95z39OKUm/s1600/27265_411170656179_567606179_4975541_4811783_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghj32YP9BVPA3HcFYbcQlNkBVDwpbqXoa7XtnxKTJme2B5cWhqdyigilfeLpQKm0ddjeNKZ2ZRFJaH9E7SpNN_4UMwlNwfyEdmai_ha-RWK3p2ue8i68-AV7WaWfZlU87323c95z39OKUm/s400/27265_411170656179_567606179_4975541_4811783_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462645082826314338" border="0" /></a>“Damn. That's perfect...” I exclaimed, eyes focussing on the foliage that ringed the cliff top. “The mountain's crowned by wild roses.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah. I just put my f****n' hand on one of 'em” Miss Scarlett shrugged, displaying her punctured palm.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We stopped for a minute letting the realization sink in that we had made it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifNk5oU_1NKalnmcBDG4gCMS_K39oCfpcWa0UfYR944kAcVLRzf7nJmVzku5vkBRHAimPFVtIZxuILfcssJ6O9u6bLHZcxDtm_vKgGaq0dUS_4-KU6jRsUmGQDELtyK3cnm0uBLuTU_Ylj/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+036.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifNk5oU_1NKalnmcBDG4gCMS_K39oCfpcWa0UfYR944kAcVLRzf7nJmVzku5vkBRHAimPFVtIZxuILfcssJ6O9u6bLHZcxDtm_vKgGaq0dUS_4-KU6jRsUmGQDELtyK3cnm0uBLuTU_Ylj/s400/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+036.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463028528628928290" border="0" /></a>We were finally standing upright on the summit of the pog. Large, alpine fir trees stood majestically towards the sunshine. This was a part of the mountain that none of us had ever been to before and the territory was wild, virginal and untouched, with the castle no where in sight.<br /><br />It didn't take long to come across a trebuchet ball, a large one fired by the crusaders so long ago, still lying on the forest floor. Evidently a fierce battle had been fought here during the closing days of the siege.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Johnny paused, hackles rising.“The hell is this place ?”<br />Up ahead the path dipped into a shadowy hollow between two huge, moss encrusted boulders.“The place between two stones...” I muttered.“I think it was mentioned in one of the inquisition records. There's a brief but puzzling reference to how when Arnaud Narbona de Carol was was mortally injured they took him 'dans la grotte de ce chateau' although its said this might not have been a cave at all but only a “place between two stones”.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj272prFHlOAmOfoeloPk1IiqbitXDb2YkJZY7twp2M3ZWDKAG-Calqh-YeheJNSx_JY6VBao4KRZyRwx6H3byTUGLK9l0nfIMw3yktqwfER4r6etrgXYfoXgAz_vcPQ54fTkx4jDy7SBS0/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+030.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj272prFHlOAmOfoeloPk1IiqbitXDb2YkJZY7twp2M3ZWDKAG-Calqh-YeheJNSx_JY6VBao4KRZyRwx6H3byTUGLK9l0nfIMw3yktqwfER4r6etrgXYfoXgAz_vcPQ54fTkx4jDy7SBS0/s400/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+030.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462649823217256258" border="0" /></a>“There's something down here all right.” Johnny raised his arm, short hairs standing on end as if divining something just beyond the limit of our senses. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“This feels like the oldest part of the mountain,” whispered Miss Scarlett, dipping her voice as if we had just entered a place of worship, and, in a way, we had.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Older than the castle?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">She nodded, eyes scanning the sky line beyond the treetops as she slowly got her bearings. “It's the same feeling I had at Morenci. Like the two places are connected somehow. Aligned. Like the sun and the moon...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I started forward into the shadows, recalling a story about another place between two stones. The crack in the rocks where Pierre Roger de Mirepoix was supposed to have hidden those fleeing holy men and their sacred treasure. But that was surely a myth, the dream of a deranged 19<sup>th</sup> century pastor yet the silent, shadowy aisle of stones at the head of the path seemed to fit that myth's murky outlines only too comfortably.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGvxjH0glNrr8B8OSfzYawwqNXf_H4mErkl3LQYHI9kDnTMQrQq6HoG4Zj6RTAeti8nR1IEEYapR8rzaHVk0_XIc1D91iLMJcUbufS-lAQbaYmamB9BaX9EdhqjV0lobm1l-c1aHawIRTB/s1600/27265_411170631179_567606179_4975537_4275369_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 399px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGvxjH0glNrr8B8OSfzYawwqNXf_H4mErkl3LQYHI9kDnTMQrQq6HoG4Zj6RTAeti8nR1IEEYapR8rzaHVk0_XIc1D91iLMJcUbufS-lAQbaYmamB9BaX9EdhqjV0lobm1l-c1aHawIRTB/s400/27265_411170631179_567606179_4975537_4275369_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462651683635096082" border="0" /></a>As we searched the maze of ancient boulders it became more evident that parts of this eldritch sanctuary had been apparently been shaped by human hands, smaller stones stacked over the larger ones, creating unusual shapes and alcoves. The rock seemed strangely porous, and the ground was so damp and soft that my stick sunk in a good two feet at one point. I hesitated, skin tingling despite the warmth of the afternoon, knowing I had come to the edge of something I could scarcely comprehend.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUeNQewFlvFAIgx2oyNZ87ovesu-Qtkm0mmj2inyf38ReSdUlX3YzrqLbtG0KHeDjbAlAi1cH13MYH1jawAxGuXvaOClM4rRCzTBpVr-c96LgNm7k4wI_qP_ShncDsWsUy_HO3OMUASJ1b/s1600/27265_411170636179_567606179_4975538_3939687_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUeNQewFlvFAIgx2oyNZ87ovesu-Qtkm0mmj2inyf38ReSdUlX3YzrqLbtG0KHeDjbAlAi1cH13MYH1jawAxGuXvaOClM4rRCzTBpVr-c96LgNm7k4wI_qP_ShncDsWsUy_HO3OMUASJ1b/s400/27265_411170636179_567606179_4975538_3939687_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462652751242073858" border="0" /></a>Before us a dark cavity gaped amidst the maw of the rocks. Falling to my hands and knees in the deep, rich mulch of the forest floor I squirmed forward, getting my head and shoulders through the gap. It was about as far as I could go but it was enough. There was an oddly shaped hollow within the bosom of the stone through which the sun's rays streamed and for a moment it was as if I were staring into the heart of the mountain itself.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirc6uPBuJlUxTfQArzytm9hpVTcZ40cdCSKUGXDPyOK-VHGPTJCTPAvgpKKC7B7wMTGN89j9UFmCZR1KFZktNOXsg0QR-nqtiOoGC5O5Ex16bB31Sc-PfcWzSLkj1jfMPZB6MmnrhyphenhyphenC8Fs/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+028.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirc6uPBuJlUxTfQArzytm9hpVTcZ40cdCSKUGXDPyOK-VHGPTJCTPAvgpKKC7B7wMTGN89j9UFmCZR1KFZktNOXsg0QR-nqtiOoGC5O5Ex16bB31Sc-PfcWzSLkj1jfMPZB6MmnrhyphenhyphenC8Fs/s400/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+028.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462653980997553698" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: Sacre Coeur<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibD4A64vjeXQwvZ_TfXwbCCL3jsgEt1fqb9qEdFvXTo79RcPs05Ci9YVpqXtLv3ztKVa6FQgsIwotxY5j5Mladesptnj8GkmqbSXf63gf7Z7FjgMKS2wSl3Tl1PlD4-oLMV1mkZR2mjGdm/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+026.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibD4A64vjeXQwvZ_TfXwbCCL3jsgEt1fqb9qEdFvXTo79RcPs05Ci9YVpqXtLv3ztKVa6FQgsIwotxY5j5Mladesptnj8GkmqbSXf63gf7Z7FjgMKS2wSl3Tl1PlD4-oLMV1mkZR2mjGdm/s400/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+026.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462655059284768706" border="0" /></a>We emerged, breathless and a little giddy, from the tree line below the stone terrace that Miss Scarlett had investigated only a few days previously in the company of our shaman friend. ( * see previous 'blog – 'Secrets of the Oppidum' ) Now we realized the terrace formed a convenient marker, pointing the way towards the stones beyond and the path that lead down the south eastern face of the pog, a trail we have decided to name 'La Route du Coeur'.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoConbZf070pI23wJaHI5VArqF3dwQ5FV3Yv1AIaVeI3erWdI6jEeiQ199-kdXgXzwlKA1eawZxUlD_ukvXJI29x_E3Sz2lZ0nxAZK4nQx88AdUJuh7Ropg_09hq_1uHLB1h1z8QAY3aTw/s1600/27265_411170716179_567606179_4975551_2781879_n.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoConbZf070pI23wJaHI5VArqF3dwQ5FV3Yv1AIaVeI3erWdI6jEeiQ199-kdXgXzwlKA1eawZxUlD_ukvXJI29x_E3Sz2lZ0nxAZK4nQx88AdUJuh7Ropg_09hq_1uHLB1h1z8QAY3aTw/s400/27265_411170716179_567606179_4975551_2781879_n.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462656333886455282" border="0" /></a> As above, so below: La Route du Coeur<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvOhL9UGtfzSQQJ4nlNPseHopsCmn4t90vugNb7fqx_wCSZdAeK2L-RjMXkT1p1tKNEGdE39_KUprhBO4K4b0Lcat4WhlOJWvS1ghh3wQfjSLv4yt7ooqY-lJE9QZ59dptgBlvwp6IdaW/s1600/montsegur++topshot.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvOhL9UGtfzSQQJ4nlNPseHopsCmn4t90vugNb7fqx_wCSZdAeK2L-RjMXkT1p1tKNEGdE39_KUprhBO4K4b0Lcat4WhlOJWvS1ghh3wQfjSLv4yt7ooqY-lJE9QZ59dptgBlvwp6IdaW/s400/montsegur++topshot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462656613785727314" border="0" /></a>There are many ways to climb the holy mountain some more difficult than others. A winding path, almost certainly used by the crusaders, ascends the northern slope, connecting the ford at Benaix to the Roc de la Tour, and there are persistent rumours concerning a hidden trail on the seemingly impassable western flank. Every time we gain some incremental insight into the mystery it is as if consensus reality is forced to concede for a moment, and we are handed another tiny piece of the puzzle. Slowly, bit by bit a larger, older truth begins to fall into place.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaGAMo-z5-FF-zhjhU52XoaNOH0poumRDN_mzCwWaVpUUdeK-A6dPouROliLi8qeEqxmrDmCqgEhSdzHR1Oez8x-KdoWAwoT-mhnfKVKnNqEHTkLarGhzMQ6IRumtIERd_rKrMfnndQ76x/s1600/27265_411170686179_567606179_4975546_6225827_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaGAMo-z5-FF-zhjhU52XoaNOH0poumRDN_mzCwWaVpUUdeK-A6dPouROliLi8qeEqxmrDmCqgEhSdzHR1Oez8x-KdoWAwoT-mhnfKVKnNqEHTkLarGhzMQ6IRumtIERd_rKrMfnndQ76x/s400/27265_411170686179_567606179_4975546_6225827_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462657698105885954" border="0" /></a>“I can't believe we finally did it!” J.B. Stretched out on the embankment beneath the castle wall, soaking up the sun and enjoying the sensation of being back on solid terra firma.”After all these years...” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah,” I inclined my head, looking down into the valley far below, watching the backs of the eagles turning over the soft green hills where Esclarmonde d'Alion once rode. “After all these years...”<br />“Sometimes all it takes is a li'l chance and a li'l will. That and the right company.” I nodded towards Johnny who stood on the edge of the cliff, gazing towards the dim, volcanic outline of Bugarach that rose tier upon Babelian tier on the easternmost rim of the earth, his head already aswim with thoughts of climbs to come and fresh trails to blaze.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6v2L-wxUpYhb-pJNr-QfudRKeApRfvv8kqfsD8EQyuHomx9IBClBE5CY8M0C6k3u8XsSpqbQA7a8gJSKg2MCrq_tl90NKT0ELBeA9YwCgcdGgHAbgfs1EobFXRaePqzXcddJtSExSgydh/s1600/27265_411170691179_567606179_4975547_1192240_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6v2L-wxUpYhb-pJNr-QfudRKeApRfvv8kqfsD8EQyuHomx9IBClBE5CY8M0C6k3u8XsSpqbQA7a8gJSKg2MCrq_tl90NKT0ELBeA9YwCgcdGgHAbgfs1EobFXRaePqzXcddJtSExSgydh/s400/27265_411170691179_567606179_4975547_1192240_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463063760638504546" border="0" /></a>“Some people say when you climb a mountain don't look down. But why not? The view is beautiful...” - Viktor Suvorov ( Soviet tank commander )<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh252EeOsUQwSu7xSxgXpO7pN0qx-sY8Ge5A30h6W6fPq3J8OQls8EVlrUFLWcYflep7_aKcuSl770enkGaJJ5ekl_MmgNYPAj0d6xFGWHtr1k75pJLV53AsXT9yLHT5vj3rwx90aj0vbfP/s1600/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+043.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh252EeOsUQwSu7xSxgXpO7pN0qx-sY8Ge5A30h6W6fPq3J8OQls8EVlrUFLWcYflep7_aKcuSl770enkGaJJ5ekl_MmgNYPAj0d6xFGWHtr1k75pJLV53AsXT9yLHT5vj3rwx90aj0vbfP/s400/pogworld-sheersuccess-spring2010+043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462659388202250962" border="0" /></a>To be continued: -</p> <style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } --></style>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-80512708477232217922010-04-17T15:13:00.000-07:002010-04-17T17:28:52.881-07:00Secrets of the Oppidum<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifuSqkngrjhh6UegIbzCid5tQi80io0mLheYnPdQnlU44fW7M9eTgh1CR1NOCZyczhyphenhyphen6NZ-mg5uw1OhwvEaYUsDIwL6SGPYydXa5wDeVPvouwKk3WA-QzX4D7-GsOelXf1VKnDNTDuUQoG/s1600/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifuSqkngrjhh6UegIbzCid5tQi80io0mLheYnPdQnlU44fW7M9eTgh1CR1NOCZyczhyphenhyphen6NZ-mg5uw1OhwvEaYUsDIwL6SGPYydXa5wDeVPvouwKk3WA-QzX4D7-GsOelXf1VKnDNTDuUQoG/s400/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461234159733981250" border="0" /></a><br /><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } --></style>Ab la dolchor del temps novel foillo li bosc, e li aucel chanton, chascus en lor lati, segon lo vers del novel chan... <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">( 'In the sweetness of the new season the woods turn green and the birds sing, each one in its own language, following the measure of the new song...' )</p> <ul><li><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Guilhelm IX ( 1071 -1126 )</p> </li></ul> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Spring is coming to the high pastures of the Ariege in a riotous spray of wild flowers and bit by bit the pog of Montsegur is starting to yield up its secrets. We've been spending much of our time since the thaw following up on the voluminous textural and archaeological leads amassed during the course of the long, Pyrenean winter. Some of the geographic locations mentioned in the various tomes, treatises and oral accounts that have come to our attention since setting up our base of operations in the Zone have proved to be easier to find than others. All too often dearly cherished myths and theories have faded into the ether like the vanishing snows as the facts on the ground have shown them to either be highly imaginative or simply not true.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTdBQ9vd4JZqf2EcMonfMtjh5jh6kMl5K1sUMAkdfbwuabIOXn9OIq_lCXWDnfpYXwjueuKQGfB5lfrRTMSS6LJpoq25HK3Gi5uNyXqx9CAr_-wGruRzEadEXOIsSlRdbBnGZtwkzZs-K/s1600/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+042.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 187px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTdBQ9vd4JZqf2EcMonfMtjh5jh6kMl5K1sUMAkdfbwuabIOXn9OIq_lCXWDnfpYXwjueuKQGfB5lfrRTMSS6LJpoq25HK3Gi5uNyXqx9CAr_-wGruRzEadEXOIsSlRdbBnGZtwkzZs-K/s320/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461236616214285106" border="0" /></a>A return visit to the Reboulet revealed that some of the ruined cottages that we had come across earlier ( * see 'The Hole of the Crows – Dec 2009 ) had been abandoned as recently as World War II, when they'd apparently served as a base for Catalan freedom fighters who used this isolated, densely wooded valley as a mustering point for raids across the border into occupied Spain. The German soldiers who had been dispatched to Montsegur during the war came to this area to clear out the partisans rather than take part in some clandestine treasure hunt as has been suggested by certain pseudo-historians. Either way no one around here likes to talk about it much. The German-Jewish folklorist and all-round pagan imperialist Otto Rahn, whose work did so much to draw the wider world's attention to the tragic history of the castle and the ongoing mystery surrounding it, didn't join the ranks of the SS until long after he had left the Languedoc and with Colonel Howard Buchner's engaging yarn about Otto Skorzeny retrieving the 'treasure of the ages' from a cave on the pog ( * see 'Emerald Cup, Ark of Gold', Thunderbird Press, 1991 ) revealed to be little more than a latter day shaggy dog story there would seem to be little or no surviving evidence to suggest that the Nazi high command were ever particularly interested in Montsegur, let alone that they deployed troops to the area as part of a bona fide attempt to retrieve some lost sacred power object, appealing as this idea may seem to our pulp sensibilities.<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCYeQwFdTeH1F0casSqN8hHIjrfJ8JwBjKlhrNvmg36poi8VRE_z8mgAgnpPmuBYy5GEZST2JOJj8MGyvVrEQe_jvo2A2tF2IoUrq0asD31pHu4AO6T-W-gOiIJ-PsmjOGEI3R1zxo9mtH/s1600/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+026.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCYeQwFdTeH1F0casSqN8hHIjrfJ8JwBjKlhrNvmg36poi8VRE_z8mgAgnpPmuBYy5GEZST2JOJj8MGyvVrEQe_jvo2A2tF2IoUrq0asD31pHu4AO6T-W-gOiIJ-PsmjOGEI3R1zxo9mtH/s320/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+026.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461237507617250130" border="0" /></a>Montsegur - Friday April 9 2010</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUPgv705ry2ePvtGkJ7adetU7bNxu6m2uAZ9dDO_KNiQ3T1WRM5_AHIOgvDFKTwRz6zWH1O6wgs2xfa0dGShERQNEDbyNgau9X5tBfSuHatnjSv7L42u8mk0DqrbtOBLaooquFrg-1WeV/s1600/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+003.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUPgv705ry2ePvtGkJ7adetU7bNxu6m2uAZ9dDO_KNiQ3T1WRM5_AHIOgvDFKTwRz6zWH1O6wgs2xfa0dGShERQNEDbyNgau9X5tBfSuHatnjSv7L42u8mk0DqrbtOBLaooquFrg-1WeV/s400/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461239092161517282" border="0" /></a><br />This isn't to say that the mountain doesn't hold it's fair share of secrets, but the nature of what may or may not be hidden here, remains open to speculation. Thus far our efforts to find the mythical entrances to the underground galleries have proven fruitless. Either they turn out to be shallow depressions or else Micheu Pierre was right in saying that as soon as you talk about them, they close up and switch their locations. ( * see 'Hunting for the Cosmic Egg – April 2010 ) We did however, come across further vestiges of 12<sup>th</sup> century habitation during our recent excursions to the relatively inaccessible eastern flank of the pog. We're currently awaiting the arrival of two more Irregulars this week before beginning a more thorough sweep of the surrounding cliffs.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTIKqpFJ-GueNOlt7dKaZ5sC9RBBdZ53UTwBTBW-4jtJQ_G1NnLQGx7fDxiXGiXp3OjEWbu-96mD4MjCAsXKo9XEEpzIoUnFKAx_o8vkuxfcrRh5fbrfghMYKMSKp2Gf3MktEktnAz1xC/s1600/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+005.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTIKqpFJ-GueNOlt7dKaZ5sC9RBBdZ53UTwBTBW-4jtJQ_G1NnLQGx7fDxiXGiXp3OjEWbu-96mD4MjCAsXKo9XEEpzIoUnFKAx_o8vkuxfcrRh5fbrfghMYKMSKp2Gf3MktEktnAz1xC/s400/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461240734474397810" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: Signs of life on the pog's east slope<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPWkweZECBavVaXD_VTIokvbkAJcbXNB4hFt7zxPYjASHZrezDSDIqV-uyDCwAR0xv7UvPPg1JNraMXungKkop875G35gZ4pAtpID6MNgF2Y41vK3mAQMq9L3C68yaxo3jL4iA54R2PJQX/s1600/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+006.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPWkweZECBavVaXD_VTIokvbkAJcbXNB4hFt7zxPYjASHZrezDSDIqV-uyDCwAR0xv7UvPPg1JNraMXungKkop875G35gZ4pAtpID6MNgF2Y41vK3mAQMq9L3C68yaxo3jL4iA54R2PJQX/s400/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461242779727781522" border="0" /></a>Over the last few months we have tried in vain to find the elusive 'oppidum de Mayne' in the forests of Belesta. This morning with the aid of two born and bred Montsegurian's we finally achieved our goal. The 'oppidum' isn't marked on any map. There is no path or marked trail, and the only directions to go on were that it was 'somewhere above Fontestorbes, near the bridge of the prince'.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And just what is an 'oppidum', you may ask ? Julius Caesar described the larger Celtic Iron Age settlements he encountered in Gaul as <i>oppida</i>, and the term is now widely used to describe the pre-Roman towns that existed all across Western and Central Europe. Many 'oppida' grew from hill forts and their main features would seem to be the architectural construction of their walls and gates and their locations on hilltops commanding a convenient view of the surrounding area.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijBpaCPI8HtC6mJjTsJXLRzIQ5QTmgZkgOg3vnOiEAz8OvHmOv4h5q75EWMbS-RwjjtXZzN4nt22Fgw5_k5tk97eBP5WFNRXvWunXxhgaeslwLxHAWjLK72Sedd8mQ_sUA0MEFuixR0IF2/s1600/4304342506_7bd21fc173.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijBpaCPI8HtC6mJjTsJXLRzIQ5QTmgZkgOg3vnOiEAz8OvHmOv4h5q75EWMbS-RwjjtXZzN4nt22Fgw5_k5tk97eBP5WFNRXvWunXxhgaeslwLxHAWjLK72Sedd8mQ_sUA0MEFuixR0IF2/s400/4304342506_7bd21fc173.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461243991099705058" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: Fontestorbes - March 2010<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPbpHt7RsOYM7J62d-v_cMGpmVhDGnhXFWrot4HEua9iy011PFTwIzOmkpvxGeglbHBVNzTlBWTQBvHD4IH3WJTZer5QbxjCVDcwpCuVTrRw-6JXvIbM_zymLt2SlT0JNlROqeAUyYzH1/s1600/4303601571_9178660f3d.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPbpHt7RsOYM7J62d-v_cMGpmVhDGnhXFWrot4HEua9iy011PFTwIzOmkpvxGeglbHBVNzTlBWTQBvHD4IH3WJTZer5QbxjCVDcwpCuVTrRw-6JXvIbM_zymLt2SlT0JNlROqeAUyYzH1/s400/4303601571_9178660f3d.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461244482043351474" border="0" /></a><br />The rocky outcrop above the fountain of Fontestorbes was probably occupied by prehistoric tribes since at least the Bronze Age. The name Belesta may well derive from either the Ibero-Celtic moon goddess, Belisenna or her male counterpart, Belenos and it would seem likely that the spring's phreatic source has been linked to worship of the Great Mother since time out of mind, redolent as it is of the earth's natural reproductive cycles. The spring was certainly already known as a place of worship in Roman times. The Gauls crossed the mountains via the old road over the Pic de Soularac to meet with traders from the Mediterranean, exchanging iron for pottery and other chattels. Pliny the Elder comments on the curious phenomena of Fontestorbe's intermittent source in his 'Natural History' and Popee, the wife of Nero, halted to drink at the spring before continuing on her way to take the waters at Ax's thermal baths. According to legend faeries inhabited the cave and washed their linen in it's cold clear waters. To this day, the phreatic source remains active from July to October with it's flow varying from between 20 litres per second to 1800 litres per second.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEjOOs5kk0TdpHWpfi9Z9kZMqtO9Vpr9TLNpVWmG6a8oMvvZl16QTOs3zzn9DKM5VGB2KrkZ9gKwkmGocC0netzCRMDMRmFXqvUP__WYgxQL3EJ3kYk9oo1_36K2hsolZU2lf2IU3v9_pr/s1600/fontestorbes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 297px; height: 187px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEjOOs5kk0TdpHWpfi9Z9kZMqtO9Vpr9TLNpVWmG6a8oMvvZl16QTOs3zzn9DKM5VGB2KrkZ9gKwkmGocC0netzCRMDMRmFXqvUP__WYgxQL3EJ3kYk9oo1_36K2hsolZU2lf2IU3v9_pr/s400/fontestorbes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461245426107155298" border="0" /></a>Recently the source has been all but destroyed by attempts at commercializing the site. Huge boulders have come tumbling down the hillside, smashing into the newly widened car park, as if the mountain itself is enraged at the intrusion of concrete and steel. Mayhap it's merely echoing the history of resistance that has always been so pronounced in this neck of the woods. Prior to the onset of the Albigensian Crusade, the area was the fiefdom of the Belissen family who were closely allied to the Count's of Foix and the defenders of Montsegur, the so-called 'sons and daughters of Belisenna'. The Treaty of Paris (1229) ceded the territory to Guy de Levis after the 'fields of Belissen' were captured by Simon de Montfort and the castle of Pechafilou was in turn donated by the Barons de Levis-Leran to one Gaston de Monstron in exchange for a pair of gloves. In 1522, the Protestants of Leran, led by the country houses of Peyrat and Limbrassic, rose up against their Catholic masters, burning the church of “the valley of love”. Catholic worship was completely prohibited in the area between the years 1559 and 1599 by order of the chief of the Huguenots although it has since made a cautious resurgence.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDtWxKCKRCrY01FpuGaCSI9WkBczYk5KO55Xudut4ESjOlcviUdY_cgFAIlajJKQtnCv1td88Fz60G9u32uIv5zuCQ6u2HmQ9i6SsBMVFH7-g-xbxtDgwYyB4LyQuiSWq-jVqNJacZLD4x/s1600/DSCN4821.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDtWxKCKRCrY01FpuGaCSI9WkBczYk5KO55Xudut4ESjOlcviUdY_cgFAIlajJKQtnCv1td88Fz60G9u32uIv5zuCQ6u2HmQ9i6SsBMVFH7-g-xbxtDgwYyB4LyQuiSWq-jVqNJacZLD4x/s400/DSCN4821.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461246197986122690" border="0" /></a>The spur above the source was first excavated by J. Louis Hygounnet, Guy Rancoule and Jean Tricoire who published a report on the area in the 1948 dispatch of the 'Bulletin of the Prehistoric Company of the Ariege'. They apparently unearthed dozens of coins and metal objects ( above ) as well as shards of pottery dating back as far as the third century B.C although typically much of the haul seems to have fallen into private hands. The site itself was subsequently left to languish, all but vanishing from mortal ken. Until today...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNoIq3cMTkTHjeQl1zXMo2DgphPBvUW6vFrDtMGiNTELaf17ZpnJxpbOGhMuaCksVyAxvWEqNvNdMwyxOcynZPHfOIJ4Io5_0_RvnnikIbslLrE_Q4RBH2hvxhhxOHt5PJ2D4Qe6Dpwrfp/s1600/oppidum+de+mayne+025.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNoIq3cMTkTHjeQl1zXMo2DgphPBvUW6vFrDtMGiNTELaf17ZpnJxpbOGhMuaCksVyAxvWEqNvNdMwyxOcynZPHfOIJ4Io5_0_RvnnikIbslLrE_Q4RBH2hvxhhxOHt5PJ2D4Qe6Dpwrfp/s400/oppidum+de+mayne+025.