Before Now and After

Before, Now and After.

The Dogbreaths Publishing

The Occult History

Of the

TETRAGRAMMATON

ISBN: 9781311502315

Copyright David William Kirby 2009

The Dogbreaths Publishing

Smashwords Edition

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Before Now and After

Copyright David William Kirby 2009

thedogbreathspublishing.weebly.com

Book 1

A Visit to an Island

Book 11

At what price a city is born

Book 111

The Path to Glory

Part 1

In the beginning was the word.

A visit to an island

There is, like hawk on fire, a sword

Curved, its blade rolling.

Stalking the seam.

A feather on a shield held high

in a rock or stone

Shimmering.

Like water falling

on a blue, empty pass.

True and high and rained.

Falling, curving down through this flower

This flower of fire

Blooded and fallen.

Its face and roots,

its clawed and hooded

stone fingers like poses

Of fire, of water, of magick.

Pond like, wide and deep,

as the mysterious sea.

Deadly.

Utibia was beautiful, a lone star of an island situated in the middle ocean; just off the tropic of Capricorn. Although just a few miles wide, it was the sanctuary of every fish and beast of this world and more; it was the other Eden.

Utibia seemed, to the inhabitants of that place, as if life had been breathed into the world through the island by a god-like power and their very presence was an indication of that infinite power.

Dolphins swam in the tide and strange birds occupied the blue skies; the place was blessed. Fertile and warm, Utibia was a heavenly garden and no less a place to start a story.

The people who made their life on this island had been there forever, so their stories said. Throughout the ages they spent their lives in awe of the beauty that surrounded them; humbled by it.

The Langa people were blue but not naturally so. Brown eyed and brown skinned they shimmered like sapphires in the morning sun. They painted their brown skin blue, by rubbing on to it, the blue clay that was harvested from a marsh in the island’s centre.

The clay was rich and organic and so protected their skin from the bright sun. It also reminded them, that they too, were part of the ocean and the sky that surrounded them.

A naturally peaceful race that led slow and contented lives in small family villages. Their lives were ordered so that no one did too much or too little; no one had everything and no one had nothing.

They shared the chores and the labours of life for the benefit of all. The old were given special attention for being the wise ones and the young were relished for being new life. Their ambitions were to have rounded bellies and smiles to wear.

Langa believed that they were spiritual manifestations of their mother goddess; The Earth. They saw the earth as a womb from which they burst forth. That it spun around the sun like the atoms of their bodies spun around other minute particles; and that if you looked closely enough into a person’s cells you would see eventually another island like Utibia.

Likewise if you travelled far into the universe; so far all the stars and planets and galaxies would merge into one. Then you would eventually find yourself looking at another island like Utibia. The macro mirrored the micro. All life was connected.

The villagers believed that reincarnation enabled souls to travel from those very small places up through the plains of existence until each soul had experienced them all. Life and death were part of the same journey; the travel of the soul.

They saw it in the birth and death of each day, the ebb and flow of the tides and the wax and waning of the moon. Life returned again. A death in the village was not a time to be sad but a time of celebration and joy. It marked a personal transition from one small plain to the next.

Through their traditional songs they educated the young and helped the old prepare for their next transition; into the greater whole.

Stories were of great importance to the Langa. Story telling formed the education of the young and entertainment for the old. One story told that the island was formed to create order in chaos.

That all life, the soil, the flora and all living things were made of the same substance from which they themselves were formed. It was the essence, the spirit of life. With this idea in their hearts the Langa lived in peace, with love and consideration for all that they found around them.

They tended the gardens and looked after the animals of their world with love. Some would not eat meat or fish explaining it would be like eating one of their own. Others, like the wise old men, loved to eat their meat and fish; but would talk to the animal before slaughter to ensure it was ready for its transition.

All were equal in the village although when a person reached a certain age he or she could choose to be one of the elder’s circle or die.

The elders carried a heavy burden; a responsibility. So, some chose to go. Go through the transition and leave this world.

To be an elder meant to lose ones youth and teeth and hair and become frail. But with this they also became wise and able to judge others if disputes arose. They also had to look after the only thing the Langa valued; the book.

But more of that later.

Another story told of a man who spent his time wondering if there was more to life than just the island and the village; Rufus was his name.

He was born greedy and cunning and was able to misbehave without a conscious. From an early age Rufus exploited helplessness and used People.

He wanted more, proof that death was not the end and that life continued. The story told that he left the island and travelled to a far off place where he stole powerful relics. Relics, that he hoped would enable his army to become invincible; relics like the book.

The book was the repository on Earth, stitched with gold thread upon each of its leather pages, of the secret and most powerful name of God.

This act of theft changed him. He returned many years later and told the elders that the name he had stolen was destined to be theirs. It was so powerful this word could not be spoken and had been written in the book for the benefit of mankind; but must never be uttered again.

Those that did risked being burned alive if the ritual, the ceremony that accompanied its pronunciation, was not enacted.

Rufus told that with this name on a man’s lips enemies could be slaughtered, cities destroyed and people controlled. He said that the book was now his and was never to be opened by any other. That he had brought it to the island because he knew the elders could be trusted to keep it safe for him and never use its power. After his death it passed to the Elder of the Elder circle; down through the generations.

This story, which was enacted on long mid summer nights around the blazing village hearths, said that this man had conjured fire from the skies. That the spirit of the trees had spoken to him. He had learned to control the power that governed all life and, with this power, had looked through the veils of time.

Rufus could see the past fading away like the last embers of a cooling morning fire and into the future, where terror reared up in the children’s eyes; like the bucking hoofs of a fierce stallion. Far from the island in the West, a huge tribe evolved where Rufus became just a fading legend.

The Langa’s story said that his lust for power was infectious and these others had become diseased by it. They kept but One Ruler; as Rufus had ruled over them in their prehistory. He was a ‘so-called’ Blueblood; who gained his right to rule by the blood running through his veins.

These new rulers were His bloodline and through the centuries they became the Kings and aristocracy of those Western Isles. These dangerous and deluded men spelt the end of life for the villagers and the destruction of the whole world. Across the sea a cancer was spreading; everyday it was getting closer on an almost shrinking Earth.

Kings became Emperors and down the centuries the legend of Rufus and The Name of God faded into folk lore. Although one family kept Rufus alive, with yearly rituals dedicated to Him, and wild stories of their own.

These descendants owned secret relics that brought them closer to Him. In isolation, from the rest of mankind, this dynasty kept his legend alive.

The sacking of the great temple in Jerusalem had given them a faded map which was now kept as a relic. Copies had been made as the parchment disintegrated into fragments over the years; passing through many generations; far across the sea to the west.

Although these stories disturbed the people on the island they also knew that change was inevitable. Death must follow Life. The elders dreamt on moonless nights, when stormy waves beat against the great rocks in the bay, omens of things to come; omens that bothered them.

During the passing of time that cancer from the Western Isle became an army no other could conquer. The elder’s story always ended with a premonition. The villagers were told that he would return. The army from the West, the army of Rufus, were expected to return and fulfil this prophecy.

When the villagers performed the story of Rufus around those blazing midsummer-night fires it would always end with Rufus rising up, like a demon, from the ocean. With death in his eyes, blood on his hands and fearlessness in his heart he would stand victorious upon the ruins of the past. He was heralding the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end of Rufus.

"Contemplation of Mother God, and her divine wisdom,

is the secret to simple order.

Strife for her power

strikes with chaos at the root

of our being"

These were the last words of Abras Watermountain, eldest of the elder circle. With these soft spoken words he closed his eyes upon the world and clasped a small box to his breast. It was the only important thing he possessed and he was sorry to leave it in the hands of men who did not appreciate its power.

Where it would not receive the respect and quality of care it had received from his father and from his father and his father before him.

The box, which held the book, had been carved by his great grandfather from cedar. It had been inlaid with mother of pearl by grandfather and precious stones by father. Kissing the book gently, he covered it with soft blue silk and laid it in the box; planning to swiftly leave this life.

He had known that today was to be the day just after he awoke that morning. It may have been the shape of the first cloud he saw through his open doorway.

Or it may have been the distant shouts of children playing; their soft voices rising on the wind telling him that the day had arrived.

It may have been the way the sun shone on the houses or the way the breeze travelled through the trees, the texture of the warm soil; the buzzing of a distant insect. All the signs were there, today he expected to depart this life and move on. The old man squeezed the box tightly and sighed.

He was not scared to go only sorry to leave this possession. In fact he was proud that the legends of the past should now be crashing into his present. He was about to walk with ancestral kings and hold court with them; exalted in those darker lands.

With the passing of his life he was forced to evaluate his deeds, muse upon his misgivings; all in all, he was happy with what he saw. Although this was true he felt the world had changed recently. Either that or his memory was failing, for the summers seemed bleaker then those he remembered as a boy. He thought that the air had grown stale or had become poisoned by a menace from beyond the horizon.

That far across the ocean, fires burned like beacons upon every hilltop, carrying their filthy smoke in the clouds. It seemed that the world was dyeing with him. As his life filtered away, Abras Watermountain slowly perceived the order that had created him. He could feel it flowing through his being, burning within and without him.

He allowed himself to drift into the feeling, allowing it to permeate his body; he was transparent to it. It was the time, the old man thought, and time to die. The boats had moored; there were visitors to the island. Slaves dragged the longboats up onto the sands so that their masters might land without wetting their leather sandals.