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461247836862732386" border="0" /></a>Saturday April 17 </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We set out at an ungodly hour after yet another late night. The early morning was cold and clear with temperatures in the shade a little over one degree Celsius. Miss Scarlett and myself blanched a little when we realized we were heading up the same, seemingly dead end trail as before but our Montsegurian friend's innate sense of direction and cool demeanour gave us hope that this time our efforts might not be in vain. When we took this path before, we hewed to the left towards an outcrop known as the 'Rock of Mayne' finding only bear spoor and the severed leg of an ibex before turning back. ( * see previous 'blog entry ) The terrain had simply been too icy and inhospitable for us to have any other choice.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQtqhyO5lD5Et1mkpCiYYNSa9EeamLfRB1-0CW0YDGQF1ODQsmDM44Bvvslkd17QcheC2BtOv9pQprasde3PXvlpcrJyQagbqJLaDi2c6PgOPtagcqdOsz7FRqbNZujrwQptZ24EGMKf9/s1600/oppidum+de+mayne+013.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQtqhyO5lD5Et1mkpCiYYNSa9EeamLfRB1-0CW0YDGQF1ODQsmDM44Bvvslkd17QcheC2BtOv9pQprasde3PXvlpcrJyQagbqJLaDi2c6PgOPtagcqdOsz7FRqbNZujrwQptZ24EGMKf9/s400/oppidum+de+mayne+013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461250617070925682" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: Spot the film maker<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimV6Yyb-GkWHEBAVGyhEri6LWjbrNdUnRkt6lNdSC_N40lQMuLnDhCpQzRIZ2go7aU9UQxAzkMyEq4_8S646eaVWQv1C7XqayLlUwY5pZ2HgHbBr6Y35ROYYU6fxQRHWx6U7kD1C5fYBlZ/s1600/oppidum+de+mayne+021.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimV6Yyb-GkWHEBAVGyhEri6LWjbrNdUnRkt6lNdSC_N40lQMuLnDhCpQzRIZ2go7aU9UQxAzkMyEq4_8S646eaVWQv1C7XqayLlUwY5pZ2HgHbBr6Y35ROYYU6fxQRHWx6U7kD1C5fYBlZ/s400/oppidum+de+mayne+021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461251408216237730" border="0" /></a>This time, however, we followed a faint trail to the right, that threaded its way through the under brush, before winding up the neighbouring hillside. To be honest it felt more like an animal trail, but as we neared the summit we discovered that the hilltop was quite flat.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTBpwDaJnWTEZImfnnS8qo7Lv10BGXFNiBdthY7lyr17yKarjTcKUIvRZdXL_0U1J8MwkIpRLwSla19s9SstKShDfGsm5Cvo7cLDgYQT_wbx0GqdOixiNWScwR3CwNE_KvBaLMhSMMX956/s1600/oppidum+de+mayne+019.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTBpwDaJnWTEZImfnnS8qo7Lv10BGXFNiBdthY7lyr17yKarjTcKUIvRZdXL_0U1J8MwkIpRLwSla19s9SstKShDfGsm5Cvo7cLDgYQT_wbx0GqdOixiNWScwR3CwNE_KvBaLMhSMMX956/s400/oppidum+de+mayne+019.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461252685295945474" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: Getting warmer...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwoFmJAAOjAWgUjn61Xx1wYKQgXx4h-iULT-aoJ3zvpKX_wqGyzpnvobDtHWl7JxMKWJVfhLAIOSjQXQOayrzfFpUPzabACo8TYIbUoNRLSgII_ufHuwNLv8qTnYqxvveJ0R24hia4MaL0/s1600/oppidum+de+mayne+003.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwoFmJAAOjAWgUjn61Xx1wYKQgXx4h-iULT-aoJ3zvpKX_wqGyzpnvobDtHWl7JxMKWJVfhLAIOSjQXQOayrzfFpUPzabACo8TYIbUoNRLSgII_ufHuwNLv8qTnYqxvveJ0R24hia4MaL0/s400/oppidum+de+mayne+003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461253721100389282" border="0" /></a><br />It didn't take more than a minute to come across the first pieces of old pottery that still lay half hidden in the loamy soil as they had for the last couple of thousand years.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgHZOenLC8QVGRciSUN9PWIYM57LwpP5ORO2QB5zYqN1XWfAoE0n_iQyGNBxApbM-VzMIfkWHurUYe9DqCsuRVctkNxv2sdUzu0YZ8bBKcF1x-1Bj-EM8WA_cfFG08mxLm47yL6C5XMXTV/s1600/oppidum+de+mayne+022.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgHZOenLC8QVGRciSUN9PWIYM57LwpP5ORO2QB5zYqN1XWfAoE0n_iQyGNBxApbM-VzMIfkWHurUYe9DqCsuRVctkNxv2sdUzu0YZ8bBKcF1x-1Bj-EM8WA_cfFG08mxLm47yL6C5XMXTV/s400/oppidum+de+mayne+022.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461256570545420658" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: The Oppidum of Mayne<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKVXnAgYbgAwbfUHvThJww6tfb911HP79HdOypojCqkBYOQuJREo7qtQzW_emtXqXgXXH3KRkuCSZjfuurnL8Grt8wPW3YNPwUY_SiFM6tl29VTqxGD0glYJqAKbEj5C6wQ20m_smkrEV/s1600/oppidum+de+mayne+014.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKVXnAgYbgAwbfUHvThJww6tfb911HP79HdOypojCqkBYOQuJREo7qtQzW_emtXqXgXXH3KRkuCSZjfuurnL8Grt8wPW3YNPwUY_SiFM6tl29VTqxGD0glYJqAKbEj5C6wQ20m_smkrEV/s400/oppidum+de+mayne+014.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461257211882746242" border="0" /></a>Searching around through this wild place, we found dry stone walls and further evidence of terracing. Like any 'oppidum' worth its salt the view from the overgrown summit still commanded an impressive 360 degree view of the surrounding valleys.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4VRyzR705-eXnxr6PqQQ_C8zb9WRULN3hjXh1YSO-2VUa0oEGrOjzI0hWTCEFzcBiSNWTHyrR7L8IMDJRF6f_WyR1XCzgCxxr_3Gq8C51GiCOmvtaZv_lb2c2tnv47yJyN7wh7CFg3mzu/s1600/oppidum+de+mayne+012.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4VRyzR705-eXnxr6PqQQ_C8zb9WRULN3hjXh1YSO-2VUa0oEGrOjzI0hWTCEFzcBiSNWTHyrR7L8IMDJRF6f_WyR1XCzgCxxr_3Gq8C51GiCOmvtaZv_lb2c2tnv47yJyN7wh7CFg3mzu/s400/oppidum+de+mayne+012.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461258486990338210" border="0" /></a><br />For a moment words failed us as we stood silently gripped by the sensation of proximity to another time and another world...</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiymCqPCCbxId0jBySDO1AJbXgAlLEgUQioSkajSAABASS3QouSfG6zxdiqxlmkCXDnFjsyI1dQkayv0afUhyphenhyphenMHRu_WK2JNeOjLc9Wp46tmGXQtK7tIDKtVhmyGg_eJ9xUobSa71qt-ErwS/s1600/oppidum+de+mayne+004.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiymCqPCCbxId0jBySDO1AJbXgAlLEgUQioSkajSAABASS3QouSfG6zxdiqxlmkCXDnFjsyI1dQkayv0afUhyphenhyphenMHRu_WK2JNeOjLc9Wp46tmGXQtK7tIDKtVhmyGg_eJ9xUobSa71qt-ErwS/s400/oppidum+de+mayne+004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461259358719154834" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: Raiders of the lost Oppidum<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvCCANdnce33jeaEK17drZjWpmHYo2pn7l9Ykvpn-ZW8TU0PkUxwuEGVcInFrdPNbhwmBEhL7pT6lhl7ckPcznOsxf3LFhfWFFFsCDbYrNk2Az6aN3-TalnVhIZmio_aFkhM90PAvf4z1v/s1600/oppidum+de+mayne+034.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvCCANdnce33jeaEK17drZjWpmHYo2pn7l9Ykvpn-ZW8TU0PkUxwuEGVcInFrdPNbhwmBEhL7pT6lhl7ckPcznOsxf3LFhfWFFFsCDbYrNk2Az6aN3-TalnVhIZmio_aFkhM90PAvf4z1v/s400/oppidum+de+mayne+034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461260480950185298" border="0" /></a><br />It is amazing how much prehistory is still hidden in these hills and just how many sites of ancient worship seemingly dedicated to the same undying deities, the same immortal beauty...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjy0pyD8Hyv2LCYXrjA0zW_G5hblMggrJE0KDHOlozVQ0jURl1R5NKiA4s-gY6vdzZtiOjbRRS509fgVH_WliA5OakDNQVXZvRXPR0Zu56ids1cAr4d2JdByPkcwyyKYO97yi2hcLuMKSV/s1600/oppidum+de+mayne+II+001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 375px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjy0pyD8Hyv2LCYXrjA0zW_G5hblMggrJE0KDHOlozVQ0jURl1R5NKiA4s-gY6vdzZtiOjbRRS509fgVH_WliA5OakDNQVXZvRXPR0Zu56ids1cAr4d2JdByPkcwyyKYO97yi2hcLuMKSV/s400/oppidum+de+mayne+II+001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461262456203159922" border="0" /></a><br /></p> Above: Roman coin depicting the Goddess Minerva<br />Below: Early 13th century nail from the pog of Montsegur<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVhf4OwEMsYQbevWQWSC0QxmxTX-4ksR0wrAIAbNkCcsXGzts4p0617rHGbbGJjmAzwI1Ca3oypDn1QaTrFOr5Q9oWSwOTi3YLKkzMjNk8AGQ1lQz0-khH2UC41z6w7CKRDcTrFhpZr4v/s1600/oppidum+de+mayne+040.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 102px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVhf4OwEMsYQbevWQWSC0QxmxTX-4ksR0wrAIAbNkCcsXGzts4p0617rHGbbGJjmAzwI1Ca3oypDn1QaTrFOr5Q9oWSwOTi3YLKkzMjNk8AGQ1lQz0-khH2UC41z6w7CKRDcTrFhpZr4v/s400/oppidum+de+mayne+040.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461263077505584146" border="0" /></a><br />After starting the season with a few near misses it was reassuring to finally hit a home run and that despite all the misinformation out there some of the old yarns still hold true. For the moment we are back at the foot of the great narrative tree once more from which this story can go anywhere.<br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZBPdXvc4aUqm5E0Xt5qF_1CYo4TNex7eN_BSHGjQr0VidNhMmoroVcQYP4oOjyJgex8bqbyH_tsZ43gqvwl6vvoEjZh3zloh261TK3ICsmTlG6tfCsr6S_6OuFcDJvUnyboxNgiRLCRsG/s1600/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+023.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZBPdXvc4aUqm5E0Xt5qF_1CYo4TNex7eN_BSHGjQr0VidNhMmoroVcQYP4oOjyJgex8bqbyH_tsZ43gqvwl6vvoEjZh3zloh261TK3ICsmTlG6tfCsr6S_6OuFcDJvUnyboxNgiRLCRsG/s400/Spring+has+Sprung+-+Montsegur+2010+023.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461263661795189058" border="0" /></a>The key to the treasure is the treasure after all.... </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">To be continued.</p>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-59876625557314745252010-04-04T04:38:00.000-07:002010-04-09T14:34:48.305-07:00Hunting for the Cosmic Egg - An Easter Dispatch from the Zone.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBq8acE6x6gLHoIW5_ykWI0QKv8BsbhZIX7_Jnz78AMxh7qKXLgFR9AE52KJxLX5cxVciqccSl_Lg8AZUhQHEY9NNHWF24XBJV6_GXsbRRyk571mgqMo3V1Tk6-bQKNpcNY6wIkuk5GYz/s1600/morenci-belesta+snow+023.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBq8acE6x6gLHoIW5_ykWI0QKv8BsbhZIX7_Jnz78AMxh7qKXLgFR9AE52KJxLX5cxVciqccSl_Lg8AZUhQHEY9NNHWF24XBJV6_GXsbRRyk571mgqMo3V1Tk6-bQKNpcNY6wIkuk5GYz/s400/morenci-belesta+snow+023.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456264045722476114" border="0" /></a>“If Jesus had returned in Europe, anywhere from AD 300 to perhaps AD 1800 he would have been very likely burned at the stake. Perhaps he did and was.” - Jack. D. Forbes<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7EywfLyZGB3rwWrAFYdyx7YkLVI6EZHzBuzFc6-NU0FjQWaBpepMfb6nsthKOXBNdH-5LKI8rYFReH1djLLSi59MtwlLdi7mQ1xqFBJW62gQneSqRyPU-TMb6DLEN_b_cIfh9l8GFs8F/s1600/morenci-belesta+snow+014.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7EywfLyZGB3rwWrAFYdyx7YkLVI6EZHzBuzFc6-NU0FjQWaBpepMfb6nsthKOXBNdH-5LKI8rYFReH1djLLSi59MtwlLdi7mQ1xqFBJW62gQneSqRyPU-TMb6DLEN_b_cIfh9l8GFs8F/s320/morenci-belesta+snow+014.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456249245885755858" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As the crow moon wanes and the world prepares to celebrate the death and resurrection of the old messiah I find my thoughts returning to the events that first motivated us to relocate, body and soul, to this mountainous backwater and set up headquarters in the isolated Pyrenean village of Montsegur. Life in the shadow of the pog is no pony ride in spring sunshine, let me tell ya – at least not in winter when Our Lady of the Snows descends from the heights of the Tabor to blanket the Zone in her deathly, still, white shroud. Most of the locals, even the redoubtable Madame Couquet, draw down their shutters, lock their doors and head for places south. The cobblestones become a skating rink and the main road that snakes down the gorge to Belesta, the D.9 cut by Madame Couquet's late uncle, becomes a deathtrap of hair pin curves and black ice. The path up the pog grows increasingly treacherous, as Madame's former tenant, the controversial German Jewish Grail historian Otto Rahn found to his dismay back in the thirties, making access to the ruins of the Cathar citadel all but impossible. The village sheltering beneath its walls becomes a veritable ghost town. The few remaining locals huddle with their animals beside their hearths and what talk there is turns to the bears and tall tales of who may or may not have seen them. There are supposedly still fifteen bears left in this particular neck of the woods or thereabouts, the exact number being subject to constant daily revision and hot debate.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKQGAFHfBJ5zBQnDx6xEqx_LpE3LuiUzgwfIb-X2jig96CufyKBXHLQ-R0tYFqQSYdNO0vRptAInr0muCZ-O2wk5CnrpODa16kbbCLHisggKDJt7XQMH3ZFtX6JahgbESSbPZywi8-fly/s1600/morenci-belesta+snow+020.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKQGAFHfBJ5zBQnDx6xEqx_LpE3LuiUzgwfIb-X2jig96CufyKBXHLQ-R0tYFqQSYdNO0vRptAInr0muCZ-O2wk5CnrpODa16kbbCLHisggKDJt7XQMH3ZFtX6JahgbESSbPZywi8-fly/s320/morenci-belesta+snow+020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456250182470562722" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: Bear tracks at Morenci</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAjaNIg_gZiLB8uKiiq48cpxSNmQRVis4OJGIZvVYdySbQOJl_qtqccI3NKFnjw0tQOMUsz25rf2v0d_-OnTwW38i3XfXtGDzRAyQQq-cccrsy7EcLMMvLclmYQuXO5TdD2W-mcz56fTM-/s1600/morenci-belesta+snow+001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAjaNIg_gZiLB8uKiiq48cpxSNmQRVis4OJGIZvVYdySbQOJl_qtqccI3NKFnjw0tQOMUsz25rf2v0d_-OnTwW38i3XfXtGDzRAyQQq-cccrsy7EcLMMvLclmYQuXO5TdD2W-mcz56fTM-/s320/morenci-belesta+snow+001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456251269111431026" border="0" /></a>We thought we saw their tracks in the morning powder near the crossroads at Morenci and while blazing a new trail, searching in vain for the site of the ancient Gaulish oppidum, we came across deep claw marks scored into the leafless trees. A tall fir had been virtually ringbarked and nearby lay the gnawed foreleg of a small deer or izard, which strictly speaking is more like a cross between a deer and a goat. Whatever it was it had been violently killed and all too recently devoured, prompting us to head back down the mountain and curtail our efforts at searching the underbrush any more closely for the elusive 'oppidum', a long abandoned gathering place where the Romans had apparently come in days of old to trade pottery for iron.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcfg2z_dE4tloJCKUcz3gmGS6DjcBEsqSIjR_Da8EJyHjKbGD-qj1eZwRqFWCEntJaE5VdZOYjC6iUOj18gaDt8W6fm5-ZZgkWW4nGxRklLt1uR9byRZuM_XGcx8-kG4nvH_rdQLSsn_Nx/s1600/morenci-belesta+snow+012.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcfg2z_dE4tloJCKUcz3gmGS6DjcBEsqSIjR_Da8EJyHjKbGD-qj1eZwRqFWCEntJaE5VdZOYjC6iUOj18gaDt8W6fm5-ZZgkWW4nGxRklLt1uR9byRZuM_XGcx8-kG4nvH_rdQLSsn_Nx/s320/morenci-belesta+snow+012.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456252043631689378" border="0" /></a>As above: Natural snow sculptures formed by the wind at Morenci So below: The bear festival at Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans , photograph courtesy of long term Shadow Theatre irregular James Edward Bourne </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7hLP7JNVCOdaNxLqmkiKQqsMNHpea5-5wzvf4UzXYSMFDLvtCDCsViFGouk8TMP8bgKSnSXAYyA7kN9MIrik3tuOprZaV58hYGnHUm9PiQiZ7i6gEAIVbovXN0sROZccd5UMoUz2rYPzZ/s1600/bear+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7hLP7JNVCOdaNxLqmkiKQqsMNHpea5-5wzvf4UzXYSMFDLvtCDCsViFGouk8TMP8bgKSnSXAYyA7kN9MIrik3tuOprZaV58hYGnHUm9PiQiZ7i6gEAIVbovXN0sROZccd5UMoUz2rYPzZ/s320/bear+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456252464166326498" border="0" /></a>Despite the fact that wild bears have all but disappeared from northern Spain and southern France along with the native Pyrenean wolf many of the small villages such as Arles-sur-Tech, Prats-de-Molo and Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans continue to celebrate the bear as a symbol of virility, in yearly festivals steeped in pagan ritual and richly reminiscent of the 'wild man' traditions of central and northern Europe. Typically a villager dressed in a thick bearskin rampages through the streets of the town harassing women and violently accosting anyone foolish enough to cross his path. Many of the local men feel compelled to wear drag for the occasion for reasons which I admit are not altogether clear to me. The 'bear' is finally chased down and captured by ’hunters’ whose job it is to shave and humiliate him in front of a cheering public, disempowering winter and welcoming in the spring by symbolically shaving off the old to bring in the new.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnfq3XrYMjumUTYn80Boq4ndpdlc-Aydx_XjMunOHdPEVOszjidvhBIhA54QGsTF8cYurTLDGDDO09XSkCoX5KuFkSI0fbTA4ZkabAXaWutPPl0Y3AK9NxakNe8HFZA4W3eh_9O-jc6vk/s1600/bear.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnfq3XrYMjumUTYn80Boq4ndpdlc-Aydx_XjMunOHdPEVOszjidvhBIhA54QGsTF8cYurTLDGDDO09XSkCoX5KuFkSI0fbTA4ZkabAXaWutPPl0Y3AK9NxakNe8HFZA4W3eh_9O-jc6vk/s320/bear.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456253019596773650" border="0" /></a>Little by little the wind begins to lose its bite, the first daisies open to the sunshine, the birds return and buds begin to appear overnight. 'Our Lady of the Snows' packs her bags and slowly creeps back over the mountains, her presence still felt only in the highest crags. The owls and bats return, shutters open, doors slam and slowly the sleepy, rustic enclave of Montsegur returns to life.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Standing outside the Shadow Theatre headquarters one morning having a smoke, I noticed a robin struggling to pull a fat worm from the thawing ground. The next day up at Hannibal's Point, a gigantic golden eagle came soaring up from the deep gorges of the Caroulet right behind Miss Scarlett's head with an viper clutched in its beak, a terrifying hieratic beast out of medieval heraldry, looking for all the world like the logos for the Luftwaffe and the AMA rolled into one.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“ Damn. That thing was big!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Miss Scarlett turned, watching as the huge bird soared away, the muscular looking serpent still thrashing vainly in its grip. It was a savage looking creature. For a moment we stared after the beast in silence as it soared across east side of the pog before disappearing from view. We didn't have to say anything but we both knew that Spring had come and it was high time we got our asses back up the mountain to reacquaint ourselves with its invisible denizens.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFkyGnoF6OAhE-84wDbonTB-gN5pi2t6Gz12R0YK7EM3p4HyrWWX_EfrGVs16QLNlKmJRpVN8NubO8gmu8fRXHom7ZV1HPwzZ5bpNeRwrdXKL89CDg3wVrgJWJHor6MrA-XHYpEbGdJPN-/s1600/Montsegur+March+29+006.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFkyGnoF6OAhE-84wDbonTB-gN5pi2t6Gz12R0YK7EM3p4HyrWWX_EfrGVs16QLNlKmJRpVN8NubO8gmu8fRXHom7ZV1HPwzZ5bpNeRwrdXKL89CDg3wVrgJWJHor6MrA-XHYpEbGdJPN-/s320/Montsegur+March+29+006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456254049299527618" border="0" /></a>The night of Monday March the 30<sup>th</sup> was still and warm, albeit a little overcast. We paused at the top of the 'Camp de Cremat' to relight the candle from the grotto of saint Anthony that we had left on the small altar some two weeks before to commemorate the anniversary of the fall of the castle and the martyrs who had perished there in the flames of 1244. Behind us the lights were already coming on in the village as we climbed above the tree line, offering a passing salute to the familiar granite profile of Maurice Magre, the local poet, mystic, and author of 'The Blood of Toulouse', whose graven image adorns the westward facing crag of the magic mountain. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVyr2D1kExGGsFOhuqJnpmpx8SsNmsQgZ-MjTAB6Pw3E62zoqftTPN3vhvBE6nRIbzoJzFhkjOzKhLWZ7s-fH_vpbg16HWNY-w642R9SqTKRdOvVSxFbHyrJfnsKk7ld9UZ6LaDp6coKRT/s1600/Montsegur+March+29+004.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVyr2D1kExGGsFOhuqJnpmpx8SsNmsQgZ-MjTAB6Pw3E62zoqftTPN3vhvBE6nRIbzoJzFhkjOzKhLWZ7s-fH_vpbg16HWNY-w642R9SqTKRdOvVSxFbHyrJfnsKk7ld9UZ6LaDp6coKRT/s320/Montsegur+March+29+004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456254589560909746" border="0" /></a>The castle courtyard was much as I remembered it, like a dream that always returns. The scene of so many wonders, terrors and strange events it now stood silent and deceptively tranquil in the gathering dusk like a stage awaiting its dramatis personae. A ring of ash could still be faintly distinguished at the base of the narrow steps leading to the battlement where the witches from Rennes had cast their circle the year before. We found our way up to the ramparts and watched the last of the fading sun dwindle across the vernal hills until the limits of the zone were lost in darkness and the first bats had already begun to circle in the deepening well of shadows below. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Retracing our steps to the stubby remains of the 13<sup>th</sup> century settlement on the pog's sheltered eastern face I knelt, mouthing the words of an all but forgotten litany as I placed a candle in one of the sconces besides the time worn stone pentagram that we had first come across under rather strange, not to mention downright far fetched, circumstances some two years previously. In the light of the flickering taper we noticed that quite a few of the trees had been cut back over the last twelve months, revealing the ruins of more terraced settlements further down the mountainside. Dismayed by how naked and unprotected this side of the castle felt we vowed to replant the area at the soonest possible juncture. It's about time the pog had a decent laurel and the unmarked grave of Ferrocas, the last Cathar, deserves to have its flowering May tree, lopped down just over a century ago at the command of an outraged local priest, rightfully restored. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After enjoying a good smoke and a hot cup of coffee, thanks to the brand new Shadow Theatre thermos flask, we began to circle the castle widdershins – that is anti-clockwise to the uninitiated. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We travelled by way of a secret path that we found last summer marked out by tiny glyphs cut into the rocks that resemble the phases of the moon. I'm not sure that this is the correct technical procedure for actively invoking the nebulous forces that reside here, but it's as good as any when it comes to protocols for dealing with the invisible world. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwQp1DrIJeP6lmWbGX0BU2EYBcXDZsEpWiyevnNiF-9NGELbWXeVpF1sT2MS9d0g2cCuem_gJDTpVhwikZe1Zt1w8rSnzp_R3SjSmjV_W6kNZ8xEa9XAgig9EvNTa11xk39KERJhkfQ1SQ/s1600/Montsegur+March+29+019.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 208px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwQp1DrIJeP6lmWbGX0BU2EYBcXDZsEpWiyevnNiF-9NGELbWXeVpF1sT2MS9d0g2cCuem_gJDTpVhwikZe1Zt1w8rSnzp_R3SjSmjV_W6kNZ8xEa9XAgig9EvNTa11xk39KERJhkfQ1SQ/s320/Montsegur+March+29+019.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456255673867146194" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: The marks that blaze the secret passages can be rendered visible to the naked eye by the liberal application of chalk</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBf4pulTT8F9AjTsu2qa8htYg2y59dXi-cQIEDu4hLfl31ehU93CGfSBS8RwWgODg-aDd40vVyU0N-TOqUQU6TXsyYHWhz2RbWBB0Z5TyuryDyxPWmXMQBMMNo93OXpgV8H-s9X8mdQoLM/s1600/Montsegur+March+29+016.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBf4pulTT8F9AjTsu2qa8htYg2y59dXi-cQIEDu4hLfl31ehU93CGfSBS8RwWgODg-aDd40vVyU0N-TOqUQU6TXsyYHWhz2RbWBB0Z5TyuryDyxPWmXMQBMMNo93OXpgV8H-s9X8mdQoLM/s320/Montsegur+March+29+016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456256403282247506" border="0" /></a>There are many such paths on the pog, ways that seem to open and close with the seasons. Self-styled, modern-day troubadour, Micheu Pierre, who haunts Madame Couquet's auberge in the summer months, once told me that it was dangerous to try and define these trails or describe them too carefully to outsiders as if by mapping the paths one might somehow cause them to change location so that the unwary might never again find their way back to the occult kingdom to whence they lead. It is this propensity for the pog and the wild, sparsely populated territory that surrounds it to somehow reboot and reshuffle the fixed certitudes of everyday life that has led us to nickname the area, a densely wooded hinterland of not much more than a hundred square kilometers, 'the Zone' in honour of Boris and Arkady Strugatky's seminal novel 'Roadside Picnic'.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkAdsZmp0W8t8OSD6x1DvT_jjiHIakHl1WhVopUFGmfIY8uDnZhemzW36G5NSRLPqKO1VPmkaYpN68ZWltFyw9Y_HnolPDpzFWReY3__XMZ-6Qp1x0dp3b_81T5NjmZ84JWI7td6QHMqBk/s1600/4214223702_b2ecea9180.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 195px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkAdsZmp0W8t8OSD6x1DvT_jjiHIakHl1WhVopUFGmfIY8uDnZhemzW36G5NSRLPqKO1VPmkaYpN68ZWltFyw9Y_HnolPDpzFWReY3__XMZ-6Qp1x0dp3b_81T5NjmZ84JWI7td6QHMqBk/s320/4214223702_b2ecea9180.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456257036543987154" border="0" /></a>The novel's title is derived from a metaphor proposed by Dr. Valentine Pillman who believes that extraterrestrial or more properly 'ultraterrestrial' beings have not only visited the earth, leaving behind areas where the normal properties of space time have been strangely altered but that there is ultimately no rational, humanly available explanation either for the visitation or the mysterious properties of the Zones and the artifacts uncovered there.</p> <p>In the novel, he compares the creation of these Zones to "A picnic. Picture a forest, a country road, a meadow. Cars drive off the country road into the meadow, a group of young people get out carrying bottles, baskets of food, transistor radios, and cameras. They light fires, pitch tents, turn on the music. In the morning they leave. The animals, birds, and insects that watched in horror through the long night creep out from their hiding places. And what do they see? Old spark plugs and old filters strewn around... Rags, burnt-out bulbs, and a monkey wrench left behind... And of course, the usual mess -- apple cores, candy wrappers, charred remains of the campfire, cans, bottles, somebody’s handkerchief, somebody’s penknife, torn newspapers, coins, faded flowers picked in another meadow." The nervous animals in this analogy are the humans who venture forth after the visitors leave, discovering items and anomalies which were perfectly ordinary to those who discarded them, but incomprehensible or deadly to those who find them.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-m6FSWw7PBFiNUaCKH1RiSRIcUa4tp91ADLXY0NyT8_hr8ba2lyPvsDSpAmAWSnUbOmF_43a4qkGHNalXDESDoLF32cid8u-W14AAmFqwnQ8QZC9-XjONixnhlcgHwyHamTIUZe1lPWPG/s1600/1979-stalker-fra-01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 234px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-m6FSWw7PBFiNUaCKH1RiSRIcUa4tp91ADLXY0NyT8_hr8ba2lyPvsDSpAmAWSnUbOmF_43a4qkGHNalXDESDoLF32cid8u-W14AAmFqwnQ8QZC9-XjONixnhlcgHwyHamTIUZe1lPWPG/s320/1979-stalker-fra-01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456258338386356066" border="0" /></a><p>As above, so below: Andrei Tarkovsky's masterful screen adaptation of 'Roadside Picnic' - 'STALKER' ( 1979 )<br /></p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhljuREEAI4K456RkSWvMaQQTDMZNPxHQkGSL4HWzY2vUToUVtnoYBOYeDOwuqhlUwl6m9awVVvfflCK7R3WTKP0Dt0VNIhBG3PDgO8kkITTJ5d8yXEOA6slCQc7d1xi7QFIZ0ybbXAahHf/s1600/stalker.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhljuREEAI4K456RkSWvMaQQTDMZNPxHQkGSL4HWzY2vUToUVtnoYBOYeDOwuqhlUwl6m9awVVvfflCK7R3WTKP0Dt0VNIhBG3PDgO8kkITTJ5d8yXEOA6slCQc7d1xi7QFIZ0ybbXAahHf/s320/stalker.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456259019583379362" border="0" /></a><p>This explanation implies that the ultradimensional beings in question may not have even noticed or paid any attention to the human inhabitants of the planet during their "visit" just as humans don't notice or pay attention to grasshoppers or ladybugs during a picnic. The artifacts and phenomena left behind by them in the Zones are essentialy garbage, discarded and forgotten without any preconceived intergalactic plan to either advance or damage humanity. There is little chance that these God like visitors will return again, since for them, it was a brief stop for reasons unknown on the way to their actual destination. In the novel the government seeks to seal off these Zones and indeed suppress all knowledge of their existence, leaving it up to an emerging criminal underclass of self styled 'stalkers' to chart their own paths in and out of these hypothetical pockets of dysfunctional space time where the normal rules simply don't apply, driven, at least in part, by the oddly enduring rumour of an indescribable treasure hidden somewhere within the ever shifting labyrinth – a folkloric orb or cosmic egg capable of granting one's dearest wish...</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTKRAwG41Uht8I0BACDXdJt8tyvz3B8SEZkcnFQxduXeU8fUB3Cnodwft3qJ4hI7wJ_Cy9kAHqXTFgcmJWpo4QxoWyAXJWR3Wt8AOIMj1P7EFyTpBw3c6BeZKrsQgLdjj-H8NtT-_MWBwu/s1600/roadside.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 189px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTKRAwG41Uht8I0BACDXdJt8tyvz3B8SEZkcnFQxduXeU8fUB3Cnodwft3qJ4hI7wJ_Cy9kAHqXTFgcmJWpo4QxoWyAXJWR3Wt8AOIMj1P7EFyTpBw3c6BeZKrsQgLdjj-H8NtT-_MWBwu/s320/roadside.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456259543527215586" border="0" /></a> <p>The events described in the Strugatsky brothers' novel are pure fantasy, science fiction in the best sense of the term, yet it would seem, to all intents and purposes, that something very similar is taking place in real life in southern Europe, deep in the mountainous fastness of old Occitania only, with all due respect to Dr. Pillman, whatever mysterious force is at work here is far from random. </p> <p>I first became aware of the unusual properties of the pog back in the early nineties while working as a researcher for Channel Four Television's religion department. Since then I have been propelled through a series of terrifying, disorientating, profoundly challenging and ultimately moving experiences that have left me in little doubt as to what this place is capable of. We cannot understand or hope to explain the causes of the phenomena at work but we can readily apprehend their side-effects, what Graham Hancock might have termed the 'fingerprints of the Gods'. </p> <p>The widely reported electro-magnetic anomaly, which some insist is strong enough to effect aerial navigation, is readily demonstrated by the deflection of our compass needles every time we climb the pog. The geological composition of the area would tend to exclude the idea of the rocks themselves being in any ways conductive but there is a faint possibility that the magnetic fields could be effected by the action of subterranean waters. Researchers in the early nineteen sixties poured vast amounts of fluorescein into a sinkhole near the Roubelet where the Nazi's are said to have conducted their own illicit excavations during the dark days of World War 2. Some hours later coloured dye was observed emerging from the gorges of Le Moulin on the far side of the pog, demonstrating beyond a shadow of doubt that an underground river does indeed flow beneath the mountain. </p> <p>In the early 13th century the then head of the Cathar church Guilhabert de Castries wrote to the lord of Montsegur, Raimond de Perelha, asking permission for the treasures and records of their faith to be moved to the fortress and its adherents to be allowed to live 'infra-castrum', a term taken by some to refer to the small settlement that once existed on the chateau's eastern flank while others believe that it quite literally means 'beneath the castle'. Maurice Magre describes a vast subterranean complex, a virtual hidden city with as many as forty galleries containing forges, treasuries and stables. Fanciful as this may be it is generally agreed that the defenders must have drawn their water from somewhere during the ten month siege and speculation is rife about the existence of underground cisterns and other cavities beneath the pog deliberately redacted from the official report submitted by the GRAME ( Groupe de Recherches Archeologiques de Montsegur et Environs ) for reasons that are, as yet, a good deal less than clear to me. There is no objective proof that whatever lies below the mountain could effectively cause the magnetic distortions commonly observed in the area but when confronted by the unknown the human mind tends to reach for whatever rational explanation it can find and right now the anomalous interaction of mysterious subterranean waters is the best I can come up with.</p> <p>Harder to adequately explain away is the manner in which those pesky 'arrow slits' in the keep tend to break the light into sharp beams, at times even splitting the rays into their component colours such as that deep, lustrous red regularly exhibited on the morning of each successive summer solstice, something that any number of professional photographers and lighting technicians have assured me should be technically impossible without a prism. Once again the GRAME glide around the question by simply stating that the “solar phenomena in the keep have not been scientifically witnessed, recorded or verified” despite the fact that the lightshow in question appears on postcards for the area and is reliably witnessed by hundreds of visitors every year.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSv561ze4ookJuBFvS2bJ4877tGdtiMcP6izjb-kMNB60cdb80efeeDnBC6FrO39u7Tt7SHSddGKNLeqgJIWkSy7dz4OyKcHi8Kd0uFiOzeL6YP7stxYnjGjuBf6-VN_Mrm8bcpRP5RpnN/s1600/DSC_0415.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSv561ze4ookJuBFvS2bJ4877tGdtiMcP6izjb-kMNB60cdb80efeeDnBC6FrO39u7Tt7SHSddGKNLeqgJIWkSy7dz4OyKcHi8Kd0uFiOzeL6YP7stxYnjGjuBf6-VN_Mrm8bcpRP5RpnN/s320/DSC_0415.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456272286756370002" border="0" /></a> <p>As above, so below: Summer Solstice 2008</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_LWWCrfXO_UTICpvc_gDCILdh5EMiPk-B4WDBbo0Bh3_fJTWSKIhlfAElL1sOtS-kaq3SvfHSdM8Vz9_525Ebbee_ARh0RRuHkfENUsTA2oTqtfRP7xPBPGRkDKsDDmB-kRf2X5Xc5EYk/s1600/DSC_0219.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_LWWCrfXO_UTICpvc_gDCILdh5EMiPk-B4WDBbo0Bh3_fJTWSKIhlfAElL1sOtS-kaq3SvfHSdM8Vz9_525Ebbee_ARh0RRuHkfENUsTA2oTqtfRP7xPBPGRkDKsDDmB-kRf2X5Xc5EYk/s320/DSC_0219.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456273040052020210" border="0" /></a>The pog's freaky acoustical properties are likewise only too apparent to even a casual ear. On the aforementioned anniversary of the burning ( March 16 ) Miss Scarlett and our friend Emiliano, a budding film maker from far off Turin were standing up by the stone cross, drinking a toast to the martyrs with yours truly and munching olives whilst clearly overhearing a whispered conversation taking place between a Swiss couple in the parking lot at the base of the hill. On the other hand, those who have spent enough time here know only too well that you can be standing right behind someone in the keep or the courtyard, screaming your lungs out without them being able to hear so much as a single, sodding sound. Then there's that smell - akin to rosebay or the icing on a wedding cake, spiked with just a hint of almonds. The haunting aroma associated with the immortal mistress of Montsegur and similar apparitions of the so-called 'white lady' reported at Lourdes and Fatima. The 'smell of sanctity' would seem to exist at the opposite end of the olfactory spectrum from the smell of rotten eggs - hydrogen sulfide - the 'fire and brimstone' commonly associated with devils, minor demons and other denizens of the pit just the pog would seem to stand at a sort of crossroads between paradigms, a place where several quantum worlds or time periods intersect and periodically overlap. </p> <p>Perhaps the so-called 'Cathari' or 'pure ones' attained, as Magre suggests that realm where 'fire has no heat, water no fluidity and matter no substance and still exist alongside us in some 'otherworld', a place that is as 'real' if not more real than our own experience of the 21st century. It would seem to be no mere coincidence that their immortal chatelaine, the 'saint of saints of an unknown religion', the blessed Na Esclarmonda herself, the 'White Lady' of Montsegur has been conflated with the queen of the faeries by popular mythology. The word 'Albi' and 'Elf' would seem to be basically interchangable - both signifying 'white', just as just the pog's defenders, the sons and daughters of Belisenna have been conflated with the 'white people' or faery folk and Na Esclarmonda's kingdom with the folkloric concept of 'Elfame'.The good lady and her courtiers 'vanished into the mountain which closed around her' just as the little people are said to have disappeared into the hollow hill.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRcvoO_XUetT7HmPZ19PWirHbOBg9POXKz8Dbg0gT6BK8M2KPuBJFyti9JGuwMMIlgEMPV_p389MJX9LFjZVueY6r3lrYPREZ7ZBonuwokzYyXZ1zD0FyAe8qnMRDOqH1q4jeDrN4XsS6/s1600/DSCF5085.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRcvoO_XUetT7HmPZ19PWirHbOBg9POXKz8Dbg0gT6BK8M2KPuBJFyti9JGuwMMIlgEMPV_p389MJX9LFjZVueY6r3lrYPREZ7ZBonuwokzYyXZ1zD0FyAe8qnMRDOqH1q4jeDrN4XsS6/s320/DSCF5085.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456274503132961410" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: The notorious 'arrow slits' in the keep or 'donjon tower'<br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi15vBTV64nQ_ZzPC4alUvekGNCnQqfMyTASOOie4e1zVJ91OHzBuHKAMHqD06Rf4as-RxNoAN7au13-JPG_9OjAuQoLYVeeAzp9q9XmHfeRvILY7SwZYR0RXa-VypBnT9eoof-LFpeXLQt/s1600/DSCF5088.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi15vBTV64nQ_ZzPC4alUvekGNCnQqfMyTASOOie4e1zVJ91OHzBuHKAMHqD06Rf4as-RxNoAN7au13-JPG_9OjAuQoLYVeeAzp9q9XmHfeRvILY7SwZYR0RXa-VypBnT9eoof-LFpeXLQt/s320/DSCF5088.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456276452795697762" border="0" /></a> <p>The ghostly blue light that Magre describes as emanating from the keep when Na Esclarmonda and the parfaits gather to undertake their spiritual exercises in the later chapters of the 'Blood of Toulouse' and the lightshows myself and others have habitually experienced prior to our encounters with the pog's mysterious denizens is richly evocative of the phenomena associated with the passage of light through the visible human spectrum. A glow might be observed first, sometimes a reddish glow marking the emergence of a person or object from the invisible band of the spectrum into infrared and then into the narrow band of visible light. If the figure is passing through the visible band to the higher frequencies it is cyan ( blueish-green ) before it fades into blue ( hard to see at night ) and then enters the ultra-violet range. The chills experienced by Miss Scarlett and other members of the team may well have been caused by microwaves above the infrared just as the sensation of one's skin 'tingling' or 'crawling' or the air literally thickening about one are reminiscent of the effects of ultrasound or infrasound operating outside the commonly perceptible sonic frequencies.As for the experience of lost or missing time reported all too frequently by myself and the other members of the group, well, the jury's still out...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje89QwkA6Vk7G5YYpsY8NhxchQMIG0LZnwWrgO2WiiMo_cI8czWdoQBTqG9ZLKmhLCGzDv8jY15GPyPDcK2awSpIc1ICb3F-H8PsVIV3CrqTz8mIOOPNny3OPcAcaEf5HRKchxJBvsjCFY/s1600/The+Secret+of+Montsegur.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje89QwkA6Vk7G5YYpsY8NhxchQMIG0LZnwWrgO2WiiMo_cI8czWdoQBTqG9ZLKmhLCGzDv8jY15GPyPDcK2awSpIc1ICb3F-H8PsVIV3CrqTz8mIOOPNny3OPcAcaEf5HRKchxJBvsjCFY/s320/The+Secret+of+Montsegur.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456277070721292882" border="0" /></a>One cannot see a fourth dimensional object with the naked eye but theoretically one can perceive its three dimensional shadow. This should not be confused with the object itself but is simply the closest our somewhat limited senses can come to describing the essentially indescribable. There may a very good evolutionary reason for our apparent inability to get our heads around the broader picture and to effectively experience these encounters with the unknown in their naked totality. As Lovecraft intimates we would almost certainly go mad from the revelation and at the very least experience a good deal of trouble holding on to any sense of ourselves or the so-called 'here' and 'now'.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrC6rWmHqoMIGoLWrKWJO0tZsSyUiDAYRpOZ60RQ_1dITMBg3FsYj7lXLIv-w258c7ctbT-XKBRJDq0BVUPZStJVLEl6jgMbhWGNsqsN9RHlmrAaJ_OVkvkNFmFTb7ZYAr7PGOERl_akx8/s1600/Montsegur+March+29+011.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 201px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrC6rWmHqoMIGoLWrKWJO0tZsSyUiDAYRpOZ60RQ_1dITMBg3FsYj7lXLIv-w258c7ctbT-XKBRJDq0BVUPZStJVLEl6jgMbhWGNsqsN9RHlmrAaJ_OVkvkNFmFTb7ZYAr7PGOERl_akx8/s320/Montsegur+March+29+011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456260852547432738" border="0" /></a><br />Testimony of Scarlett Amaris March 30 2010.</p> <p>After making another circuit around the castle I stopped to rest on a set off rocks underneath the tower-dunjeon while Richard climbed the stairs to enter it's inner sanctum. The moon was still hidden and shed a murky light. I sat gazing out at the low lying clouds below that through some sort of optical illusion were lit a glowing red on the top, lit by the city lights of Lavalanet in the distance. I watched them spread out across the valley for a while, but they seemed to be moving in slow motion. Indeed, the whole night was ultimately still, like the landscape was holding it's breath. A low humming started up through the ground at my feet and spread into the rock making it feel electric, almost like a switch had been turned on and the mountain was springing to life. Then before I could even exhale the moon came bursting out of the clouds behind me, changing the terrain so dramatically that it gave me vertigo. The castle threw off an enormous pyramidal shadow on the valley below, so sharply defined and so black that I wondered if it wasn't an enormous abyss or a crack in the world. Shadows are the mirror image of reality, but when they are so powerfully and sharply defined it almost seems the other way around as if all that we see or seem is merely the poor reflection of that inchoate darkness. </p> <p>The voice of an nearby owl broke me out of my reverie and I followed it's call around to the courtyard where I found Richard standing, drenched in the moonlight, the air around him dense with fluttering, unseen presences. </p> <p>“They're here...” He smiled, looking more at home than I've seen him in weeks. He took off his hat, inclining his head to greet the shadows that seethed and whispered about us. “All my friends...”</p> <p>The long, dark winter was finally and truly gone and the castle was making its presence known. Whatever the hell else came down the pike there was no doubting that this was looking set to be a summer like none other...</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdv8wOOrDKzJCJ9qBn5XXTlYymGHDRSr3h5xanBLfCobYMmuTLFdVQMAjtA61KPGnWFdJoIg4fQKLfP9iQmUS7F-sE2HeGdzlU07vx5IwipJLIreDvLPGrzISsr3i5YJFkdSd6ismqs4-R/s1600/Montsegur+March+29+013.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdv8wOOrDKzJCJ9qBn5XXTlYymGHDRSr3h5xanBLfCobYMmuTLFdVQMAjtA61KPGnWFdJoIg4fQKLfP9iQmUS7F-sE2HeGdzlU07vx5IwipJLIreDvLPGrzISsr3i5YJFkdSd6ismqs4-R/s400/Montsegur+March+29+013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456263367877564802" border="0" /></a> Above: R.S in the courtyard - midnight - March 30 2010<br /> Note the presence of 'orbs' and other unspecified 'digital artefacting'<br /> in the upper left of frame... <br /><br />To be continued...shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-53119074157898760002010-01-03T14:07:00.000-08:002010-01-09T06:52:20.431-08:00The Hole of the Ravens<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4_p6EbtZ6sl71AjFRYoYe2om8rJqYQCWMr1ydMGdPhZ-hdoqx8bi-mSNJNR_rsYR95RcKDaFpYKZzau2HOWvGRS4oDMDOvChPsERuAxV7AoDyuxs7MF5v8lP86wBWnyDDWpVc6EJU-yB/s1600-h/norton_illo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 224px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4_p6EbtZ6sl71AjFRYoYe2om8rJqYQCWMr1ydMGdPhZ-hdoqx8bi-mSNJNR_rsYR95RcKDaFpYKZzau2HOWvGRS4oDMDOvChPsERuAxV7AoDyuxs7MF5v8lP86wBWnyDDWpVc6EJU-yB/s320/norton_illo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423052791648885202" border="0" /></a><br />“Can you see the hundred thousandth part of what exists ? Take the wind for example, the most powerful force in nature. It blows men over, knocks houses over, uproots trees, raises the sea into mountainous waves, destroys cliffs and drives great ships onto reefs. It kills, whistles, moans, roars. Have you ever seen it ? Can you ever see it ? But it exists all the same...”<br /> - Guy de Maupassant, 'the Horla'<br /><br />( I )<br />North west of Montsegur the road snakes through a wild untenanted region cradled between domed hills and trackless thickets where weeds, briars and beds of scrub myrtle grow in unsettling abundance. In the cold winter light the tops of those oddly symmetrical crags look like the winged backs and stooped crowns of watchful daemons. Just before you reach the marching, leafless trunks of the forest of Belesta, a dense grove once consecrated to the all but forgotten Celtic-Iberian moon Goddess Belisenna, you come across an isolated crossroad guarded by the ruins of a small chateau whose name is now lost to us, its blind windows and gutted walls long since given over to the chilly caress of the wind and rain.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZoyKhgvstHJ5GBYznUDI7GiO45LgEedhmMinmo9x7YR7Qc4iy5N0y-HoqSuo21_me4i_UTsG1wmLb2SvnNGRIu4yLAZlR2dbe3_Y1K7-XCm_DpRvo25l9fKHn-ncVL4PUuQHknCJrSUk/s1600-h/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+089.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZoyKhgvstHJ5GBYznUDI7GiO45LgEedhmMinmo9x7YR7Qc4iy5N0y-HoqSuo21_me4i_UTsG1wmLb2SvnNGRIu4yLAZlR2dbe3_Y1K7-XCm_DpRvo25l9fKHn-ncVL4PUuQHknCJrSUk/s320/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+089.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423013637667828866" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: The house on the borderlands<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35VWXcHEZb_-e8MGk7QqcWwK4Lum0U6yGxpe50mErLgpqkmSsX96DWgHB2OZr5rUIvTZRzbysGzULDSjXIIryl9Eu0HoypDctEAYYPvYzhU812F4BqzP6uZQyp7FisNddhsv1ZNfeVfYJ/s1600-h/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+094.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35VWXcHEZb_-e8MGk7QqcWwK4Lum0U6yGxpe50mErLgpqkmSsX96DWgHB2OZr5rUIvTZRzbysGzULDSjXIIryl9Eu0HoypDctEAYYPvYzhU812F4BqzP6uZQyp7FisNddhsv1ZNfeVfYJ/s320/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+094.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423015276305030018" border="0" /></a><br />If you take the right fork at the crossroads you will find the track curves away between the barren fields and sloping, rock strewn meadows towards a remote area still known on the map as 'Couquet', the site of a long abandoned settlement where in the late nineteenth century, the renowned shire archeologist Jean Tricoire uncovered the remains of three humanoid skeletons, dating in all likelihood to the late bronze age. The corpses seemed to comprise a symbolic family unit including the remains of a woman and a seemingly grotesquely overdeveloped male whose prodigious height, estimated at close to two meters, recalls the other suspiciously outsized artefacts previously unearthed in the region, including the so-called 'Giant of Stenay' and the enigmatic steatite talisman commonly referred to as the 'Hand of Morenci'. The third skeleton found by Tricoire was that of a child, still curled in a foetal position.<br /><br />The 'Couquet' clan whose ancestors hail from this backwater remain one of the oldest surviving families in the area, an ancient lineage whose present day scion Madame Amie Couquet still runs the tenebrous auberge in the rustic hamlet of Montsegur where I first sojourned in the mid-nineties. Some thirty very odd years earlier Madame Couquet's late uncle, the former mayor of the village had set about blasting a road through these dark hills in order to connect Montsegur to the outside world, laying the foundations of the tarred highway ( route D9 ) that exists today. During this construction work a tunnel was apparently unearthed at the base of the pog containing a flight of stone steps leading deeper into the mountain. ( * see 'The Lost Caves of Montsegur' ) The former mayor was a bullish individual who hoped to be recalled in the annals of local history as the man who revitalized this tiny, time warped community. Above all he wanted to be remembered for 'his road'. He knew that if anyone found out about the tunnel they would be forced to call in the archaeologists and accordingly halt construction so he did as small town mayors tend to do the world over. Swearing his workmen to secrecy he ordered the entrance to the cavity to be sealed by an immovable concrete rampart. More than three decades have passed since then but the the wall erected by Madame's uncle at the base of the pog remains undisturbed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKV866n6S8xrvmbsxuQCvwvKAWrlUJFYZSV_BUvebdleDBbr-v8mh0mkY5l0tEprlYsGMRxPlUd-3l-6uD5TtjaRvOoRv_hnB8l04oawDDLmyYCvt5MCn2a8bvrDVPkkojZi2qA-duZSlL/s1600-h/roubelet+027.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKV866n6S8xrvmbsxuQCvwvKAWrlUJFYZSV_BUvebdleDBbr-v8mh0mkY5l0tEprlYsGMRxPlUd-3l-6uD5TtjaRvOoRv_hnB8l04oawDDLmyYCvt5MCn2a8bvrDVPkkojZi2qA-duZSlL/s320/roubelet+027.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422703069364385698" border="0" /></a><br />Above: R.S. at the mouth of the blocked tunnel – Dec 25 2009<br /><br />The outgoing mayor had every reason to want to safeguard his legacy. Madame's auberge had harboured the notorious German-Jewish Grail historian and future Ahnenerbe SS Obersturmfuhrer Otto Wilhelm Rahn during his tour of the Zone during the fall of 1932 and their family name has been further tarnished by dark rumours of collaboration with the Vichy regime during the second World War.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmhWkQI-wqD3pZvlzjzOQnVMvxbkXvkxNuwWxF4akBEk731myh_HUYEwj12b3cW7B14clAzqRB5ONxFQfOd5DGkdnZL63CjjaQn8myy4PYziCQl6qd9WSvxY4GoHIHpLFXmCYF_-r7WpBD/s1600-h/Otto+Skorzeny.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 212px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmhWkQI-wqD3pZvlzjzOQnVMvxbkXvkxNuwWxF4akBEk731myh_HUYEwj12b3cW7B14clAzqRB5ONxFQfOd5DGkdnZL63CjjaQn8myy4PYziCQl6qd9WSvxY4GoHIHpLFXmCYF_-r7WpBD/s320/Otto+Skorzeny.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423016684297794978" border="0" /></a>Above: Otto Skorzeny<br /><br />Reports of SS-Colonel Otto Skorzeny's visit to the area with Germany's Special Forces in March 1944 are probably greatly exaggerated and little evidence exists to support the outlandish claims made by the retired Allied army surgeon, Colonel Howard A. Buechner ( 3rd BN, 157 Inf., 45th Inf. Div. ) and the countless other psuedo-historians that followed in his wake concerning Himmler's plans to secure the so-called 'treasure of the ages' although, I suppose, it doesn't hurt to speculate. There is certainly no doubt that the Nazis were active in this vicinity during the war, executing several locals in the town square in reprisal for alleged partisan activity and there are persistent rumours concerning excavations carried out by the Germans at a site further up the gorge of the Lasset at the base of the Tabor itself, in a place known as 'Reboule'.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwLAlN4n2qWy26zlVRc2H1mEIWMIBuWjOWA8Jq0GUqSN9opB-ggh7xcTd6m8x5-oqJQuehJPbSzwDKGaYoQUsqnM9Y03md0mLM9vAYY1YYsQNB_H0y2NwLTOcts5IxzjOOuLW6Kra6tIv/s1600-h/roubelet+006.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwLAlN4n2qWy26zlVRc2H1mEIWMIBuWjOWA8Jq0GUqSN9opB-ggh7xcTd6m8x5-oqJQuehJPbSzwDKGaYoQUsqnM9Y03md0mLM9vAYY1YYsQNB_H0y2NwLTOcts5IxzjOOuLW6Kra6tIv/s320/roubelet+006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423018801980946738" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: Deep in the woods – Dec 25 – 2009<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgASK11cHuKP93F1XNHw-GV1qspYHzZSyxbXl_uYVSFQ3BD6BbzpueLzMjQzUcY27vxBud7iUtYeyajckSQUFVswulouLQ8oFW-Fssre8XgyB3JFv9yCOr6fQzzKrhoW4FeRZhDNJCdGcrF/s1600-h/roubelet+007.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgASK11cHuKP93F1XNHw-GV1qspYHzZSyxbXl_uYVSFQ3BD6BbzpueLzMjQzUcY27vxBud7iUtYeyajckSQUFVswulouLQ8oFW-Fssre8XgyB3JFv9yCOr6fQzzKrhoW4FeRZhDNJCdGcrF/s320/roubelet+007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423021445853133810" border="0" /></a><br />The Nazis were said to have unearthed the remains of a ruined settlement and identified pictograms including crosses and strange markings resembling runes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Ab2D9sm3VUJLLdA7OgrBfatR2ma5qcQ1ORseikJLajrdeFYffLYF_OBo5rRf3jUv2TkOfjBQTwUaqYTNhJpzDLx2a6pz0lqnjVAVXtuj24aeZKM9TVGU6pvSdQTp3qoTZy6X3DFMgBt8/s1600-h/roubelet+013.