A small army alighted and formed a neat regiment on the beach. They were addressed by a heavily built man, finely turned out in silver armour, a bright breastplate inlaid with gold shimmered in the sun.

Black feathered plumes rose like smoke from the silver helmet that covered his head. The man clasped the sword attached to a belt at his side and addressed his troops.

Men... He shouted beating his chest with his other fist.

...Before we journey into this land you must prepare yourselves. All manner of trickery awaits you here. If you see a beautiful maiden, use your dagger and stab hard, she is a devil and the bitch is bewitching you. If you see a beautiful youth, again strike firmly; in case his beauty entrances your senses. If you see an innocent child, strike harder, for the devil takes many forms and we are here to kill him; him and all his followers.

He pulled a dusty map from his belt and unfurled it so that his men could inspect the document.

See where we are? He spat on the sand. Men, you see here, in the centre of the world, only beasts and savages lurk. The magic they practice is opposed to all the things we stand for. It is rumoured that they have the secrets of Abraham the Magi and that they practice the witchcraft of the Essenes; they possess power greater than both Mars and Mercury. That they bewitch you with their eyes.

He could see his words were having the desired effect, the men looked worried, thin beads of sweat gathered on their brows and some whispered silent prayers. Good, he thought, he wanted them anxious.

The only way to protect yourselves from these monsters is to slay them quickly. We take no prisoners from this place, Augustus has decreed this.

What about the women?" Someone asked from the rear.

They are not women, they are witches. The man replied. Put your sword where you might put your prick and slay them.

It was at that point a small blue boy stepped from between the coconut trees. His red lips quivered and brown eyes widened seeing the strangers in his midst. The ribbons in his hair and the brightly coloured shells around his neck glittered in the midday sun. His expression was one of innocence and wonder.

He pointed at the men in their strange and cumbersome costumes, their plumes and breastplates, their swords and spears. These things reminded him of a story he had been told but he could not remember when.

General? One of the party stuttered. Look, there’s a savage amongst us.

He pointed to the boy and gasped.

He is naked like the savages you described; but surely this child is not a devil?

You are allowing the child’s innocence to bewitch you… The general replied glumly. …Let the archers do their work; destroy this beast.

With this command arrows streamed through the air. Silent death with a hundred barbed teeth; each one aimed to penetrate. A bird chirped and fled its nest as blood soaked into the white sand.

A leather sandal trod the body of the boy in to the sand and the soldier with the black plumes reached for his sword. The blade sparkled in the sun as it swooped down severing the boy’s head.

Onward. He cried. Victory awaits; have neither fear in your hearts or mercy in your minds today. Go forth and civilise this island, in the name of the Emperor, for the glory of the Empire and the honour of Rome. Hail Augustus.

Abras Watermountain was found dead and cold by the man with the black plumes. He was still clutching in his frail fingers the small box, a smile on his lips. The digits clasped the box so hard that even in death it was difficult to give up their prize. They cracked as the box was taken.

The soldier opened the box slowly and peered within as the screams of other villagers filled the afternoon air.

In the midst of the death and destruction he could see only beauty in his view as a magical light streamed from the box almost blinding him. Within was just a simple blue cloth that covered a small insignificant looking book.

Made from old kid leather, which had faded with time, it did not appear to be the prize he had been sent to find; but he could feel its power freezing his finger-tips.

This truly is a great treasure, the General thought silently, worth more than its weight in gold or silver, worthy of the greatest emperor the world had ever known. The reality of war awaited him as the Marcus Agrippa left the longhouse. The soil was red with blood and the sky black with acrid smoke as he tucked the box into his map bag.

Agrippa? A voice shouted from behind him. Come, all the island is ablaze and soon this evil will sink beneath the waves. We are preparing to leave.

Did you see me carrying anything? Agrippa asked the soldier as he joined him.

The box, Sir? I only saw the small box. The man replied hesitantly.

I thought so. Agrippa said as he stuck the blade of his sword into the man’s belly.

That was unfortunate, my brother.

The soldier fell as the long house began to smoke fiercely behind them. The dying soldier looked up at his executioner and heard faint words upon the wind.

Agrippa was saying a small prayer for the fallen man; giving the soldier as a sacrifice to Mars in thanks for the prize. His Emperor will be pleased to receive this worthy relic, Agrippa mused, and blood had to be given in thanks.

Some months later Agrippa was aboard a galley as it moored off the coast of Ostia; only a short journey from the centre of imperial Rome. It had been four years since he had last seen that wonder of cities; wandered through its bustling streets and surrounded himself with familiarity. He wondered if it had changed much in the preceding years.

He was aware that Augustus was still the emperor. That fact was obvious