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Ab2D9sm3VUJLLdA7OgrBfatR2ma5qcQ1ORseikJLajrdeFYffLYF_OBo5rRf3jUv2TkOfjBQTwUaqYTNhJpzDLx2a6pz0lqnjVAVXtuj24aeZKM9TVGU6pvSdQTp3qoTZy6X3DFMgBt8/s320/roubelet+013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423025376055575234" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: Vestiges of Reboule<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguyDjx_E1fbaSkMl6ZBnLa1LkDe_Vb-JBnkcMWdaEU3sTp128v0062JrQYx0JWmkm9TH3MNSQyGS8Fjd4W-3JWDItuHH1oZOLHHoxtSr19EW5TItf7IksuCtUfmRJj-mE2JMvwLgo-Rsbt/s1600-h/roubelet+022.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguyDjx_E1fbaSkMl6ZBnLa1LkDe_Vb-JBnkcMWdaEU3sTp128v0062JrQYx0JWmkm9TH3MNSQyGS8Fjd4W-3JWDItuHH1oZOLHHoxtSr19EW5TItf7IksuCtUfmRJj-mE2JMvwLgo-Rsbt/s320/roubelet+022.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423035522224787218" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0zkuitgJvq8yO6dmitETzlo841KOk6-3BznwBXKPkQ_SdgtSFzPm7h79B6UFR_F3gPvnr68V12ZxZthNQzUdHfzF1WeVj1W9rXxgyQjmlXEP6-FguY-LXIABwKtX48BdX4iC-m0UfiJ2M/s1600-h/roubelet+021.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0zkuitgJvq8yO6dmitETzlo841KOk6-3BznwBXKPkQ_SdgtSFzPm7h79B6UFR_F3gPvnr68V12ZxZthNQzUdHfzF1WeVj1W9rXxgyQjmlXEP6-FguY-LXIABwKtX48BdX4iC-m0UfiJ2M/s320/roubelet+021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423036431075380386" border="0" /></a><br />At present it is impossible to tell who authorized their excavations and what, if anything, they may have found...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRV1Y3qYldi1881ZUIS-u3Xy2vnUbjzTCJs-FA1IHoMRtxPGXpYpkiyQtbzCXm_etNcYgr1HRnGFEHHqWD7SCc0NIuPwRFgO6pl5QT9ttxnOgRQc0fOdNnvC4eeavAPK31qDDPIVFXoYLD/s1600-h/roubelet+023.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRV1Y3qYldi1881ZUIS-u3Xy2vnUbjzTCJs-FA1IHoMRtxPGXpYpkiyQtbzCXm_etNcYgr1HRnGFEHHqWD7SCc0NIuPwRFgO6pl5QT9ttxnOgRQc0fOdNnvC4eeavAPK31qDDPIVFXoYLD/s320/roubelet+023.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423055744026405010" border="0" /></a>As above, so below: The Way through the woods<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD47soNG6CqEZGz6flsWxo5OzdhmUPS1kBhLLLGlEfLERDWB3WyQ_1FKMOniXTDan2G1YuI9eX5JpWicqS6Vm4MWxy_F4-W_h_anVXMTAOqos_jOM4rhFrLNnp_H1pdz6jsqoeEFgf7s-N/s1600-h/roubelet+018.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD47soNG6CqEZGz6flsWxo5OzdhmUPS1kBhLLLGlEfLERDWB3WyQ_1FKMOniXTDan2G1YuI9eX5JpWicqS6Vm4MWxy_F4-W_h_anVXMTAOqos_jOM4rhFrLNnp_H1pdz6jsqoeEFgf7s-N/s320/roubelet+018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423038764909954610" border="0" /></a><br />( ii )<br /><br />Transcripts from the Zone – Xmas – 2009 – The Hole of the Ravens<br /><br />It was surprisingly warm and sunny for December in the Pyrenees and the Christmas holidays had turned the village of Montsegur into a veritable ghost town. Gunning the Mark XII Interceptor we followed the curving road into the woods, passing over a couple of narrow, stone bridges before reaching the ruins of the abandoned chateau. Taking the left fork at the crossroads we followed the trail still higher into those verdant, oddly domed hills, feasting our eyes on a succession of fields and steeply walled valleys we never knew existed before.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSoV5Fr2A5B5mslDNC22PNTiyC-yXDxxy8cGD4Y4bBkixhqKJh03KP21QCyQ0FYe19OHlEnpb1Jgv_IdfiGMEKa9k_8nVFyHAxmvdhswT89JN-PIR5tP3Vds_ihA2qxT9mqAROYQEZp0FI/s1600-h/DSCF5035.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSoV5Fr2A5B5mslDNC22PNTiyC-yXDxxy8cGD4Y4bBkixhqKJh03KP21QCyQ0FYe19OHlEnpb1Jgv_IdfiGMEKa9k_8nVFyHAxmvdhswT89JN-PIR5tP3Vds_ihA2qxT9mqAROYQEZp0FI/s320/DSCF5035.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424735463839998354" border="0" /></a><br />We passed a late medieval stone cistern dug into the embankment at the side of the road, its vaulted stone roof shielding a deep, clear pool of fresh, icy water.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuOU8GGQSGlQKjyc7SRBc7ElYkDU3tQgrrWCG6Ukj8aV1u8DaRKmyQbVOmmU5eZi8grdP1ZRpU_Hia1tBtuqXUgHZk0qVO8BV3gxoPjcAiHqVpr1krbQEeC9-tyPaPaVN0C4uh-xN0JFXQ/s1600-h/DSCF5113.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuOU8GGQSGlQKjyc7SRBc7ElYkDU3tQgrrWCG6Ukj8aV1u8DaRKmyQbVOmmU5eZi8grdP1ZRpU_Hia1tBtuqXUgHZk0qVO8BV3gxoPjcAiHqVpr1krbQEeC9-tyPaPaVN0C4uh-xN0JFXQ/s320/DSCF5113.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424739135818280194" border="0" /></a><br />The track finally petered out a few hundred yards from the cistern in an isolated farmyard.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCzJHHNLXSdKElx44dqtV8u1pY-e2WLxITYgu-oAQ7iwbi9tWTdZ48Jgc9mXC0xdtO9jYdIrstU2UfMU-xhUAv9eDZNdRLDT02-2cWXnLgYrVHRpd3th0N0h1d8QhP8oxEN1SoBJehHPmM/s1600-h/DSCF5036.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCzJHHNLXSdKElx44dqtV8u1pY-e2WLxITYgu-oAQ7iwbi9tWTdZ48Jgc9mXC0xdtO9jYdIrstU2UfMU-xhUAv9eDZNdRLDT02-2cWXnLgYrVHRpd3th0N0h1d8QhP8oxEN1SoBJehHPmM/s320/DSCF5036.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424740930700026626" border="0" /></a><br />A steep, stony path wound upwards, leading further into the silent forest where patches of hoarfrost lay thick beneath the trees and beside it we spotted a signpost bearing the legend 'True des Corbeaux' – 'Hole of the Ravens – followed by the ominous word 'Gouffre' – betokening quite literally 'Gulf' or 'Abyss'.<br /><br />The area was quite spectacular and at first it was hard to feel anything but grateful to be in such a remote place on a day like this. We followed the slippery stone path deeper into the woods, the shadows thickening steadily about us as we climbed, the profusion of trees assuming a watchful, half sentient animosity. Then through their trunks we caught sight of of a recently erected viewing platform, its gleaming outline looking so incongruous in the midst of this wild, verdant landscape as to appear somehow obscene. Beneath the steel gantry a chasm seemed to appear out of nowhere, a huge, malefic hole in the earth whose shadowy floor opened far below us into the maw of a gaping cavern that extended over one hundred meters into the living rock.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQsO7-p7cof0BgLffdS-zhl90dgJj2q79kbZ2I-zFTOHoJtdAbpSzu-0uRDKePTRHIyLhlxYi7jkoP1yftja7jeek_OHZVxG6ebrL-UfbFTtkoQza_hyphenhyphenCamuN7ZjeeXtwVx42JyuOTzwj/s1600-h/DSCF5080.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQsO7-p7cof0BgLffdS-zhl90dgJj2q79kbZ2I-zFTOHoJtdAbpSzu-0uRDKePTRHIyLhlxYi7jkoP1yftja7jeek_OHZVxG6ebrL-UfbFTtkoQza_hyphenhyphenCamuN7ZjeeXtwVx42JyuOTzwj/s320/DSCF5080.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424743055674276370" border="0" /></a>Back in the 1920's Jean Tricoire partly excavated the vast midden of bones that covers the floor of the shaft, concluding that the 'Hole of the Ravens', otherwise known as the 'Hole of the Hearts' has been used as a dumping ground for human and animal remains since time out of mind.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6xjXJJc-7Mtjaf5KICV6Gb3ySxhZLKTBO5-2AWLkYz4X3lPuHbLDje9WR3xB96R9-YXel1LCQqMN6GCusXdRJzRKgWwYAfngSYdDNzSup-8SqYR5uID8R6EjRFgQR10rYt_qORsYzT_E/s1600-h/DSCF5087.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6xjXJJc-7Mtjaf5KICV6Gb3ySxhZLKTBO5-2AWLkYz4X3lPuHbLDje9WR3xB96R9-YXel1LCQqMN6GCusXdRJzRKgWwYAfngSYdDNzSup-8SqYR5uID8R6EjRFgQR10rYt_qORsYzT_E/s320/DSCF5087.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424748393455255650" border="0" /></a><br />Extracts from the private weblog of Miss Scarlett<br /><br />I stood back for a minute, drawing my coat more tightly about myself, the air seeming to grow palpably colder. I couldn't help noticing that the trees surrounding the mouth of the pit were twisted and malformed, eaten away by disease or in one case apparently even blasted by lighting, their fallen trunks clogging the verge of the ravine, dried out roots reaching vainly skyward. Curiosity drove me further and I joined my companions, peering over the metal railing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmjZdXzhUDsWvl0CUi2tPqeDgwkgvdtqpHdfh1L7tjfQnVYQvpc-WBTJtUHGd8DgP05spSES_T7gVPHpuVO2sq5We40FdoB-3JNJrBhCwh9GTnbTan3ERXYYc1ScUXScMPtid5QV85m1h/s1600-h/hole+of+the+crows2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmjZdXzhUDsWvl0CUi2tPqeDgwkgvdtqpHdfh1L7tjfQnVYQvpc-WBTJtUHGd8DgP05spSES_T7gVPHpuVO2sq5We40FdoB-3JNJrBhCwh9GTnbTan3ERXYYc1ScUXScMPtid5QV85m1h/s320/hole+of+the+crows2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423040392390910546" border="0" /></a> The place was so dark it was as if the light could scarcely penetrate the dead trees, even in winter. I could smell death here, so thick on the air you could almost see it, half sensing the cries of pain and confusion of the things that had been pushed over the edge and left to die.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt88iwcGqxC0uf3hPjKp6oIek8EFL3ek-n4b0w1DILvq8jfoGX-Z13UnG_DV6c9Kc4FDRI3nKF0bQMeK8HGZlDNcM6H30tS_oil5xIYAhMk32SBuIkxv1WK2eHpE32JKFJe-fZpGXd0x2u/s1600-h/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+071.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt88iwcGqxC0uf3hPjKp6oIek8EFL3ek-n4b0w1DILvq8jfoGX-Z13UnG_DV6c9Kc4FDRI3nKF0bQMeK8HGZlDNcM6H30tS_oil5xIYAhMk32SBuIkxv1WK2eHpE32JKFJe-fZpGXd0x2u/s320/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+071.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423041231106265778" border="0" /></a><br />The abyss looked hungry as if it were waiting for more blood. I knew there were the remains of humans and animals down there. I tried desperately to block this out but something in the cave caught my attention and held it. I kept expecting whatever it was down there to reveal itself, to come shuffling out in to the broad daylight. I stared and stared, starting to feel a little faint. Then the spell was broken as the other members of the party began snapping photographs. I tried to shake off that vague sensation of dread, putting it down to over tiredness and the stress of the holiday season.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP4JzImBkfcRydfl9kUFrJAIVB8SavcPDwfLxK7vhQKg8s8G0zWrrqi_DrilfG_rmeh3hVUccP2Df6LM2LjN4yrE9GhbYWmlvkojT6j00dtO3L35U-dUA3BQ6H9fSp6vpsrUEzEWTcQyxk/s1600-h/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+083.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP4JzImBkfcRydfl9kUFrJAIVB8SavcPDwfLxK7vhQKg8s8G0zWrrqi_DrilfG_rmeh3hVUccP2Df6LM2LjN4yrE9GhbYWmlvkojT6j00dtO3L35U-dUA3BQ6H9fSp6vpsrUEzEWTcQyxk/s320/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+083.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423042404333594946" border="0" /></a>I was the first to start towards the car. Glancing back for one last look I spotted a carving on a large rock beside the metal landing. At first I thought that it was some sort of ornate N but on closer inspection it looked more like a cross between an N and the omega symbol. Richard joked that the carving was an N for Noel and another member of our party shot back with the quip that perhaps it was only visible on Christmas Day. We laughed about this as we walked back into the sun filled meadows beyond the wood, the afternoon light glowing golden off the winter vegetation.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEByZJFdPfPYsqug9wl4MgS7lNQFymAqL2tRjRxFFmJmgDMa9lv8Ab6DQzXNCDR84gukuqzU00ngjVCx5ZWDG1QNbmDtSk2M4b8_lONKgQZExmovaP4K_PIhNsGkntjdIquqRTYrSssEwb/s1600-h/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+086.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEByZJFdPfPYsqug9wl4MgS7lNQFymAqL2tRjRxFFmJmgDMa9lv8Ab6DQzXNCDR84gukuqzU00ngjVCx5ZWDG1QNbmDtSk2M4b8_lONKgQZExmovaP4K_PIhNsGkntjdIquqRTYrSssEwb/s320/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+086.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423043470903029410" border="0" /></a>As above, so below. Christmas day 2009<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNE9Xg3sNj5wkc63qnvOlvydP6YcAVXSP77BBrNfHy2_vTwtWjwFhzg7fc-3oL1F5u7B3DdOzpxlknNCNkdnFvjvH1kWwJBQ3rNJBNOVhewevjOaKDZua9dIzZfivVgtynKzuDvOKqiLnm/s1600-h/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+085.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNE9Xg3sNj5wkc63qnvOlvydP6YcAVXSP77BBrNfHy2_vTwtWjwFhzg7fc-3oL1F5u7B3DdOzpxlknNCNkdnFvjvH1kWwJBQ3rNJBNOVhewevjOaKDZua9dIzZfivVgtynKzuDvOKqiLnm/s320/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+085.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423044694412109906" border="0" /></a><br />We drove back down to the grounds of the old chateau, to poke around a little in the ruins before we lost the light. The building must have had lovely gardens at one time and was surrounded by beautifully derelect rusting gates. I stopped to peek inside as a friend snapped a couple of shots on her digital camera. I heard her voice behind me, “That's funny. There's a white haze around your head in this picture, almost like a halo...”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG0eShF_lXPQnvujJ7__Zp2-Zx1fVKOaIwVzDcpAMFV_-onorG-28Fknx9IDwUT54fhFG1xHP0_4YhxS-rrz5jL8GF9-nr5HW_ZMYl9Byw-lV0NBJ8FtlzWYpKr74Qjwg5Hb9GAOsFMlfE/s1600-h/Scarlett+le+chateau.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG0eShF_lXPQnvujJ7__Zp2-Zx1fVKOaIwVzDcpAMFV_-onorG-28Fknx9IDwUT54fhFG1xHP0_4YhxS-rrz5jL8GF9-nr5HW_ZMYl9Byw-lV0NBJ8FtlzWYpKr74Qjwg5Hb9GAOsFMlfE/s320/Scarlett+le+chateau.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423045569990768962" border="0" /></a><br />I laughed and replied something to the effect that it would suit the mood of this place. The light was fading fast as we bundled ourselves into the interceptor and headed back towards Montsegur where the carcass of the Christmas turkey still rested beside the oven, fully dressed and waiting to be cooked. After placing the bird in the yawning stove I went to the cabinet above the microwave to pull out some plates. When I opened the cupboard door the plates came flying out at me seemingly on their own accord, shattering everywhere. I stood in stunned silence for a moment, wondering how it could have happened. The strangest thing was that I had had that exact same experience when I was a little girl many Christmases ago. It was not a pleasant memory. My family had been very poor at the time and I had been severely reprimanded for all that flying crockery. I mused over this darkly as I swept up the broken shards. Xmas never has been my favourite time of year...<br /><br />Somewhere in the middle of the supper I began to feel ill, like maybe the champagne wasn't settling too well. The odour of food made me nauseous, especially the smell of the turkey and the gravy. There was no way I could stay at the table for one more bite. I quietly pulled back my chair, not wanting to cause a scene and went and sat on the couch, casually checking my messages on the laptop. I was starting to feel fuzzy as if the edges of my vision were in soft focus and I was becoming increasingly cold, my hands and feet turning icy. I shivered under the blanket I had pulled around me and wondered if I wasn't coming down with some strange sort of 'flu. My thoughts grew darker and more paranoid, quite unlike my normal self.<br />“F**k it”, I told myself and decided to call it a night.<br /><br />I woke up in a dream, looking down on myself lying in a hospital bed, slowly bleeding to death. An eerie detailed re-enactment of an accident that had happened to me in my early twenties. My dark hair hung over the hospital bed as blood pooled onto the white tiled floors. In the corner of the room a child appeared, a boy maybe three or four years old, who was horribly mangled and misshapen as if most of his limbs had been broken. He was shuffling slowly across the floor towards the bed and I recognized him immediately as what I had sensed at the 'Hole of the Ravens', only now he had finally taken shape. He stopped shuffling across the floor, tilted head turning on his shattered neck to stare directly at me, not where I was on the hospital bed but above, where my disembodied presence seemed to be hover in the dream. I screamed and woke up in the dark, heart pounding furiously.<br /><br />( iii )<br />Extracts from Richard Stanley's journal - Dec 26 2009<br /><br />I couldn't help noticing that Miss Scarlett seemed a little off-colour. She scarcely touched her food and retired early. I thought little of it at the time, Xmas still being Xmas after all and stressful enough, even here in the remote Cathar enclave of Montsegur. A 'flu epidemic had been sweeping the Zone and Madame Couquet, complaining of 'fatigue', had gone to stay with her relatives in Foix leaving us to do the cooking and cleaning in her absence.<br /><br />I saved back a portion of chocolate 'pog cake', figuring Miss Scarlett would sleep it off but the following day she seemed even paler than before. She avoided eye contact and later I came across her hiding behind a pile of film cans and cardboard boxes in the storeroom, her knees drawn up tight against her chest. She looked dazed and frightened, unable to make head or tail of anything I tried to say as if still in a dream, fobbing off my attempts at getting her to eat with a muttered excuse about not having slept properly the night before. It was only afterwards that I realized she had been looking past me all the while, staring at a spot on the tiled floor just inside the kitchen doorway where the pile of crockery had exploded the day before.<br /><br />The festive visit to the 'Hole of the Ravens' had left a deeper impression on our collective psyches than I had readily anticipated, reminding me of nothing so much as the woodland pit that disgorges an endless slew of ravening swine things in William Hope Hodgeson's classic of cosmic horror, 'The House on the Borderlands'.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWyUP8uaSfTCR0ARjYDBj2EAoOe8xQMHMBKQF_CyRLi83ZizMFeNjkbYwHlmyPD0deL_UU-Rp0k9siq-YHoIXi8AGEIHc7kFig2ataobCLvPMOkWBaMHUqDR3EQAYgAArSWQxVH_q_FXK/s1600-h/Druillet+Borderlands.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWyUP8uaSfTCR0ARjYDBj2EAoOe8xQMHMBKQF_CyRLi83ZizMFeNjkbYwHlmyPD0deL_UU-Rp0k9siq-YHoIXi8AGEIHc7kFig2ataobCLvPMOkWBaMHUqDR3EQAYgAArSWQxVH_q_FXK/s320/Druillet+Borderlands.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423046747781642114" border="0" /></a>Above: 'The House on the Borderlands' (1908) - illustration by Phillipe Druillet<br /><br />I sat down to try and input my report only to find myself unable to focus clearly on the work at hand. Several times I distinctly heard the dry fluttering of unseen wings which I initially assumed to be a large moth caught in the lampshade but my efforts to investigate the source of the sound proved utterly fruitless. The moment I settled myself once more at the keyboard the fluttering would resume and there were odd creaks and rustling sounds from the direction of the deserted storeroom. As the shadows lengthened and the afternoon shelved slowly but surely towards a premature dusk and another chilly, wind swept night so the irrational notion that I was sharing the room with some other, invisible presence became increasingly hard to disavow. The air seemed thick with poised presences, and my skin trembled with the subtlest of vibrations, not unlike the sort of feelings I have experienced on entering certain rooms in old houses, the dilapidated old chateau I shinned into the day before not withstanding. The others had been too spooked to follow me through the opening in the boarded up window and although I had taken due care to be perfectly polite to the chateau's unseen occupants, doffing my hat and wishing them 'bonne noel' it was beginning to seem increasingly obvious that we had inadvertently picked up an unwanted hitch hiker along the way.<br /><br />I had seen the plates fly from the cupboard, although I'd assumed at the time they had simply been stacked the wrong way around after the last wash. Normally I would have forgotten the matter soon enough but over the last 24 hours there had been a host of other petty irritations. The lights in the storeroom seemed to be intent on switching themselves back on whenever I looked away and packs of cigarettes, glasses of booze, mugs of coffee, sausages and even whole platters of food were constantly disappearing only to turn up later, if at all, in the most unlikely destinations. The bread and pate laid out for this morning's breakfast, now that I thought of it, had proved to be no exception, vanishing for most of the day only to be found several hours afterwards inexplicably stashed between the wall and the microwave.<br /><br />Finally, giving up any further attempts at work, I rummaged through the audio files on my computer, loading an English language translation of Guy de Maupassant's 'The Horla', read rather hammily by Ian Holm. I was badly in need of advice as to how to go about getting rid of our unwanted guest and was hoping for some perspective on my situation. Killing everyone else in the building before burning the house to the ground and taking my own life like de Maupassant's hysterical narrator however didn't seem quite the way to go.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2sJS4loWxJolUN_7VCx0HrS_PNSkUa8Ba9unc_gh7_hJz0P5dOSWoa_L5nZcQnV2rQq7tHnn4GoxIIb72KcLOXhusPgzIPic8E9qPkAzqbCsqX3G0lq6TqucJFm2mnTc08gdUvh3QT8Cq/s1600-h/Horla.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2sJS4loWxJolUN_7VCx0HrS_PNSkUa8Ba9unc_gh7_hJz0P5dOSWoa_L5nZcQnV2rQq7tHnn4GoxIIb72KcLOXhusPgzIPic8E9qPkAzqbCsqX3G0lq6TqucJFm2mnTc08gdUvh3QT8Cq/s320/Horla.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423047834131500018" border="0" /></a>Above: The Horla<br /><br />Perhaps there was a simple psychological explanation to the whole affair after all. Possibly the shattering crockery had awakened some, dormant recollection of an earlier trauma, a memory amplified by our relative isolation and the potent aura of superstitious fear surrounding the pagan site we had visited earlier. Yet if Miss Scarlett was on the verge of cracking up then so was I, hysteria being contagious after all...<br /><br />I sat in silence for a moment, considering my options. Then I heard what sounded like a low sigh from the bedroom door which stood ajar behind me. It may have been nothing more than the night wind gusting down from the icy heights of the Tabor but I found the hairs bristling on my arms and on the back of my neck. I sat waiting, breathing as shallowly as I could, ears straining against the silence. Five minutes passed. Ten. Then the sound came again. A soft, suppressed whimper of sadness or pain. I rose, hesitantly pushing open the door to find Miss Scarlett seated upright on the bed, staring wide eyed into the gloom. I followed her eyeline and for a beat it was as if I could almost see what she was looking at. A dim, smudgy outline at the foot of the bed that seemed to fade before I had a chance to fully focus on it.<br />“I think we brought something back”, muttered Miss Scarlett.<br />“From the ruined chateau or from the hole ?”<br />“From the hole. Can you see it too ?”<br />“ Like someone was standing there a moment ago ? When I first walked in ? Standing right next top the bed ? ”<br />“Could you tell who it was ?”<br />“I know this sounds crazy but it looked like a child. Like a little boy...”<br /><br />( iv )<br />Extracts from Miss Scarlett's private weblog – Montsegur Dec 27 2009<br /><br />I tried to sleep while Richard kept watch, setting his laptop up on a table in one corner of the room. I lay there for nearly twenty minutes, listening to the soft tap of his fingers on the keyboard. After a while my eyes started to close and I began the long dark slide into sleep.<br /><br />I was awakened by the sound of the door handle turning. It was dark outside, very dark, and there was a rippling wind blowing down off the mountains. At first I thought it must have been Richard coming and going from the kitchen to fetch another coffee but then I realized he was still seated at the computer, his eyes fixed on the trembling handle. For a moment I wished I were still asleep or that it were already morning. More than anything I wished I were anyplace else but here in the middle of this black, breezy night, with the house stirring and shifting about us as if it had come to life.<br />“What the f**k is that ?”<br />Richard shook his head. “I dunno. You want me to let it in and find out ?”<br />“Probably just the wind...”<br />We both held our breath. Then we heard another sound. A slow, deliberate creak like something heavy pressing against the outside of the wooden panelling.<br />“Go away,” I tried to sound as commanding as possible but my voice was barely a whisper. “You're not welcome here...”<br />For a moment whatever it was outside seemed to fall silent. Then the handle quivered again.<br />“No. Go away ! Please go away..”<br />“This is ridiculous.” Getting to his feet Richard started towards the door, moving as if in slow motion. “If there's something out there we might as well just open the door and get it over with.”<br />“You think we should try talking to it ? Like in that M.Night Shamalamadingdong movie ?”<br />“Can't hurt, can it ?” Richard reached hesitantly for the trembling handle.<br />“I guess not.” I took a deep breath, gathering my strength. “Alright, then. You can come in...”<br /><br />The door exploded inwards before I had a chance to finish my sentence, almost knocking Richard from his feet. He tried to cry out, body bucking as if gripped by something unseen but unbelievably strong, one hand flailing at the frame as he tried in vain to stop himself from being wrenched straight out into the dark. I threw myself after him only to find myself grasped in a clammy, vice like hold. I lost balance, feeling myself being dragged inexorably from the lighted room and across the white, tiled floor towards the doorway of the storeroom and the place where the plates had fallen the day before. I screamed for it to stop, over and over again. Finally, gaining control of my right hand I slapped it hard against the tiling. “You will stop this NOW !!!” I shrieked only to wake up, finding myself back in bed, which I thought was shaking for a few disorienting seconds and Richard still seated obliviously at the keyboard, my pulse racing as it had the night before. Only this time I couldn't help wondering what in hell I had let in...<br /><br />( V )<br />Extracts from Miss Scarlett's private journal - Montsegur Dec 28 2009<br /><br />After a bitter night of tossing and turning with no sleep, I decided to head up to the castle to watch the sunrise and try and get my head screwed on a little tighter. There could be rational explanations for what had happened, some fractured part of my psyche that could have caused such an irrational, unexplainable depression and strange seemingly supernatural disturbances. But then again, we had both heard the sound of unseen wings overhead which we couldn’t explain away. Maybe that’s why that place was called the 'Hole of the Ravens'. Maybe it was some sort of sinister ancestral burial ground or slaughter house. These thoughts swirled around in my head but the day was turning out to be gloriously warm and I sat on the sun baked rocks just under the ramparts of the castle and picked up the book that I had been reading - “Darker Than You Think” by Jack Williamson. I slowly sipped coffee from my thermos and opened to the part where the psychiatrist character coolly rationalizes away all the psychic phenomena that had been happening to the lead character of the story. It caused a strange sense of déjà vu and I was laughing as I read it because it seemed oddly appropriate. I quit laughing as I read further on because the doctor was talking out of his hat and was a sinister part of the supernatural horror element all along. I had only picked up this book because I was interested in John Whiteside Parsons, better known as Jack Parsons, who was an American rocket propulsion researcher and co-founder of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory and his work on the invention of solid fuel helped usher in the age of space travel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpK51pDl2pTBMcWF2a2urAnfPgERcHbkpZ54Nlq-gC1ck4TbkJ_FO7-DZIXBfuVsQoHpKt8P9_U_aycNbcVroJN2C_8ZlBZ_C0AwWhJHXDhwE1P7oiF2x36Q6XI-1mvJx2U0y7ZdKxvZS1/s1600-h/lens4871812_1245505123jack-parsons-sm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpK51pDl2pTBMcWF2a2urAnfPgERcHbkpZ54Nlq-gC1ck4TbkJ_FO7-DZIXBfuVsQoHpKt8P9_U_aycNbcVroJN2C_8ZlBZ_C0AwWhJHXDhwE1P7oiF2x36Q6XI-1mvJx2U0y7ZdKxvZS1/s320/lens4871812_1245505123jack-parsons-sm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423049060392341922" border="0" /></a>Above: John 'Jack' Whiteside Parsons<br />Below: Parsons and fellow memembers of the Agape lodge<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0871Xid3PR7CUQjmb2npJIti2-nGW9sxN_ElCXw3tOIYt7fIBhIRATFYPamJEgDtHnjsG1beuPlqLSHa4PU3I9BWDgoEboqx02BeDCi_KCWQK546O0sV6YvzRO_sdE7LjiMeolHGVk3xl/s1600-h/Jack+Parsons+with+fellow+members+of+the+Agape+lodge.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0871Xid3PR7CUQjmb2npJIti2-nGW9sxN_ElCXw3tOIYt7fIBhIRATFYPamJEgDtHnjsG1beuPlqLSHa4PU3I9BWDgoEboqx02BeDCi_KCWQK546O0sV6YvzRO_sdE7LjiMeolHGVk3xl/s320/Jack+Parsons+with+fellow+members+of+the+Agape+lodge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423049562600548386" border="0" /></a><br />Jack was killed in 1952, at the age of thirty-eight, in an explosion at his home laboratory. He was a dedicated occultist and a disciple of Aleister Crowley (then head of the Ordo Templi Orientus or OTO) whom he referred to as his “most beloved Father”. Parsons devoted himself to the ritual of Babalon Working (along with magical partner L. Ron Hubbarb) to try and invoke a living goddess to change to destiny of mankind. The basic premise of the book is that there is an ancient evil that lies dormant within some people who have a genetic link towards a race of early ancestors that were witches (i.e. werewolves and all sorts of totem animal shapeshifters). These witches had been defeated by the race of men at some point but had been quietly gathering and breeding those with the latent gene’s carefully to bring about a new lycanthropic messiah that the book called a “child of the night”. This wasn’t quite what I had been expecting to read and it struck me how curiously close some of the material was to what was being discussed on the Terra Umbra forums.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpGuC9b71jKSQmVgqZ_4jNAXCWPsBMRAqTQUUmfzyL_n0HEPd0c90aZW3YpjV8ePXgvUvlvG5GB9M9pxQdI8x2MMDXK_OvPXFzFvkrvvXFnMPdyHD0edREKm8Yzu-lPR112vRmubqAzZnj/s1600-h/Urania_4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 221px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpGuC9b71jKSQmVgqZ_4jNAXCWPsBMRAqTQUUmfzyL_n0HEPd0c90aZW3YpjV8ePXgvUvlvG5GB9M9pxQdI8x2MMDXK_OvPXFzFvkrvvXFnMPdyHD0edREKm8Yzu-lPR112vRmubqAzZnj/s320/Urania_4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423050783805392802" border="0" /></a>Above: Darker than you think<br /><br />Although fun to read there wasn’t anything that I could readily take on board. Just sitting in the presence of the castle was starting to lift my spirits and make me feel calmer. The tourists began to come and it was time to head back down to the village below. On the way down I resolved to go back to the 'Hole of the Ravens', to try and find some sort of closure. Whether I would be banishing an actual supernatural hitcher or some part of my psyche that had come bubbling to the surface due to the energy of that place remained to be seen. Either way I had to face whatever was going on and try and make it right somehow.<br /><br />( vi )<br />Extracts from the journal of Richard Stanley – The Hole of the Ravens – Dec 30 2009<br /><br />A full moon hung above the treetops like the eye of a madman, the narrow two lane blacktop curving away from us in the interceptor's headlights as we retraced the winding route we had taken into the hills on Christmas day. Neither of us were in much of a mood for words. Miss Scarlett was still trying to get her head around whether she was suffering from a nervous breakdown or incipient demonic possession and I was feeling a little cheesed off with the whole affair, my spirits further dampened by the news that my favourite Italian prog-rock band, 'GOBLIN', had finally and irrevocably broken up, cancelling all further tour dates. Turning up the volume on a remix of the 'Suspiria' score we took the left fork at the crossroads, barrelling up the road towards the 'Hole of the Ravens'.<br /><br />I had decided to fight fire with fire by conjuring a daemon of my own to advise us on how to deal with the thing in the pit. Long term followers of this 'blog in its previous incarnations on MySpace and elsewhere will probably already be familiar with my benign , maleficent guardian, the daemon Moag who has bailed me out of any number of similar scrapes over the years. Almost all of us at least once in our lives, during a sleepless night or an illness, have heard a voice which, coming from nowhere, and, as it were, speaking silently, gives us advice. It is always, when we are in solitude and most often in moments of exaltation that this silent voice speaks. The Greeks called this being by the name of 'daimon', and the best-known of all, that which has been discussed at the greatest length by the philosophers, was the daimon of Socrates.<br /><br />“The favour of the gods,” said Socrates, “has given me a marvelous gift, which has never left me since my childhood.” According to Maximus of Tyre the daemon was a sort of “inferior immortal, called gods of the second rank, placed between heaven and earth ”. Apuleius maintained, “They are intermediate powers of a divine order. They fashion dreams and inspire soothsayers.” Plato believed that a kind of spirit, which is separate from us, receives man at birth and follows him in life and after death. He called it “the daemon which has received us as its portionment.” This invisible helper seems, therefore to be analogous to the 'guardian angel' of the Christians.<br /><br />My own guardian made his first appearance when I was a scant four years of age. After I had endured a life threatening illness I found myself entertained during my convalescence by a happy-go-lucky horned dude with glittering red eyes whom I rapidly surmised was utterly indetectable to either my parents or peers. He claimed that I was the first human he had been allowed to take onto his books. Apparently he had looked after various dogs before but had been assigned to my case by one of his superiors, a being he referred to only as his “awe full master.” I knew him initially as 'Moo Ug' because he resembled a cross between a cow or a goat and a primitive human being but in later years his name became gradually abbreviated to the somewhat more elegant appellation by which he is known today – 'Moag' pronounced with a sort of frog in the throat, the way a crow might say it. After serving as a teacher, confidante and all-round invisible playmate during my childhood years my relationship with my guardian inevitably deteriorated when I hit adolescence and began to suspect that he might be some sort of emergent splinter personality. Even if he was an independent entity as Moag insisted it simply wasn't cool to go on having conversations with invisible beings once I had hit a certain age and succumbed to peer pressure to conform to the generally accepted mores of so-called 'consensus reality'. It took the war in Afghanistan for me to get my priorities in order. There are, after all, no atheists in the fox hole and believe you me, when the chips were down and I finally saw combat I tried out every prayer, charm and mantra I could recall, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu or otherwise but at the end of the day the only voice I knew I could trust was that of my childhood playmate who saw me safely through some of the hardest times I've ever known.<br /><br />Like Guy de Maupassant's hapless protagonist in 'The Horla' I had no way of knowing for sure whether our Yuletide difficulties were of a psychological or metaphysical origin but it was perfectly clear that, either which way, some sort of exorcism was in order. Although I am an ordained priest I have never had to conduct a ritual of this nature and could think of no better personage to turn to for advice on a suitably non-denominational procedure.<br /><br />So it was that Miss Scarlett and yours truly sat down to a light repast before saying a prayer and inviting our invisible guest to accompany us to the waiting car. The way through the woods seemed different in the dark and I did my best to ignore the smudgy, half imagined presence that seemed to hover in the rear view mirror as we drove. We parked up beside the ancient stone cistern, making our way silently past the lighted windows of the lone farmhouse at the end of the trail.<br /><br />The forest seemed deeper and even more distressingly sinister than it had in the daylight. A thin, cold mist hung between the gnarled trees and the owls were out in force, nor did it seem that we walked alone upon that winding path. There were other sounds, like distant cries or muted voices but, like Miss Scarlett, I did my level best to ignore them. On reaching the maw of the pit itself we carried out Moag's instructions to the tee, lighting a candle and casting a circle with salt water before making an offering to the 'beast' of 'flesh, food and wine'. Tipping the Christmas turkey along with all its trimmings, the remains of the chocolate 'pog' cake and the contents of a bottle of homemade dandelion wine into the abyss we asked the 'grande bete' to help the dead child on his way before sealing the portal with the 'Elder Sign'.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-kMjXT4mjg7eg4HhKzgT6WbprW2cE5CIjzHx0elb5VsBiAflZwmU45LC9vWkTwr1hQFdp_htz25pR0H-CM1-CS7GTICPOmbMXa8GcXzuedg6TN2k3WdI8GXkKSFFRUAI2QK32lZBDNRpT/s1600-h/DSCF5043.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-kMjXT4mjg7eg4HhKzgT6WbprW2cE5CIjzHx0elb5VsBiAflZwmU45LC9vWkTwr1hQFdp_htz25pR0H-CM1-CS7GTICPOmbMXa8GcXzuedg6TN2k3WdI8GXkKSFFRUAI2QK32lZBDNRpT/s320/DSCF5043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424726324996181506" border="0" /></a>Of course this was supposed to have been engraved on a 'stone of Mnar' but having no such stone to hand we settled for drawing the sigil with a felt-tip marker on one of the only plates to have survived the fall from the cupboard, setting it beside the graven rock at the lip of the hole. Then, kindling our lanterns, we turned away.<br /><br />The wind had dropped and the night seemed surprisingly warm for so late in the year. The waxing gibbous moon, a mere 24 hours shy of full, was already low in the western firmament but the stars were still diamond sharp and behind us the 'Hole of the Ravens' yawned black as pitch and very silent, like the heart of the unknown. Some day the trees that surrounded it might be felled and the hill itself bulldozered down, when greed has grown even greater than it is today and awe of nature even less, but for now it can still awaken an oddly primal sense of panic terror. I have never been too fond of so-called 'high magic', even though since moving to the Zone we've been knee deep in the stuff. Accordingly I had no idea whether what we had been through had any basis in reality or was purely a psychological double bluff but either which way I didn't breathe easily until we were safely back in the car and headed south.<br /><br />That night, for the first time since Christmas eve, my sleep was dreamless and I did not awaken until dawn.<br /><br />( vii )<br />We headed up to the castle just after the sun had set wanting a front row view of the lunar eclipse. The night was warm and the hike up seemed easier than usual.<br />The courtyard was obligingly empty of other humans. The moon was out but there were storm clouds gathering on the horizon. We climbed back to the keep and made our greetings and then retraced our steps to the courtyard. As the moon began to go into eclipse we set out a protective circle and then lit two candles giving our thanks to the spirits of the castle for being able to be with them on that night. The flames burned steadily and brightly for about five minutes in the silent darkness. Then the temperature began to drop rapidly.<br /><br />“Richard, look at the moon”<br />“I don’t see it”<br />“That’s what I mean. It was there a second ago”<br /><br />A sudden wind entered the courtyard and the flames of the candles struggled valiantly for a minute before being extinguished. There was a sound by the south door. First it sounded like a large scattering of dried leaves, then a watery sound, like a tide rushing up over the steps into the courtyard. For a moment I thought that something was being wheeled or propelled through the door the sound was so loud but the rest of the courtyard was eerily silent. We watched waiting for something visual to manifest but then it was gone as quickly as it had come. We quietly walked over to the north door marveling at the fact that the sky was completly obliterated by a heavy and dense fog that had settled in. There were darker low flying clouds that raced across the valleys looking for all the world just like knights on horseback. It was quite a sight to see and we watched for some time.<br /><br />The temperature had turned icy and the skies were threatening to rain so we headed back down the path. Even without the moonlight the way seemed brighter than normal. We raced down laughing and jubilant as we made record time. Strange because even on the brightest of moonlit nights the path is treacherous in some places, but that night neither of us missed a beat or took a wrong step. We never once broke our stride. About halfway down it had started to rain and somehow we hadn’t noticed until we reached the Camp de Cremat and saw how wet the ground was and the water dripping off the monument. The funny thing was that we were perfectly dry. It wasn’t the New Year that we had expected but there had been something exhilarating and intrinsically spooky about it, so very different than all the misery that had clouded Christmas. Near midnight the fast moving storm had all but faded away. We watched the fireworks lighting up the skies over the village from Hannibal’s Point and welcomed in the New Year, safe and secure in the shadow of pog.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3I0g4HpuUjFHu1pg2JSmfAkTYAr6ya3UxkKEWvmidHoi1FYt0UztZZErtBvcPBmdH1eouQEkAO_9_C4v4LugvWYJOM14UVYtuBi5mUAdXq8pb0I3tdjlXfcjsoIEn8pF36mgu0PsvLk6u/s1600-h/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+004.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3I0g4HpuUjFHu1pg2JSmfAkTYAr6ya3UxkKEWvmidHoi1FYt0UztZZErtBvcPBmdH1eouQEkAO_9_C4v4LugvWYJOM14UVYtuBi5mUAdXq8pb0I3tdjlXfcjsoIEn8pF36mgu0PsvLk6u/s320/Montsegur+Terra+Umbra+004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423052034561481874" border="0" /></a><br />May the grace of the White Lady and the Sons and Daughters of Belisenna be with you this year of our Lord 2010.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoTRSr0HHNbYKVFfmKhmy3yua8Pcbw4thq1EsYL6L5TAfE_jdNtmjmhIjASss73EjRa000rVjr-Qi_84QMqSVJi1bfkGI49GdQ3bukcLLcn998ctaTCB0Ofj9Z6Y082_J3tbXCOpaRtbXB/s1600-h/lightoftheworld.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoTRSr0HHNbYKVFfmKhmy3yua8Pcbw4thq1EsYL6L5TAfE_jdNtmjmhIjASss73EjRa000rVjr-Qi_84QMqSVJi1bfkGI49GdQ3bukcLLcn998ctaTCB0Ofj9Z6Y082_J3tbXCOpaRtbXB/s320/lightoftheworld.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423056279185094178" border="0" /></a>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-33584924710891154772009-12-23T16:16:00.000-08:002009-12-27T07:51:11.124-08:00The Lost Caves of Montsegur<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdd96H2PCFSq71qfwmkDJw1HcN4g9V3pUcUV0RDDTvVv1M2ovpVi9cIPn4lMYU6ybkcnKtiXxghxp1c4qvd_R-9D1y77CKF-qIU1tmhL31BWllNgk-GzxMOU-cElf24rXlgnTZ7A6bS-tV/s1600-h/Montsegur+-+view+from+the+Ers+Valley.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdd96H2PCFSq71qfwmkDJw1HcN4g9V3pUcUV0RDDTvVv1M2ovpVi9cIPn4lMYU6ybkcnKtiXxghxp1c4qvd_R-9D1y77CKF-qIU1tmhL31BWllNgk-GzxMOU-cElf24rXlgnTZ7A6bS-tV/s320/Montsegur+-+view+from+the+Ers+Valley.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418676162152680322" border="0" /></a><br />The evidence for there being a large cave or caves on the southwest side of the pog of Montsegur is starting to fall into place. After Miss Scarlett was apparently abducted from the courtyard by someone or something in June 2008 ( * see 'Trail of the White Lady/ 'Midnight in the Well of Souls' for the full story ) she recalls waking to find herself lying in a cave in the side of the mountain, one that had two large stones close to the entrance. Although the experience bore elements of a shamanic journey that is not wholly explainable by the “rational mind” we do not believe that what happened to her that night was a mere 'hallucination' or some trick of the light. Miss Scarlett claims to have been forced to slide a good ten meters or more down a steep incline to escape the grotto and the dried red mud was there for all to see caked on the back of her jeans and heavy leather trenchcoat the next morning. <br /><br />The black djellaba that Miss Scarlett was clutching when she was first grabbed by the 'barrow wite' or whatever the hell it was that snatched her out of the courtyard was later found halfway up the mountain but our best efforts to retrace her steps to the mouth of the grotto itself have thus far proved strangely fruitless. One might readily assume that the cave itself existed either in some other plane of time, space or consciousness or indeed solely in her mind were it not for the corroborative evidence that we have since gleaned from the inhabitants of the isolated hamlet clinging to the base of the pog.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuaMpsIA_d1YdlG1NENbiDSqtGApYo0_w3hMT1RnRIdvA_TV_LHKp2GOzmj0ObzZ-nMgtw-WKeXSu_HK9fQRdtOAp65XSmHotA87xwdsFVQXmZGgUPp_W0ghI-qCCGZiIZqsFFwUJnrPS9/s1600-h/montsegur++topshot.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuaMpsIA_d1YdlG1NENbiDSqtGApYo0_w3hMT1RnRIdvA_TV_LHKp2GOzmj0ObzZ-nMgtw-WKeXSu_HK9fQRdtOAp65XSmHotA87xwdsFVQXmZGgUPp_W0ghI-qCCGZiIZqsFFwUJnrPS9/s320/montsegur++topshot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418675737697478386" border="0" /></a><br />Much of what we have heard during our time in the area amounts to little more than oral tradition, scraps of verbally transmitted data that can all too easily become confused with myth as they are handed down from one generation to the next. For example one of our most reliable informants, a perfectly level headed young German lady whose name must for now remain a secret, claims to have spoken to an elderly villager who was present when they conducted a dig halfway up the pog in 1897. The labourers apparently unearthed a trench 5-6 meters wide and 3-4 meters deep with two columns and a collapsed arch. Behind it was a tunnel. The man who told the story was in his 70's at the time but was apparently still haunted by the memory of that tunnel mouth although the excavation had been long since been covered over and “no trace of it remains.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHGjTxn83ZTEfF_1E9uUIOyTAwySevb_beOneIGeyz5YMnEFJ-LIwv_3E2ap_2Rl2SKHAELhZnwhXU2OSySKPzTb_xHe8_G0gUtnRv1CW8LqBCjkW_qr1sroNUcX6DGkMZ5MwHCc_WcOVh/s1600-h/006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHGjTxn83ZTEfF_1E9uUIOyTAwySevb_beOneIGeyz5YMnEFJ-LIwv_3E2ap_2Rl2SKHAELhZnwhXU2OSySKPzTb_xHe8_G0gUtnRv1CW8LqBCjkW_qr1sroNUcX6DGkMZ5MwHCc_WcOVh/s320/006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418673154994026594" border="0" /></a><br />We picked up a very similar story only the other day from another one our friends, Thierry, who can trace his ancestry back the knights involved in the Avignonet raid in 1243 and whose own birthday celebration we attended whilst preparing this 'blog entry. Thierry told us of an encounter with an elderly gent who had apparently wandered into a cave below the castle as a boy and seen a stone altar or table surrounded by a circle of rocks resembling chairs. According to Thierry the memory had stayed with this individual all his life but when he returned to the mountain as an old man no trace of the cave could been found. He complained that the path had been altered and he no longer recognised the lie of the land but Thierry suspected that the venerable gentleman was simply a few cards shy of a full deck at the time and had conflated a vividly imagined recollection of a childhood 'conte' or fairytale with his own remembered experience.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LxzyQ4AxbEHjJdQxysaoFt0Rf5KP_iIY48gJIm8PKI3KPOll8RbHnh5AlKD6efn0bJ8UUDo6wsXoBdd8mHqYhyphenhyphenJuoElhUJYzVqCIS6X3eQgNzP4Z8QBa-4ODuHDvWAmOSv-GGfFMbOxs/s1600-h/019.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LxzyQ4AxbEHjJdQxysaoFt0Rf5KP_iIY48gJIm8PKI3KPOll8RbHnh5AlKD6efn0bJ8UUDo6wsXoBdd8mHqYhyphenhyphenJuoElhUJYzVqCIS6X3eQgNzP4Z8QBa-4ODuHDvWAmOSv-GGfFMbOxs/s320/019.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418672438890497890" border="0" /></a><br />Another equally wild yarn is said to have originated from a former member of a group of amateur spelunkers who once operated in the area and claimed to have found a great cave deep inside the pog, complete with a mysterious subterranean lake. Further crypto-archeological gossip concerns persistent rumours of an entrance to a tunnel leading deeper into the mountain that was unearthed when they built the road to the village but “...they covered it over and didn't want anybody to talk about it...”<br /><br />That said there seems nary a soul in the settlement who doesn't have an opinion on the matter. One long term pog watcher and ardent Occitan nationalist whom we encountered at Madame Couquet's auberge told us over breakfast that he had entered and explored a cave below the castle that he termed the 'well of the steps'. He claimed it had been easier to access in times gone by and that there was a bottleneck in the tunnel so narrow that only a child or a midget would have any chance of squeezing through. When we asked him to describe the well's location he shied away from answering, claiming that it was 'dangerous' to try and pin things down, suggesting rather fancifully that the precise topography of the pog had a tendency to shift capriciously between one visit and the next. "You can't define it ! Every time you try to define it, it changes..." He confided darkly, as if this were explanation enough. Indeed were he to tell us any more, he hinted, he might find his own way barred the next time he attempted to return to the area. Only the mountain itself apparently or whatever mysterious force is at work in the keep has the power to decide who is allowed through the maze and just how much they are permitted to see at any one time.<br /><br />Of course our informant was, in this case, in all probability, nuttier than the proverbial wagonload of pralines but considering how far fetched our own experiences on the pog have been over the last few years we're scarcely in a position to be too fussy about who we choose to break bread with. Besides our informants claims, absurd as they may sound, would seem to possess a grain of truth... <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtHSDv5f0HzuvjIpWYggcBYwCbPSHGhQM7zngJsWq_vIaTjn4A5ZUTF9EkTVVLTFaFpHDMSt63mi-tqGM3sukkLgjzID3dGMoXKpuCkLIRdTFejoUzAh7_C6xDfLdZgU_bzwvmy3OUlGQX/s1600-h/montsegur_ornolac.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 253px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtHSDv5f0HzuvjIpWYggcBYwCbPSHGhQM7zngJsWq_vIaTjn4A5ZUTF9EkTVVLTFaFpHDMSt63mi-tqGM3sukkLgjzID3dGMoXKpuCkLIRdTFejoUzAh7_C6xDfLdZgU_bzwvmy3OUlGQX/s320/montsegur_ornolac.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418648225609460162" border="0" /></a><br />In the early 13th century the then head of the Cathar church Guilhabert de Castries wrote to the lord of Montsegur, Raimond de Perelha asking permission for the treasures and records of their faith to be moved to the fortress and its adherents to be allowed to live 'infra-castrum', a term taken by some to literally mean 'beneath the castle' although it is more commonly believed to refer to the small settlement that once existed in the lee of the chateau's walls. Several sources however mention the castle's water supply being drawn from 'underground cisterns' although no sign of such an arrangement has ever been found and the question of quite how the defenders refreshed themselves during the eleven month siege remains a bit of a poser.<br /><br />A retired member of the former archaeological society of Montsegur who must for now remain anonymous hinted that there was a lot that he and his colleagues in the GRAME ( Groupe de Recherches Archeologiques de Montsegur et Environs ) were forced to leave out from the official record. He claims that the castle foundations go 4.5 meters deeper than anyone is willing to admit and that there are things below. Nonetheless the person responsible for the 'Monuments Historiques' declared emphatically in 1948 that there was nothing under the castle, no cisterns, cellars or caverns, manmade or otherwise.<br /><br />In the inquisition records however can be found a brief but puzzling reference to the death of one Arnaud Narbona de Carol. He was mortally injured and before dying they took him 'dans la grotte de ce chateau' ( to the cave of the castle ) where two parfaits gave him the consolamentum in the company of 10 others - so we can assume it must have been a reasonably large cave. Again nobody knows where this cave might be and not only don't they know, they say there is no cave, that it was only a “place between two rocks”.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKa_QHdY_uGGBfJG1U2UtZo37A64iuOUw2LYsmFt_sZoLKRlgJbxsV4kWFgCyfDtedfrnN42Af0jUgx6wybWwAvVQ-en4A2udGYAIPYOLJw31JE3xJcGgReYV3FXpaYtDb1Y3sxt_0QIE/s1600-h/Between+two+stones....jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKa_QHdY_uGGBfJG1U2UtZo37A64iuOUw2LYsmFt_sZoLKRlgJbxsV4kWFgCyfDtedfrnN42Af0jUgx6wybWwAvVQ-en4A2udGYAIPYOLJw31JE3xJcGgReYV3FXpaYtDb1Y3sxt_0QIE/s320/Between+two+stones....jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418669271926488098" border="0" /></a><br />To date only two complete skeletons and three partial ones have been retrieved from the ruins of Montsegur although it is known that many people died during the 40 years of occupation in the 13th century and that in fact many bothers deliberately came to the pog to die. Accordingly we have begun to focus our attention on an area known as 'Prats de la Gleizo' which once existed at the bottom of the pog on the far side of the road from the parking lot. 'Gleizo' is an archaic word for church, a name mentioned in an old diary recently turned up by one of our informants concerning the discovery of several coffins buried in the vicinity.<br /><br />« ...Du village nous remontons la route jusqu’au col du Tremblement. A mi-côte nous dépassons l’ancienne carrière de plâtre et la mine abandonnée de l’Argentière. Nos yeux se reposent un instant sur la prairie au sud. Un pré longe la route : il fut un cimetière – probablement aux temps féodaux. Naguère encore, en labourant on y trouvait des débris d’ossements, de planches, des clous ; et l’endroit porte le nom de ‘Prats de la Gleizo’ (Les prés de l’église). Il s’agit sans aucun doute de l’emplacement d’un ancien village brûlé lors du siège du château. Plus haut, à droite du col, le lien se nomme ‘La Cave’. Ce nom laisse perplexe. Une grotte naturelle serait-elle à la base de la pyramide rocheuse ? Y aurait on aménagé des magasins et des écuries ? L’entrée en serait-elle reste cachée ? En tout cas, des écuries tout au haut du piton, dans la forteresse ; cela semble improbable... »<br /><br />Translation :<br />From the village we go up the road to Col Earthquake ( or literally the 'trembling col' – the area that constitutes the current parking for the castle – although nobody calls it by this name any more ) Halfway we passed the old lime quarry and the abandoned mine Argentiere. Our eyes rest a moment on the prairie to the south. Along the road there was a cemetery - probably in feudal times. Once again, there was ploughing that had uncovered the remnants of bones, planks, nails, and the place is called 'Prats of Gleizo' (near the church). This is undoubtedly the site of a former village burned during the siege of the castle. To the top right of the neck, the link is called 'The Cave'. This name is perplexing. A natural cave perhaps at the base of the pyramid rock? Where would they have constructed shops and stables ? Would the entrance be hidden? In any case, situating the stables at the top of the peak in the fortress itself would seem unlikely...”<br /><br />The English is a little tricky in this transcription but you get the idea…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCaaVaMKynqBdoOylPapQoURN3WaKgwZ2e5kNXCAePRq9RvNPiUcgZVV5KD28BkmOdDjH16Db_pXe4dyOOOx8_DEDrrKenFD1aZF6JeVGNRNehFTbR5Ptkj-1sW_9ptPgIzVV6vEFB-HOk/s1600-h/050.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCaaVaMKynqBdoOylPapQoURN3WaKgwZ2e5kNXCAePRq9RvNPiUcgZVV5KD28BkmOdDjH16Db_pXe4dyOOOx8_DEDrrKenFD1aZF6JeVGNRNehFTbR5Ptkj-1sW_9ptPgIzVV6vEFB-HOk/s320/050.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418670857957686322" border="0" /></a><br />As above, so below...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vgApGDMIBsHFKPqsAnoSc65UgCevJl5wa6Yrot-DUdZBxpTLtW-2lAR7tJ2asJQG7V8jY0HsdGAkSNc9lifD9nTilqlmJSzQzFbNaQ5y6oeUwAM2uOTg0JyLK9Ok8kucEUPO1HobpMjQ/s1600-h/2009_0613france20090145.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vgApGDMIBsHFKPqsAnoSc65UgCevJl5wa6Yrot-DUdZBxpTLtW-2lAR7tJ2asJQG7V8jY0HsdGAkSNc9lifD9nTilqlmJSzQzFbNaQ5y6oeUwAM2uOTg0JyLK9Ok8kucEUPO1HobpMjQ/s320/2009_0613france20090145.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418671522583871842" border="0" /></a><br />( ii )<br /><br />Only the other night we were taking dinner at our landlady's house and talk turned, as it does around here, to the lost caves of Montsegur. Our landlady claimed that her own grandmother had stumbled across just such a cavity beneath the castle, which she had reached via a flight of stairs that, of course, “no longer exist”. She told us that when her grandmother entered the cavern she had found a giant “saucisson”. While the word was immediately recognizable we assumed that we must have misheard her. Wresting control of the dog-eared Franglais dictionary that we carry around like a Bible, our estimable hostess proceeded to look up the word “sausage”, whilst continuing to insist on the literal truth of her story. Apparently her grandmother had found a huge cellar and within the castle's cavernous pantry she had seen an “enormous sausage” - quite literally the 'food of the Gods' you might say.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw9qz0w6m0oMahKREU_sI4kq4_yx_5uUN7nCYv1NpSkC_5KRiRyb9U7l2bGC6i6Zq0BFc7BOn8NvEd8_LGY2Qkj6i4eYs8NUZJV1EJ3885rfkANssM7j1CbYka641_LDWsEAfgf61uexot/s1600-h/burne6.gif.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw9qz0w6m0oMahKREU_sI4kq4_yx_5uUN7nCYv1NpSkC_5KRiRyb9U7l2bGC6i6Zq0BFc7BOn8NvEd8_LGY2Qkj6i4eYs8NUZJV1EJ3885rfkANssM7j1CbYka641_LDWsEAfgf61uexot/s320/burne6.gif.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418651093357874738" border="0" /></a><br />In these mountains magic and superstition still have common currency and belief in the supernatural and the powers of the 'fee' or faery folk surprisingly widespread. Our landlady's account of a ghostly sausage still hanging in an equally ghostly larder is only marginally more ridiculous than similar friend-of-a-friend reports I picked up in Wales and the West of England concerning children wandering through doors in the hill on midsummer's night to return clutching “strange flowers” in their hands and their heads aspin with weird music or, for that matter, anonymous shepherds blundering across long buried hoards still guarded by sleeping knights. Like Osama bin Laden or King Arthur before him the so-called 'White Lady' of Montsegur and the last of the 'Cathars' are believed to still be concealed within the bosom of the living rock, awaiting the day that the stars come around to their right place so that they might awaken to lead their future kin to freedom.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihbWQkGWBSXamb9vDGLwN_3psJOprOZIMABcn4yZXDNJFoRJUAAVgx7qKo7HIfZv2x92QrJFD7yo-GeWHoDjaQSAMoM-3tl5bUf_otZbHypi6DFHct39U9reT0VMVDistpYamYdjfwLfkB/s1600-h/Esclarmonde-eternal-sleep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 236px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihbWQkGWBSXamb9vDGLwN_3psJOprOZIMABcn4yZXDNJFoRJUAAVgx7qKo7HIfZv2x92QrJFD7yo-GeWHoDjaQSAMoM-3tl5bUf_otZbHypi6DFHct39U9reT0VMVDistpYamYdjfwLfkB/s320/Esclarmonde-eternal-sleep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418651941962766274" border="0" /></a><br />Above: 'Esclarmonde in her enchanted sleep' - a plate from 'La Legende de Jean de l'Ours ou legende d'Esclarmonde' ( 1936 )<br /><br />As Arthur is commonly believed to have been borne away to Avalon so Esclarmonde de Montsegur is said to have 'passed alive into the kingdom of heaven' from whence she will return to reign as a sort of 'once and future' queen over her Pyrenean empire after seven centuries have passed and “the Laurel turns green again”. The 'treasure of the ages', be it the 'Holy Grail' or the 'Book of the Seven Seals' which 'will not be opened until judgement day' is quite naturally said to rest beside her.<br /><br />All this is plainly the stuff of folklore, the archetypal myth of the 'eternal return' writ large, yet the legend is persistent enough to have motivated countless professional and amateur archeologists and spelunkers to scour the cave systems which honeycomb this area, one of the largest limestone regions in Europe, in the hope of finding some trace of the vanished heretics and their ever elusive treasure.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZponl100ccBhfbJe19qipA17xQSbviwC5Q6Mduh9HwgqXLTsqidJMBhnLf1LX0TkY8GraX4XpehJzkP3D2mj6X9FMZNBAIzS5v4Z1oWF-zl6GmTtp_zGmI9ZxExP424-CwGOdVet_o5Xa/s1600-h/Down....jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZponl100ccBhfbJe19qipA17xQSbviwC5Q6Mduh9HwgqXLTsqidJMBhnLf1LX0TkY8GraX4XpehJzkP3D2mj6X9FMZNBAIzS5v4Z1oWF-zl6GmTtp_zGmI9ZxExP424-CwGOdVet_o5Xa/s320/Down....jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418638394183584402" border="0" /></a><br />As above, so below: In the footsteps of Otto Rahn<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLlDhnNd_gdYRucWFVPJL0Y06zP_jPTPQE2FSTxR1rhn8AEeTVA3XqZ11XwQC6-K5B0fZRMaKlFXpctWesv75dVdKtZ8mNFOMlGVZVDBBe0ns856y4WXMqcuAGsyVdGImfVQLxXjqOpmjJ/s1600-h/Rahn-in-Cave.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 205px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLlDhnNd_gdYRucWFVPJL0Y06zP_jPTPQE2FSTxR1rhn8AEeTVA3XqZ11XwQC6-K5B0fZRMaKlFXpctWesv75dVdKtZ8mNFOMlGVZVDBBe0ns856y4WXMqcuAGsyVdGImfVQLxXjqOpmjJ/s320/Rahn-in-Cave.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418639661523675074" border="0" /></a><br />My colleagues and I have followed a trail blazed the enigmatic German-Jewish Grail historian Otto Rahn ( * see 'Terra Umbra/ Journeys 2009 / The Cave of the Hermit' and 'The Secret Glory' ) who plumbed the claustrophobic depths of Fontanet, Bouan, the Lombrives and the grotto of Ornolac in search of a dream and his mentor, Antonin Gadal, the former minister of tourism and one time leader of the European Rosicrucian movement who believed so ardently in the myth that he felt compelled to try and make it a reality by unearthing and exhibiting artefacts, mostly Egyptian tat, jade ornaments that were later found to have been purchased at museum auctions before being deliberately re-buried at the sites in question.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQnAY3eJerTlvnmkFGbqu3Gmsocz3qL6juon6T5dL6dQpsgC75oBi3W_R6R2wKm2ZeNv5JvLiZXfbPg5EC9hAQztKteHX9ZDgGZi3PaVFV7X4tWnSWXufC4yWvTxx6HrhfKOuMy1FzYj8S/s1600-h/250_gadal-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQnAY3eJerTlvnmkFGbqu3Gmsocz3qL6juon6T5dL6dQpsgC75oBi3W_R6R2wKm2ZeNv5JvLiZXfbPg5EC9hAQztKteHX9ZDgGZi3PaVFV7X4tWnSWXufC4yWvTxx6HrhfKOuMy1FzYj8S/s320/250_gadal-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418641101346046498" border="0" /></a><br />Above: Antonin Gadal displays artefacts allegedly retrieved from the grotto of Lombrives<br />Below: The fortified grotto of Bouan<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDBRoAwIiiNMAfHWil9Du2ok033gQVdKln9QNF4o3PE5sX0uEzalDvtK4xzbr_uoQGH6MjLwc_VqpXlTlOOyNaOVWBICJPQMIIEWwvbtInCn_MlfhdKZMPdQ7H6e0tQDVx9jnEM1nYyWC/s1600-h/Stage-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDBRoAwIiiNMAfHWil9Du2ok033gQVdKln9QNF4o3PE5sX0uEzalDvtK4xzbr_uoQGH6MjLwc_VqpXlTlOOyNaOVWBICJPQMIIEWwvbtInCn_MlfhdKZMPdQ7H6e0tQDVx9jnEM1nYyWC/s320/Stage-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418642488106330594" border="0" /></a><br />The French occult group 'The Polaires' resorted to similar tactics in 1932 when their leader Cesare Accomani ( aka 'Zam Bhotiva' ) stooped to hiding a book of Hindu astrology in the ruins of Montsegur for subsequent re-exhumation after a lengthy, highly publicised and typically fruitless sweep of the surrounding countryside, including extensive digging in the ruins of Lordat and other castles, apparently in the hope of turning up that pesky missing grimoire, the 'Book of the Seven Seals'. Accomani was forced to resign as a result and the bewildered occult lodge he left behind spontaniously imploded not long afterwards.<br /><br />Otto Rahn makes fun of the Polaires and Engineer Arnaud from Bordeux who saught a material hoard whilst simultaniously suggesting that the true treasure lay hidden in a cave in the forest guarded by poisonous vipers. According to Rahn's 1936 opus 'The Court of Lucifer' -<br /><br /> ”...He, who wishes to enter, must present himself there on Palm Sunday, during the priest's mass. At this time only, the stone will draw itself aside, and the serpents will be sleeping. However, tragedy will befall him who has not left by the time the priest pronounces 'misa est'. At the end of the mass, the grotto of the treasure will close in on itself and he who finds himself its prisoner will reap an atrocious death, bitten by serpents suddenly awoken....”<br /><br />All of which, admittedly sounds a little fanciful, but its hard to ignore the recurrent serpentine symbolism and the correlation between Palm Sunday and the Cathar feast day of Bema, allegedly the only day of the year on which the 'Book of the Seven Seals' could be opened, a festival that according to my associate, Mr.Web, had been incorporated wholesale into the developing faith from a far earlier Manichean tradition. Accordingly I decided to take the laboratory approach and scaled the pog last year in order to present myself at the given time, only to return with little more to show for my efforts other than damp socks and incipient frostbite.<br /><br />Intriguingly in the very same passage Rahn proceeds to relay a story allegedly told to him by one of the shepherds he meets during his stay in Montsegur in what was presumably the winter of 1932 who insists that his grandfather found an iron ring set into a stone slab somewhere deep in the forest. After failing to lift it Rahn claims the man “rushed back to the village to seek help. But he never found the place again” - which, strangely enough, is almost identical to another friend of a friend account proffered by one of the locals during the writing of this 'blog:-<br />“...Years ago my grandfather found a rock in the forest behind the castle. There was a ring attached to the slab and a seal cut into the stone. Nobody knows any more where in the forest it is...”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUW79SCtEIC4weZ9k8BwMLxkHmmMTDNur31YQXg8emxmlsO_0Bi9Kpv836LQ4JR8YvfWli7wa_ZTIyevxDfgTi_zyBBLPys_dK50-s3ifxONPomQctmqT-NthDvBWa1Hz34TICRpBFUb31/s1600-h/Massabielle.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUW79SCtEIC4weZ9k8BwMLxkHmmMTDNur31YQXg8emxmlsO_0Bi9Kpv836LQ4JR8YvfWli7wa_ZTIyevxDfgTi_zyBBLPys_dK50-s3ifxONPomQctmqT-NthDvBWa1Hz34TICRpBFUb31/s320/Massabielle.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418636076194068594" border="0" /></a>Above: The Grotto of Massabielle<br />Below: The cavern on the Montagne de la Frau<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwBm5dRXWi_yiOXLzsFGI2XKalrIdzdCzTaAmF4nnGNXAb_D-KVja8TtpVcelJMSuiDPN4KWQ95G3q_SaidYDQI-t3mr7hdE2WfGcEUIYH5L5ncNdoEf7E7qH5kcSnpB1zl5NTrLAo71W/s1600-h/Montagne+de+la+Frau.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwBm5dRXWi_yiOXLzsFGI2XKalrIdzdCzTaAmF4nnGNXAb_D-KVja8TtpVcelJMSuiDPN4KWQ95G3q_SaidYDQI-t3mr7hdE2WfGcEUIYH5L5ncNdoEf7E7qH5kcSnpB1zl5NTrLAo71W/s320/Montagne+de+la+Frau.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418626754796792450" border="0" /></a><br />Another one of our neighbours, a former 'tough guy' from Paris insists that he saw the 'White Lady' with his own eyes, standing in the mouth of a grotto in the 'Montagne de la Frau' overlooking the pog. Her skin glowed as if it were “made of ice”. Like Bernadette Soubirous who encountered a similar presence in the hallowed grotto of Massabielle only a few miles down the pike this big, bear of a man believes that what he saw on the 'Mountain of Fear' was a vision of the virgin, “Marie”. He went to church to pray every day for a month afterwards and claims the event turned his life around, convincing him of the reality of an unseen world.<br /><br />Lourdes became a place of pilgrimage and our neighbour found God but not all such attempts to plumb the local grottos have proved so beneficial...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68ML_LpOuMLlTQfWaVeYS1DveSGEt6TftKu9-t4hyphenhyphenltcD1qy9I0uUS3Vbll5bJ0DFj8FVO17c64hVZXuAuEe7GHoI3uaGJYmHNRqbVzEQFQQeNsMgNLo2_KbswocsHx6f-mwW34ke_1bE/s1600-h/l_86b23dead9d74eecaa1ce584818be3d0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68ML_LpOuMLlTQfWaVeYS1DveSGEt6TftKu9-t4hyphenhyphenltcD1qy9I0uUS3Vbll5bJ0DFj8FVO17c64hVZXuAuEe7GHoI3uaGJYmHNRqbVzEQFQQeNsMgNLo2_KbswocsHx6f-mwW34ke_1bE/s320/l_86b23dead9d74eecaa1ce584818be3d0.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418645936316765266" border="0" /></a><br />As above, so below. The Cave of the Hermit - June 2009<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4xpeGF2HUZ24Cb3MqEFrXoJPfC6mB6_qrATHthyphenhyphenI1iMXLVA-syQkDqzkSz210S3D3mLYPBYd9X_D9GQJbPRFRDPD0ZMf2R4PWvh8OGFGqG8eJYVzw1-CcNlacbbjv94zy9GEu8vEGu59Y/s1600-h/france+2+2009+022.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4xpeGF2HUZ24Cb3MqEFrXoJPfC6mB6_qrATHthyphenhyphenI1iMXLVA-syQkDqzkSz210S3D3mLYPBYd9X_D9GQJbPRFRDPD0ZMf2R4PWvh8OGFGqG8eJYVzw1-CcNlacbbjv94zy9GEu8vEGu59Y/s320/france+2+2009+022.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418644444679554338" border="0" /></a><br />The Swiss customs officer turned amateur archeologist, Daniel Bettex, perished during his attempts to chart a similar network of subterranean passages in Mount Bugarach ( * see 'The Razes Pentagram / The Secret Rapture of Daniel Bettex' ) and our landlady's father, one of the few remaining fluent Occitan speakers in the village along with another local, the son of the esteemed WW2 veteran Guy Puysegur ( who was interviewed for 'The Secret Glory' ) recently found their determined efforts to explore a tunnel on the south side of the pog of Montsegur defeated by the presence of poisonous gas. The cave was a “killer”, they told us, its atmosphere suffused with toxic levels of methane and carbon monoxide, capable not only of putting unwary spelunkers into a coma within a matter of minutes but quite possibly inflammable to boot – all of which only serves to raise further questions. Such potentially fatal pockets of natural gas might well be capable of causing hallucinations or other forms of sensory distortion, possibly even inducing visions of 'Marie'or the 'White Lady', whichever you may prefer. Similar explanations have after all been offered by conventional archeologists to explain the 'Pythean' visions of the oracle at Delphi. Not only that but, as we have already learned ( * see 'The Hand of Morenci' ) the word 'saucisson' has another, more sinister meaning. It is also a colloquial term for a 'fuse', in contemporary 13th century parliance, hinting at a potentially more explosive outcome to the mystery of Montsegur than we might have guessed...shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-5039344068708526552009-12-14T11:26:00.001-08:002009-12-15T11:04:49.489-08:00The Hand of Morenci<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpN2Ma_pxMVLIa28Ft1PAU0trhb7f1EwcpL-ToYlMshtnzZ6S3j9-eGrtfGvUJ_dnK-wOOtAN7DVS-KVcgS8HnKwPcSWHNBd0UW7ou-1xUFkJIkmHvZ-SNw7iVJsAuL2fMsKy9k-e7iwh8/s1600-h/Hand+of+Morenci.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpN2Ma_pxMVLIa28Ft1PAU0trhb7f1EwcpL-ToYlMshtnzZ6S3j9-eGrtfGvUJ_dnK-wOOtAN7DVS-KVcgS8HnKwPcSWHNBd0UW7ou-1xUFkJIkmHvZ-SNw7iVJsAuL2fMsKy9k-e7iwh8/s320/Hand+of+Morenci.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415533319973829810" border="0" /></a><br /> The Hand of Morenci<br /><br /> <!-- @page { margin: 2</style-->“<span style="font-family:Calibri;">When I raise my hand all </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">five beams will stay with you</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">...”</span> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">( i )</span></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">We came across the road to Morenci quite by accident. We were sear</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ching for the Pass</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> de la </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Portes - the 'place of the do</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ors' or 'pass of the gate</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ways' – a small </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">glen due</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> n</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">orth o</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">f</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> Montseg</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ur where the Cathars were said to have met in secret to exchange supplies, do</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">cuments and God only knows what else during the siege of 1243-44. This little known site lies at a</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">n ancient for</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">d in </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">the river somewhere on the road to the village of Benaix. Jus</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">t before </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">we reached</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">the remote </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">settlement itself we spotted a signpost for </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Morenci and being in a devi</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">l </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">may care mo</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">od decided to give it a go. We had been warned last year that </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">the road was virtually unnavigable and that we would probably ruin our car just trying to get within striking distance. While</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> the way</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> proved steep enough, however, winding vertiginously upwards through </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">the wild, densely forested </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">hills, it was fortunately no m</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">atch for the newly retuned Shado</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">w Theatre Mark XII I</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">n</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">te</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">rceptor. Nothing however had quite prepared for what we fou</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">nd at the</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> end o</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">f</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> th</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e trail...</span></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I first heard about the 'hand</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> of Morenci' from Madame </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Couquet all the </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">way back in 1998 d</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">uring the making of 'The Secret Glory' but had never quite be</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">en able to get a fix</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> of the l</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ocation</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">'s whereabouts, nor did I know quite what the 'hand' was at the time or how it tied in</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> with the rest of the story. As Dario Argento succinctly puts it “ film-</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">makers a</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">re </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">always rude, </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">tired an</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">d in a hurry” and so, for whatever reason, neither myself nor any of the o</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">th</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">er Shadow</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Theat</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">re irregulars saw fit to follow through on Madame's Couquet's well intentioned advi</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ce, leav</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ing th</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">is particular loose end</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> to lie trailing for well over a decade. Her recommendatio</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">n </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">mig</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ht ha</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ve been</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> forgotten entirely had the ardent Occitan nationalist and long term</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> pog watcher Mi</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">cheau Pierre not come blasting </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">out with the t</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">heory one lazy summer evening a solstice o</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">r so gone</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> by that “Montseg</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ur is exactly equidistant from Sto</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">nehenge and the Externstein and if you draw a straight line from Montsegu</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">r, using the cross of Morenci as a marker you will find the true location o</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">f Atlantis.” There’</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">s somethi</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ng ab</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ou</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">t</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> twilight that seems to bring out the best in all of Madame Couquet’s re</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">gulars.</span></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">At the top of the mountain we came to a cross roads and</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> pulled the Interc</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">pto</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">r to </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">a halt as we caught our collective breath. Before us stood a spectacular sp</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">hinx-like rock forma</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">tion that cried out for </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">further investigation.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYwira3cNSGiOwaD_18hK4BhfwXEdHt2y6p28McgF7EpHiU2vpLmC4MyQdU5GpnK8xGGyjiuwGu_VZEdpa_0yH3UuXLTHpdOgf5dOeJ-VpZjcI1V5k-aMgiQEtoFEXk9SLp8hm00E3zit/s1600-h/The+Vigil.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYwira3cNSGiOwaD_18hK4BhfwXEdHt2y6p28McgF7EpHiU2vpLmC4MyQdU5GpnK8xGGyjiuwGu_VZEdpa_0yH3UuXLTHpdOgf5dOeJ-VpZjcI1V5k-aMgiQEtoFEXk9SLp8hm00E3zit/s400/The+Vigil.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415529878690005394" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> T</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">h</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e vie</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">w from M</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">or</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">enci</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlP8-dkxG5el8mOBHicnNcad6JX_HFmgxsdxj-1cjdf2PKutoGWp2NyQqWE84I8bVjxSuvjVl9QBz-M-1O71TuhyphenhyphenMY48-xu0Zxq4cTBEyF5Ej9L7OUq3CYhI94qreMsMkAM4utcNWbUcub/s1600-h/Pog+from+Morenci.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlP8-dkxG5el8mOBHicnNcad6JX_HFmgxsdxj-1cjdf2PKutoGWp2NyQqWE84I8bVjxSuvjVl9QBz-M-1O71TuhyphenhyphenMY48-xu0Zxq4cTBEyF5Ej9L7OUq3CYhI94qreMsMkAM4utcNWbUcub/s400/Pog+from+Morenci.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415529121939925986" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Climbing the barely dis</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">cernable path to the top of the jagged extrusion we were rewarded with a breath taking view of </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">M</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ontsegur loom</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ing</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> acro</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ss the untenanted</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> valley, not that all views of the pog aren't breat</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">htaking, mind you, </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">b</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">u</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">t its alw</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ays a treat to see the magic mountain from a fresh angle a</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">nd this one was particula</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">rl</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">y choic</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSUy9ejGQE-DPy7nJNkn8eQI72cDn_YNQSgqmr_nCY_BDHfMKlxlcvL6mHEnwtZYTKRT0HpHhKrtVDOlANhKgi-YTbLdoxN0QdEvLyiuSYmYMf3c9nQ8XVQ_7y3De6D9Pc-CVPIV5dC7S/s1600-h/Pierced+teeth.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 387px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSUy9ejGQE-DPy7nJNkn8eQI72cDn_YNQSgqmr_nCY_BDHfMKlxlcvL6mHEnwtZYTKRT0HpHhKrtVDOlANhKgi-YTbLdoxN0QdEvLyiuSYmYMf3c9nQ8XVQ_7y3De6D9Pc-CVPIV5dC7S/s400/Pierced+teeth.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415524615610483474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Several year</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">s ago f</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">our bo</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">dies were unearthed on the eastern, sunward side of the strangely squared off rock facing the crossroads, t</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">heir re</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">mains ap</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">pa</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">re</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ntly ritually buried with necklaces made of jais ( a jet stone known</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> to the Greeks as the ‘stone of Gagas’)</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> and pierced teeth. Reportedly, the road that leads away f</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">rom this rock, and down i</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">n</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">to the valley below, traverses the ancient loam of a vast necropolis alth</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">o</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ugh just how </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">much</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> archeological research has really been done in the area is hard to say.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrrr7Nd1by-URhWOmvHZlhLNxNQN5EO0-_XXPPHa0UYgsaDQUKRlYP6QLB_G-YEggaYnZLjbx1561PbGJdUSSszJHuYcEZpr8gvHzficEo-PXWIeJhNUzQIId8-7A1NeGU5uo4qxJx2PuA/s1600-h/Morenci+II+001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrrr7Nd1by-URhWOmvHZlhLNxNQN5EO0-_XXPPHa0UYgsaDQUKRlYP6QLB_G-YEggaYnZLjbx1561PbGJdUSSszJHuYcEZpr8gvHzficEo-PXWIeJhNUzQIId8-7A1NeGU5uo4qxJx2PuA/s400/Morenci+II+001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415522494399566082" border="0" /></a> </p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Across the trail, on the other side o</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">f the crossroads, perc</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">hed </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">a top a gently mounded upri</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">sing is the cross of Morenci.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrq0Miw7yIePg6ejkTO0HB8L6-rtenNz3xNVazY_RhQLk3YFXMYilON-WPwGG9eyxHCn_m5AwR58J0ptK_b8xUpbRGNtnSgcc7JDXf8BVv7eBvZ_cvatuOG3KgpNNqbUl_UCx-4VbA3M4/s1600-h/Cross+of+Morenci.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrq0Miw7yIePg6ejkTO0HB8L6-rtenNz3xNVazY_RhQLk3YFXMYilON-WPwGG9eyxHCn_m5AwR58J0ptK_b8xUpbRGNtnSgcc7JDXf8BVv7eBvZ_cvatuOG3KgpNNqbUl_UCx-4VbA3M4/s400/Cross+of+Morenci.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415520984878281266" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> </span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">A large and expressionless face stares blindly out fro</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">m the centre of the cross. Directly below this inscrutable countenance a</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ppears th</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e figure </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">eigh</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">t, </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">formed with curiously thick lines. The number eight can allude to infinity or even the departure of man fr</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">om the natural realm to a supernatural one. The number 1780 is carved towards</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> t</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">he ba</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">se </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">of the cross, apparently dating the monuments erection to the late 18<sup>th</sup> cent</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ury. </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Around</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> t</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">his meeting place of sky and earth sits a semi circle </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">of stones so evocative of a place o</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">f u</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">nknown </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">rites that we couldn't help but wonder if the cross might not have been an attempt to “Christian</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ize”</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> a reputedly or actively pagan place. Later we learned that the cross had been literally carved out of a far larger sandstone boulder that had rested at this spot. The surviving face and the figure of eight or one circle resti</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ng atop another are all t</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">hat remain of the countle</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ss ornate carvings that once covere</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">d the surface of the s</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">tone</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">. Althou</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">gh it is not marked on any existin</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">g map l</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ocal feeling abo</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ut the monum</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ent e</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">vidently still runs deep. The cross has been vandalized on several occasions, most notably in </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">March of 1972 when a loc</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">al hunter blew off part of the face and the lopsided eight with buc</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">kshot. </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Ev</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ery time the monument has been silently an</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">d fastidiously repaired, quite possi</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">bly by th</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e same unknown hands that helped erect and maintain the stone altar at Montsegur...</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzlf5rlw4fGR7pNPC34uesBoH83GUDfd7dOTFhyDzUK5U2xW39jDqUmruRordCncY5KVBB7BqPE1UmVhyc42NH2PL8on7s0XgBCE3B96pMFY8uaVWwClexe__riSaMvMCZCqQSuyxX82Sl/s1600-h/Morenci+II+004.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzlf5rlw4fGR7pNPC34uesBoH83GUDfd7dOTFhyDzUK5U2xW39jDqUmruRordCncY5KVBB7BqPE1UmVhyc42NH2PL8on7s0XgBCE3B96pMFY8uaVWwClexe__riSaMvMCZCqQSuyxX82Sl/s400/Morenci+II+004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415518557576471026" border="0" /></a> </p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">On the north-western side of the crossroads, just down a s</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">h</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">o</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">rt path is the Roc of Fougass</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">. Fairly easy to spot in the winter one can only imagine how hidden and secluded</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> this place</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> must be in the summer. The boulder was much larger th</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">an we expected and one of the first things we noticed was that the area below the rock seemed</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> vaguely terraced, its </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">step</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">s a little too regular to be quite in accord</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ance with the surrounding topography.<br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">There is a l</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">arge</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> circ</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ular di</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">sc carved atop the rock with deep grooves reminiscent of the grinding stones foun</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">d at Black Star</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> and Bell Canyons in Orange County, CA. Those stones were made and once used for </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">gri</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">nd</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">i</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ng</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> corn by the Gabrielino and Tongva Ind</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ia</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ns who chose the locations largely because they w</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ere the only areas in the surround</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ing mountains relatively safe from bears. The circle on the stone at Fougasse is much, much bigger than anything we had come across back </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">in t</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">he States although it </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">is</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> curio</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">us to note that Fougasse is a type of flat bread, akin to Foccacia, found in depots de </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">p</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ain throughout the region. The term Fougasse also means a type of w</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">eapon, an im</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">provise</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">d mine a</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">pparently constructed by making a hollow in the ground and then filling it with</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> explosiv</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">es (o</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">riginally, black powder) and projectiles. T</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">he most common type in early</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> use was the stone fougas</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">se, which was simply filled with large rocks, bricks and any other available bits of rubble. W</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">hen</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> fired, a process which sounds hellaciously dangerous, it would scatter a hail of fast-moving</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> stones a</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">cr</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">oss t</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">he entire area. The normal method of firing was to use a burning torch or slow match to ignite a <i>saucisson</i> (French for "sausag</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e” ) a cloth or le</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">a</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ther tube water-proofed with pitch and filled with black powder, leading to the main char</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ge.</span></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Despite the name however this place</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> seems to hav</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e been used f</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">or neithe</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">r bread makin</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">g nor for weaponry...</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbGw94Duht3AmxpmraikCZ3N6lmFiCdmq1JoU7EMyHwnsKL4w_4mN5mAEtcENfB5UWBGtPqJPIPTV3-biKNoI91hHDhYLtAMBQiqfWAV2AOdVWpae_DSBvEfx9zD5LkvBuOxBOeUVYTELt/s1600-h/Morenci+II+003.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbGw94Duht3AmxpmraikCZ3N6lmFiCdmq1JoU7EMyHwnsKL4w_4mN5mAEtcENfB5UWBGtPqJPIPTV3-biKNoI91hHDhYLtAMBQiqfWAV2AOdVWpae_DSBvEfx9zD5LkvBuOxBOeUVYTELt/s400/Morenci+II+003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415513795718771506" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">( ii ) Transcripts from the Zone - Dec 13 2009</span> </p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">“<span style="font-family:Calibri;">Maybe they made wine here – like in that Paul Wegener film</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">, The Magician”</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">, Richard muttered</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">, tapping the raised disc with the tip of my boot. “You only see it for a couple of seconds during the bachanale sequence but I seem to recall a bunch of dwarv</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">es or trolls pushing so</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">m</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ething resembling a big ol'millstone to grind out the grapes.”</span><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">“<span style="font-family:Calibri;">This is pretty high u</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">p for growing </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">grapes.”<br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> “Yeah. And that was only a movie...” Richard paus</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ed, sl</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">owly taking in the leafless trees that marched silently away on all sides of us. “Still, this would make one helluv</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">a pla</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ce for a bachanale , wouldn't it ?”</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> “Why would anyone want to carry f</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">re</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">sh produce uph</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ill ? U</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">nless there was already a settlement here ?”</span><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">“<span style="font-family:Calibri;">I get the feeling that this might have bee</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">n</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> a sa</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">crificial</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> altar. Corny, I know, but just look at the way </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">the ground is terraced. You have </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">to admit it'd</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">make for a pretty decent show.”</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> </span>“<span style="font-family:Calibri;">You know, the Drui</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ds often sacrificed holy animals on an altar to read the future and if it was a m</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">atter of dire importance they’d plunge a dagger into the heart of a man and read the signs depending on how he flailed aro</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">und in the death throes . I t</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">hink there’d be some kind of run off system an</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">d then they’d catch the bl</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ood in a basin below.</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">”</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">“<span style="font-family:Calibri;">Like that, you mean ?” Richard indicated a fun</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">nel in the lip of the rock. Beneath it a channel had been scour</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ed dee</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">p into the stone by untold centuries of erosion.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span> </p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvM7Ztcovf40F4j4HFFhkLtXnhHmOn5OKMoUfie-LANfQ-gnhKiusaGtmU8vXLygP_8b0pk6Q030WuGm3l4aJZ8GmMvb4yo6n8D1IT95l4QTnS_4DrnVQvI6YXC0PHoK4Lj46dOim4h2r/s1600-h/Morenci+II+005.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvM7Ztcovf40F4j4HFFhkLtXnhHmOn5OKMoUfie-LANfQ-gnhKiusaGtmU8vXLygP_8b0pk6Q030WuGm3l4aJZ8GmMvb4yo6n8D1IT95l4QTnS_4DrnVQvI6YXC0PHoK4Lj46dOim4h2r/s400/Morenci+II+005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415265987222095266" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">“<span style="font-family:Calibri;">Tha</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">t’d take a hell o</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">f a lot of blo</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">od!”</span><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"> “<span style="font-family:Calibri;">Might explain the bone yard at the top of this place.”</span></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">We stared in silence at the evidence before us for a min</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ute, contemplating t</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">he</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> h</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">orri</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ble </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">possibilities. The whole area had grown eerily silent. But this place was </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">not going to giv</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e up its secrets that easily. We did our best to conduct a fingertip search of </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">the rock but the unnaturally warm winter had encouraged the thick growth of moss about its base, making it impossible to f</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ind any corroborative glyphs or markings, if indeed any e</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">xi</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">st</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">d.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1IeiZjrUW5YcZLJEjnlOl7sfRm9Y8i1cGKyrtzKMLptOk3akHXlbFpHA0p4RS2bQ3ZnC-reEYfTjwvvZpQcUPr_xa75zum4ADO2QiMRaXHIS_nFHcnrwtSRZbook09Tj7qSODwJOCI1Gw/s1600-h/Morenci+II+006.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1IeiZjrUW5YcZLJEjnlOl7sfRm9Y8i1cGKyrtzKMLptOk3akHXlbFpHA0p4RS2bQ3ZnC-reEYfTjwvvZpQcUPr_xa75zum4ADO2QiMRaXHIS_nFHcnrwtSRZbook09Tj7qSODwJOCI1Gw/s400/Morenci+II+006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415248810051624898" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">If this was a place of sacrifice, either symbolically or literally, the</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">n what d</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">eity </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">could possibl</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">y have been propitiated here ? Was it part of a solar cult </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">like the altar and the stone pentagram in the Bethlehem Grotto that the modern Rosicrucian movement still use in their initi</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ation rituals or was it a Celtic place of fertility where blood offerings were made to </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">the </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">mo</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">on at certa</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">i</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">n times of the year. Given the area's convoluted history it could hew either way and as tantali</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">zing as these ideas may be, there is no proof to support or confirm ei</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ther theory</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PFUHNcYiVusQs2pfL4MZPUtQAxCTXFX2nEufRtuAwqciIhueJM2wCc3DZum0gzBwoQmLsc-Ua1pnE_7K5g4KkfP7jDp1oZuXaFkDmA-pUxzMIBzIBLeYpzt-66089TmTLqkEQRw0_FU_/s1600-h/Morenci+Steatite.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 370px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PFUHNcYiVusQs2pfL4MZPUtQAxCTXFX2nEufRtuAwqciIhueJM2wCc3DZum0gzBwoQmLsc-Ua1pnE_7K5g4KkfP7jDp1oZuXaFkDmA-pUxzMIBzIBLeYpzt-66089TmTLqkEQRw0_FU_/s400/Morenci+Steatite.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415247451146007218" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Above: Solar symbol on carving found at Morenci Below: Steatite vase retrieved from beneath the rock </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">known as </span><em><span style="font-family:Calibri,sans-serif;">Den</span></em><em><span style="font-family:Calibri,sans-serif;">tilher</span></em><em><span style="font-family:Calibri,sans-serif;">o</span></em></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsoXPmNezrCy9FFzdTAhGAEeJRwBb6gbJ55FayHtLxgneH_HRCaAshsUM9-xSdNiVDTj2o8Uea3pYdN3X6ZsziGd7poXMUfJK12Z0h6Xn115TfIU_UBfHiH_60qj4f6z1J0dYLzp8w9ut/s1600-h/Morenci+Vase+%28+Ph.+Laurent+Crassous+%29.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsoXPmNezrCy9FFzdTAhGAEeJRwBb6gbJ55FayHtLxgneH_HRCaAshsUM9-xSdNiVDTj2o8Uea3pYdN3X6ZsziGd7poXMUfJK12Z0h6Xn115TfIU_UBfHiH_60qj4f6z1J0dYLzp8w9ut/s400/Morenci+Vase+%28+Ph.+Laurent+Crassous+%29.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415244761868320818" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">( iii )</p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Approximately fifty feet southwest of the 'Rock of Fougasse' is a smal</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">l but</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> ver</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">y lovely spring. Its easy enough to miss if you don’t know where to look and a lit</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">tle too small for ritually bathing away your sins or ritually bathing anything at all for that matter, althoug</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">h this mi</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ght add som</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e credence to the Celtic druid hypothesis.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSsf7YYz8ziuj5vH9Fywe3Ut2sGEyVD_NHqLDVD2vaTUTXd5lH06XDS9F7esJFsZ1IpJ8hSnMCsWjRDQi-p-gFBFqxuVxMaw1ermdE8hM92jUYB9NN1jx8DGazxSQHmlQwfmT8oBb7v-IS/s1600-h/Morenci+II+013.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSsf7YYz8ziuj5vH9Fywe3Ut2sGEyVD_NHqLDVD2vaTUTXd5lH06XDS9F7esJFsZ1IpJ8hSnMCsWjRDQi-p-gFBFqxuVxMaw1ermdE8hM92jUYB9NN1jx8DGazxSQHmlQwfmT8oBb7v-IS/s400/Morenci+II+013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415243590075436258" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Springs were considered sacred to the druids, not only as a fresh water supply, but as portals to the otherworld. The Devil’s Armchair in</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> Renn</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">s-l</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">es-Bains has a similar set up with the strange rock formation, hidden in a g</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">rove, near a natural source. The difference is this place seems much, much older.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYsl5W8xKqiLezNaDoaAPDNqFGjFNcp0NkidB1-dVEy9bD5d2_Uc9-yRpDAb60dh221Dtwk1fz9OqkX-T10VFlX1autAgaWiiQ2DaxoA7wmBOyJNwoe9KXRVnf0Pd93opPrU3qzr_oU6a/s1600-h/Spectrometry+%28+ph.+Laurent+Crassous+%29.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 273px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYsl5W8xKqiLezNaDoaAPDNqFGjFNcp0NkidB1-dVEy9bD5d2_Uc9-yRpDAb60dh221Dtwk1fz9OqkX-T10VFlX1autAgaWiiQ2DaxoA7wmBOyJNwoe9KXRVnf0Pd93opPrU3qzr_oU6a/s400/Spectrometry+%28+ph.+Laurent+Crassous+%29.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415242554811840130" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Above: Spectrometry on the Morenci vase ( ph: Laurent Crassous ) </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Below: Le Poulet de Morenci</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_cPsVDAWF5VxiNzxP7MKiR3SQv1xNVM3kESF56vYuKcwrGd0rJcopkowgk0kq34HPj8CHgtRpRv-yPw2V2fkmOCdi2L0Q6RCpRz4iC1kbJkezSCEJyW6lWxT-Yg-t8j1zq0QdJe-r48v9/s1600-h/spectrograph+of+the+Morenci+Vase.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_cPsVDAWF5VxiNzxP7MKiR3SQv1xNVM3kESF56vYuKcwrGd0rJcopkowgk0kq34HPj8CHgtRpRv-yPw2V2fkmOCdi2L0Q6RCpRz4iC1kbJkezSCEJyW6lWxT-Yg-t8j1zq0QdJe-r48v9/s400/spectrograph+of+the+Morenci+Vase.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415241253941985970" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">The 'Hand of Morenci', the bizarre relic Madame Couquet tried to tell us about all </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">thos</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e years ago, was discovered in a fault near here, beside a rock known as </span><em><span style="font-family:Calibri,sans-serif;">Den</span></em><em><span style="font-family:Calibri,sans-serif;">tilher</span></em><em><span style="font-family:Calibri,sans-serif;">o</span></em><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> wh</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ere it wa</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">s covered by a stone. The artefact is fashioned from soap stone or steatite, a subs</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">tance primarily composed of talc, which is easy to work with, and was used frequently during the Iron age for the sculpture of ritual objects, and lat</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">er during the Middle Ages </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">for the man</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ufacture of s</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">eals. The </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">hand is large enough to belong to one of the brethren of the</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> 'Giant of Stenay' or, for</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> that matter, Goliath and his Biblical kin. If sculpted to scale the per</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">son it was taken from </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">would have been over two meters high. Moreover the carved appendage is notably deformed, mis</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">sing the upper phalanges on all of its fingers.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwghhKY4Zf4ppBk2QCV6FGaZ7eBaEhsIMlbdMcV_zm2DZpDFoYcVFMsQhK5cmGllNiFjmqgt_GkvhvjFBf2eQQju9YE09Q4r5U6Dn1aQdjBKbOGPEYPChGMFtfsqPNu1oQsdHsg-slZYk/s1600-h/Hand+-+reverse+angle.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwghhKY4Zf4ppBk2QCV6FGaZ7eBaEhsIMlbdMcV_zm2DZpDFoYcVFMsQhK5cmGllNiFjmqgt_GkvhvjFBf2eQQju9YE09Q4r5U6Dn1aQdjBKbOGPEYPChGMFtfsqPNu1oQsdHsg-slZYk/s400/Hand+-+reverse+angle.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415213879382935618" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> </span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">While it is possible that the fingers were broken off deliberately or otherwise and the stumps of the phalanges later worn smooth by the passage of</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> untold cent</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">uries it would appear at a cursory examination that the 'Hand of Morenci' was</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> d</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">elib</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">erately scu</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">l</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">pted this way.<br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi676uHC1bGS2kQlq4L1h2SkOTwiaExqke9YrO85Yz3SbEjUDf4SlS3Z4A9Su3amPdTEyIkWQ-XUKhmaR6Pmzq-aRv9zQ3kpaTVRGS38bvnkn18ziWKqfR9Qie9Tn_4T-x5dBEh7g7QBa1L/s1600-h/Morenci.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 235px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi676uHC1bGS2kQlq4L1h2SkOTwiaExqke9YrO85Yz3SbEjUDf4SlS3Z4A9Su3amPdTEyIkWQ-XUKhmaR6Pmzq-aRv9zQ3kpaTVRGS38bvnkn18ziWKqfR9Qie9Tn_4T-x5dBEh7g7QBa1L/s400/Morenci.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415212370866743122" border="0" /></a> </p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Jean</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> Tricoire, the firs</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">t pe</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">rson to write about th</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e hand claimed to have felt an instinct</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ive repulsion, believing that the greenish reflections in the ancient stone were s</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">omeh</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ow malefic. Tricoire supposed that the back of the hand, less refined than th</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">e p</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">alm, and the mutilated digits were deliberately intended to represent a leprous appendage.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRHqAs_NCbkjYucOlcYSc6HvEgY6R1gjXvdykDOp3_sdL50bUuDnWkpURstC4NoRAJcEHPSU6iTK2_xX0JVEdwSk0wQ9opKmn-w5gmsoWhsc6vdiMbyMj_tlnmTdnTHPVfAwp0zK9uRL6/s1600-h/morency1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 281px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRHqAs_NCbkjYucOlcYSc6HvEgY6R1gjXvdykDOp3_sdL50bUuDnWkpURstC4NoRAJcEHPSU6iTK2_xX0JVEdwSk0wQ9opKmn-w5gmsoWhsc6vdiMbyMj_tlnmTdnTHPVfAwp0zK9uRL6/s400/morency1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415211069037397954" border="0" /></a> </p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Missing fingers have often been equated with various magical practices, malign or otherwise, some of them all too familiar to me. The practice of removing one joint or another from the left or right hand, according to the preferences of the various tribes, was almost universal </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">among the Khoisan bushmen of Southern Africa who traditionally performed the operation w</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ith</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">a sharp stone. They believed that by this act of self-mutilation they ensured for the</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">mselves a desirable life of feasting and pleasures in the hereafter. The Bushmen have a legend whic</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">h states that at some undefined spot on the bank</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">s of the Orange River there is a place called T</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">oo'ga to </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">which they will all go after death. </span></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">To ensure their safe journey they cut off the top joint of the little fingers. This serves as their passport through all manner of strange obstacles and difficulties. The ill-advised o</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ne who neglects to perform this rite in life is forced to make the passage upside down, travelling all the way to Too'ga on their head instead of their feet. He is beset with tribulations for the</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> entire distance and even upon arrival is given only flies for food, while his</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> wiser comp</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">anion</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">s feast on locusts and honey. As the sangoma, Joe Niemand put it - “There's a whole lotta p</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ower </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">in fingers. In knots and knuckles and such...”, a power inextricably linked in old Africa to</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> the timeless rites of magic and the creation of the cave paintings, t</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">he elaborate blood murals that could only be drawn when the full moon was at i</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ts zenith...</span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3WkGdwaAAgHU8D70aAHWCRqgqSbaO4yYTeDOcNjqaSBWU0-WgyNKepyYWC7peaZEymmB_es9K-HKY5PbylbRVVQlO2VPpSKQiT9KGvBGEUA1KtgFIpnP2QWVA7FCBnTafVlO-bAdudlhv/s1600-h/mains.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3WkGdwaAAgHU8D70aAHWCRqgqSbaO4yYTeDOcNjqaSBWU0-WgyNKepyYWC7peaZEymmB_es9K-HKY5PbylbRVVQlO2VPpSKQiT9KGvBGEUA1KtgFIpnP2QWVA7FCBnTafVlO-bAdudlhv/s400/mains.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415209977708545938" border="0" /></a> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"> <span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Curiously enough there are a great many paintings in the caverns of the Pyrenees th</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">at depict mutilated hands although none so numerous as those that can be found in the grotto of Gargas which contains the prints of some thirty thousand appendages either stencilled in red or black paint or och</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">re or applied directly from the palm.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQIhFrUkcNyulTKkG6HhbsCeF7aWDF7B-lt7GduGp_Q-p2MGRAbTyeLWNLteiHG2gIEKpWaos3PVym9Z4ayYrXqls7XegPIKE1ltnKD2y_yaV-EAqpNBca_u-ofvG7yZ6Pv-yYRF67vD27/s1600-h/Gargas15078.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQIhFrUkcNyulTKkG6HhbsCeF7aWDF7B-lt7GduGp_Q-p2MGRAbTyeLWNLteiHG2gIEKpWaos3PVym9Z4ayYrXqls7XegPIKE1ltnKD2y_yaV-EAqpNBca_u-ofvG7yZ6Pv-yYRF67vD27/s400/Gargas15078.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415208444959676578" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> As above so below: Los Manos de Gargas</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlxrP0aIEbfkezGOyHA8GqSlzLcdvobRZ08NcWgbtU2rbu_RjPayt46_tZE7llI0SR7YN9YO7P6VXvQfwIBf3UPSPDAPVRsBRI4MVb9-T2fuowzTwS0exwyZmb3COyd5qmugro0ObWq9QG/s1600-h/Gargas15083.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlxrP0aIEbfkezGOyHA8GqSlzLcdvobRZ08NcWgbtU2rbu_RjPayt46_tZE7llI0SR7YN9YO7P6VXvQfwIBf3UPSPDAPVRsBRI4MVb9-T2fuowzTwS0exwyZmb3COyd5qmugro0ObWq9QG/s400/Gargas15083.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415207071920415666" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Every one of the outlines found in the cave depths of Gargas is missing an upper phalange in one manner or another. Some are missing a digit from each finger, some only one, but unlike the hand of Morenci, they all </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">have the thumb intact.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMsFlkDbzB9aEGvg1LnLG35xMgZ34qxWFbWBnHuW7rdPcl-43SVOdEPlNFBZojiVqZaFUBgmUkGsPCAhqIjEPMeoc55w_qbmo7GxEm1L9n1OFkTZbjXOKr90eMmgYKkvUxm2U4OPqokYvc/s1600-h/Manos_de_Gargas_(Francia).png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMsFlkDbzB9aEGvg1LnLG35xMgZ34qxWFbWBnHuW7rdPcl-43SVOdEPlNFBZojiVqZaFUBgmUkGsPCAhqIjEPMeoc55w_qbmo7GxEm1L9n1OFkTZbjXOKr90eMmgYKkvUxm2U4OPqokYvc/s400/Manos_de_Gargas_(Francia).png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415202336019894514" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">It is a gruesome sight to behold and one cannot easily buy into the</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> explanation that they lost the tips of their fingers to frostbite or were simply a l</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">arge colony of lepers.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2XaYBackLhDsLoUZtx4Vw_89C4HcvqbyZNGw3zNFL2uTwzui6Y-oiaEoB_2-HoaqGBS0NOU-pwmITjWXa3asBRu9E1cfR7Gje20uq6g2J_4S0HQp36OnqV3SorJNObTv6FwnG2e7wLXC/s1600-h/gargas1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 269px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2XaYBackLhDsLoUZtx4Vw_89C4HcvqbyZNGw3zNFL2uTwzui6Y-oiaEoB_2-HoaqGBS0NOU-pwmITjWXa3asBRu9E1cfR7Gje20uq6g2J_4S0HQp36OnqV3SorJNObTv6FwnG2e7wLXC/s400/gargas1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415200507418702994" border="0" /></a> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">( iv )</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">From Morenci it is possible to follow the trail on foot, down into the valley to the slopes of the pog and beyond although it would undoubtedly be hike of several hours, one small section of the ancient pilgrimage route known as the 'Route of the Bonhomme' or the 'Path of the Grail'. In my heart I yearned to follow it, knowing that other mysteries undoubtedly lay ahead, safely hidden in that arborial fastness from the prying eyes of the uninitiated yet even now the shadows were deepening between the trees, the fading December sun slanting betwee</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">n the trunks.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOZYgfe1_JJK7rw2FvkxKjwMgQTqZZ5uXgEVhP_p8RLCjS5qX7qjTG3Pbw8lTGSEjT_RsUoF6tvl9A2rIb_3QB5Hozs2IjDvQ-SQvxOUfvYQTonvTp93Kg4DVl0b63YsRV1Qd4TtofQYGv/s1600-h/Morenci+II+042.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOZYgfe1_JJK7rw2FvkxKjwMgQTqZZ5uXgEVhP_p8RLCjS5qX7qjTG3Pbw8lTGSEjT_RsUoF6tvl9A2rIb_3QB5Hozs2IjDvQ-SQvxOUfvYQTonvTp93Kg4DVl0b63YsRV1Qd4TtofQYGv/s400/Morenci+II+042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415198484300339698" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Working our way back up the incline towards the car we kept our eyes peeled for further signs of terracing. Here and there amidst the undergrowth were what looked like the remains of low, stubby walls and at times we noticed what appeared to be weathered markings, so faint and worn I had to look twice to make certain we weren't imagining them.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSb4SPDuz-daiSwogU0Ukpjn8AQ4cu1Avb0jWn0fWE8KIF9ZKvSdAt7Dkmrg8GvnepSCh2CV6Dz51puBxHBsjcIr4C9YmhKl9U-M9CcxjNjv5TmxloZ8lBVc_jqc6nkVY26BRk77SAn6vQ/s1600-h/Morenci+II+036.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSb4SPDuz-daiSwogU0Ukpjn8AQ4cu1Avb0jWn0fWE8KIF9ZKvSdAt7Dkmrg8GvnepSCh2CV6Dz51puBxHBsjcIr4C9YmhKl9U-M9CcxjNjv5TmxloZ8lBVc_jqc6nkVY26BRk77SAn6vQ/s400/Morenci+II+036.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415194155974263954" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">As above so below: Vestiges of Massebrac ?<br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5x-u7Pz9zkDAcTf8nQc8XrGwentEAbH7Vt8dzv-TsJGSN2BR2d6UWEYJ5TuywdkTyXIS6Tv4ymxZcWhOljwwUlvCg3fz9gDuX7P3kivxNywfS-Hw3aqN7pZfsN5532C4ow8Zo0CiFm_a0/s1600-h/Morenci+II+043.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5x-u7Pz9zkDAcTf8nQc8XrGwentEAbH7Vt8dzv-TsJGSN2BR2d6UWEYJ5TuywdkTyXIS6Tv4ymxZcWhOljwwUlvCg3fz9gDuX7P3kivxNywfS-Hw3aqN7pZfsN5532C4ow8Zo0CiFm_a0/s400/Morenci+II+043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415191752659134530" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">According to an archeologist we spoke to at the small museum in Montsegur there are a wealth of pictoglyphs on the surrounding rocks, including triangles, crosses, cup marks and what might be stylized hoof or clog prints. Some of these markings are said to represent the cycles of the moon an</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">d the constellation of Arcturus, or the 'Great Bear', a formation curiously reminiscent of the groundplan of Montsegur. Nearby can be found the remains of an</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> old enclosure, a leani</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ng standing stone, a dolmen table bearing further pediform imprints and other signs of ancient inhabitation. Frequent references appear in the inquisition registers to a castle or fortified settlement that once stood</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> in this area known as Massabrac whose denizens were accused of aiding and abetting the defenders of the Cather citadel. According to the surviving documents “The faithful of Massabrac”, those who were known to have gone to visit the Parfaits at the chateau of Montsegur included one Bernard du Riual, Pierre Laurens and his brothers Raimond Laurens and Pinaut, Raimond Sicre, Raymond Peyre, Pierre Sicre, Arnaud de la Boulbere and Guillaume Guirafieze. Several of these </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">family names appear on the ros</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ter of those who later perished during the fall of the castle in 1244 ( see 'The Cathars' / timeline / Appendix A ) and a few, notably Pe</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">yre, Sicre and Laurens still have surviving descendants living in the area. All traces of Massabrac have long since been erased from the map, borne away by a tide of blood and ash but as we started back towards the crossroads I couldn't help but wonder if we weren't even now strolling down the main street of that bygone hamlet.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbowZzgB8tPzTRGoVIq8ZeckRFHaZB2QdS7Hanl77TsC3HM-H2h6QbXoxyJ9y1szwD9bmFTfEEt5-1x7-VNiXUNc7NqkfVrObao_n-lFYB8n-68PiSiZUKMIL2rUXjNOza2enZfCO6Vrz/s1600-h/Morenci+II+039.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbowZzgB8tPzTRGoVIq8ZeckRFHaZB2QdS7Hanl77TsC3HM-H2h6QbXoxyJ9y1szwD9bmFTfEEt5-1x7-VNiXUNc7NqkfVrObao_n-lFYB8n-68PiSiZUKMIL2rUXjNOza2enZfCO6Vrz/s400/Morenci+II+039.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415189590915700530" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I came to a halt at the top of the rise, filling my lungs with the deep, into</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">xicating sm</span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">ell of the forest. The rock formation adorning the crown of the hill looked different from this angle. While undeniably striking it came as little surprise to realize that from where I stood the solitary menhir looked for all the world like a thumb and the larger outcrop beyond seemed to make up the remaining four fingers of a granite hand looming impiously from the earth.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRGmkLQATFxGkLrrFeI5sHTaNf1829_z-0bg4akoHBdhfkpHnANfrCOmlaObthcrtHhyphenhyphenD4KKQvVafJqVrBQJvsQZJ1rGhs864czxMdvgl9jzpMDeG5EdM4JAKOCEUvVIVJB4654c-FjM2G/s1600-h/Morenci+II+024.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRGmkLQATFxGkLrrFeI5sHTaNf1829_z-0bg4akoHBdhfkpHnANfrCOmlaObthcrtHhyphenhyphenD4KKQvVafJqVrBQJvsQZJ1rGhs864czxMdvgl9jzpMDeG5EdM4JAKOCEUvVIVJB4654c-FjM2G/s400/Morenci+II+024.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415184364062678690" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I knew that before too long we would be returning to </span><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Morenci to follow where it pointed...<br /></span></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuEqU_NO7wka7lS9uX5Tbqv7syLoXKlpD-Y4-DY2cIyXgTKbi_l8Td-oEzXHh1kc0QFZeu5FP3BAUjHBH4DVj3PEDC6T2im89ULll3iAzfFmQnIjfbWu0luUJm4fZJQId4Kw0ieCOa0wps/s1600-h/Head+north,+compadre+-+and+don%27t+look+back+%21.jpg"><br /></a></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRg3xgtY36r2tGrTJCDXduWFDcBT7DZWqK4MJ1uKJUWC8AgDdAumtfHfsrkvAaGY9DmnK-8JIKTXJzo1e_pX_mMYo1LCO-5r7YpVhXhXkWuAtjDR-zrK3CWg9xMJc0BzeKcvziLS5W6og6/s1600-h/Head+north,+compadre+-+and+don%27t+look+back+%21.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRg3xgtY36r2tGrTJCDXduWFDcBT7DZWqK4MJ1uKJUWC8AgDdAumtfHfsrkvAaGY9DmnK-8JIKTXJzo1e_pX_mMYo1LCO-5r7YpVhXhXkWuAtjDR-zrK3CWg9xMJc0BzeKcvziLS5W6og6/s200/Head+north,+compadre+-+and+don%27t+look+back+%21.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415182138818809906" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-left: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /></span> </p>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2502296673063598346.post-27612428486974359232009-12-05T11:04:00.000-08:002009-12-05T12:03:29.131-08:00Terra Umbra - Empire of Shadows<div><strong><font face="trebuchet ms">Terra Umbra - Empire of Shadows<br /><br />A New Interactive Website Launched</font></strong></div><br /><br /><center><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/zYQkgF_60hc&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/zYQkgF_60hc&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></object></center><br /><div><strong><font face="Trebuchet MS"></font></strong> </div><br /><div> </div><font face="trebuchet ms">Terra Umbra is a new mind-wrenching website drawing on over 20 years of research by filmmaker and anthropologist Richard Stanley and his associates in the Shadow Theatre. Learn the mysteries behind the material that inspired such authors as Dan Brown, Kate Mosse, Phillip K. Dick, H.P. Lovecraft, Trevor Ravenscroft, Jules Verne and Otto Rahn.</font><br /><div><font face="trebuchet ms"></font> </div><br /><div><font face="trebuchet ms">Terra Umbra combines historical research with ongoing exploration and direct experience of the mysteries. Extraordinary claims demand extraordinary evidence, which is why Terra Umbra also features exclusive video interviews and hundreds of photographs.</font></div><div><font face="trebuchet ms"></font> </div><br /><div><font face="trebuchet ms">Learn the true history of your world.<br /><br /></font><div style="text-align: center;"> <meta http-equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <title></title> <meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 3.1 (Linux)"> <style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } A:link { so-language: zxx } --> </style> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><font color="#000080"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://www.shadowtheatre13.com/"><b>shadowtheatre13.com</b></a></u></span></font><br /></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/terraumbra13"><br />youtube.com/terraumbra13</a><a href="http://www.facebook.com/terraumbra13"><br />facebook.com/terraumbra13</a><a href="http://www.twitter.com/terraumbra13"><br />twitter.com/terraumbra13</a></b><a href="http://www.twitter.com/terraumbra13"><br /></a><br /></p> </div><div><font face="trebuchet ms" size="2">Richard Stanley is a filmmaker, anthropologist and esoteric scholar. He has written and directed such feature films as Hardware and Dust Devil. Terra Umbra - The Empire of Shadows is a registered trademark of the Shadow Theatre, Ltd.</font></div>shadowtheatre13http://www.blogger.com/profile/14715211573109692875noreply@blogger.com0