These excerpts will give you some insight into my writing style. All the items excerpted here are from a larger, finished, but as yet unpublished work.

Crystal Alchemy

Crystal Dharma

Crystal Yoga Workbook

The Song of Ra


Rune Quest

Table of Contents:

The Meeting
The Treasure Box
The Valley of the Dead
Moon Temple
The Primal Elements
The Goddess Speaks
The Sibyllion
The Secret of the Crypt
A Conference
The Inner Sanctum
The Song of Creation

[from Rune Quest]:

The Meeting

My travels had taken me to a provincial capital high up in the mountains, and on the day of my arrival, a local festival was in progress. In the main plaza, among ancient trees, near a baroque fountain and with the colonial cathedral near by, I paused to relax on one of the benches. My eyes roamed over the crowds of people, highland farmers, many of them in colourful costumes who had brought vegetables or weavings or pottery to sell. Their traditional dress had been unchanged for centuries. Their festive mood was agreeable to my tired eyes.

Booths had been set up with all kinds of handicrafts for sale. But the simpler or poorer folk had blankets spread out on the pavement or on the grass with various articles for sale. One could find antique jewelry, semi-precious stones, ceremonial artifacts, charms and potions, herbs, dried roots, dolls, simple toys made of wood and shells, and quite a few other handmade items as well. I had no doubt that much of it was doctored up to look old, but still, there were undoubtedly genuine antiques to be found, and the prices were very reasonable.

In one corner of the park there were fortunetellers. Most of them were palm readers, although one or two astrologers and tealeaf readers had set up their table and chairs or their blanket on the grass. One old man in particular caught my eye because he was the only Tarot reader in the assembly. He was dressed much like the others, the dominant colours  of local costume being red and black. I am not sure as I recollect, what it was that caused me to focus on him, but I had the impression that he had first paid attention to me. He seemed to be looking at some cards which he had spread on the blanket over which he hunched, but unexplainably, I felt that he was concentrating on me. So I went over and stood on the far side of the blanket looking down. Then, because his attention remained riveted to the cards, I squatted down closer to his eye level. Luckily, he seemed to have a grasp of English, as his first words revealed.

“Today is a special day for you” he mumbled. “Things are changing for you from today on. You don’t see it coming. That doesn’t matter. Everything will be different after this.”

He had seized my full attention. But I adopted a humorous skepticism, because I suspected that he was angling for money.  “These are Tarot cards, aren’t they?” I ventured.

“The most powerful energy is right at the centre, here,” he said, pointing to a card in the middle of the spread. “This is Mago, the Magician. Magician or shaman. He is going to be with you after today. You will feel the changes.”

“This card at the centre is The Magician?” I asked. “What does he stand for?” Silence ensued. The old man stared at the central card.

“He wants me to give you something. Today.” he mumbled.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked. My assumption that he wanted money had begun to weaken.

“I have been keeping it for many years, but you are the one. Yes, I must put it in your keeping today.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, trying to conceal my interest and project the impression that I was aloof.

“And you won’t understand what this is all about. But that does not matter. Clearly this box is meant for you. I want to ask you, please to follow me. There is something that I have to give you.”

Already he had put his cards away in his bag and folded his blanket. He smiled warmly and motioned me to follow as he turned and headed across the plaza.

It was all I could do to keep up, since crowds of people had filled the walkways, but I could still see him some way ahead when we reached the side-streets that led away from the town square. Within a few moments of entering the side-street, I had caught up to him. His pace and movements were by no means those of an old man, and he was not at all interested in talking. He just kept on walking several steps ahead of me, absorbed in his own thoughts.

We soon arrived at a gateway which led to a courtyard walled round with crumbling adobe bricks. Inside the high but decaying walls, a charming, shaded garden was nestled away from the view of street traffic, which in any case was mostly mules and pedestrians. Under the arms of a vast and very old tree there were a few stone benches.

“Have a seat,” he said, motioning me to one of the benches “I will join you in a moment.”

Sitting there in that antique colonial atmosphere, I was carried back in time. There was nothing to suggest that I was not one or two or even three centuries removed from the present century. Puzzled, but without undue concern, I awaited the gift. This was probably something quite ordinary, possibly a ploy to sell me some trinket.

Nothing could have surprised me more than the transformation in the old man’s appearance when he re-emerged from the interior of his home. His beard was gone, his hat was removed, and his hair, which had been hidden, was luxuriantly black. He seemed to have lost about 25 years from his previous appearance, and I marveled at the unexpected transformation.

“Appearances can deceive” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “When I go to the fair with my cards, it is not for business. I do not read cards in public, not normally. Today, it seems, I went there because it was necessary for us to meet. This is what I have to give you.”

Without further ado, he placed a small wooden box in my hand. It was about half the size of a shoebox with nothing special to recommend it.

“What is this?” I asked, half expecting that he would want to bargain.

“It is for you. It was placed in my keeping about thirty years ago. I did not know who it was intended for. But then today, I saw the answer in the cards. It was meant for you.”

“May I open it?” I asked.

“No. At least not now.”

His answer was puzzling, yet clear and firm.

An awkward pause ensued. I had no handle on what was happening, no words to rationalize my feeling of a loss of control. Yet I did not want to project any discomfort or annoyance. He was a polite man.

“Sit down,” he said, in a kindly way, motioning again to the bench. “We can talk.”

At that moment a servant came with drinks, and a small table was placed before us.

“Kouros, sit over there and listen. We will be speaking English, so you see how much you can understand.”

The lad took his seat across from the table as the old man motioned for me to help myself to a drink and some fruit and cheese. Then he put his hands together over his chin and paused to reflect.

I decided to busy myself with the refreshments and act as if everything were normal. As if accepting gifts from strangers was something I did on a regular basis.

“Quite a long time ago, when I was no older than this lad, I had the good fortune to meet one of the mountain masters. There are still some left, you know, the shamans of the old tradition. You might call him a hermit. I knew nothing at all about the tradition then, but he taught me. I learned divination. I experienced initiation.

Then, long before I was ready to leave him, because you see I considered him my friend and mentor; he knew everything I wanted to learn, well, my mother took ill and I had to return home. She passed away. I went back to find my master, but I could not. I could not locate the valley where he lived, the whole landscape seemed different. I never found him. But he had given me tools and training, so I found a quiet place to live and devoted myself to the work. It was he who gave me this box. He told me that I would know who it was meant for when the time came. So today it becomes yours. I saw this in the park. I saw it in the cards.”

“What am I to do with it?” I asked. “You say that I am not to open it yet.”

“Of course you will open it sometime,” he replied, “that is evident. But it has to be when the time is right. I have never opened it myself in all these years, it was not my master’s instruction. Naturally, I have been curious, but still I learned long ago to follow the indications that he gave me. For me, he was the right teacher.”

“Are you a teacher?” I asked.

He paused as if the question presented a difficulty. “Yes and no,” he answered.

I waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. When the silence grew awkward, he ventured a hint.

“The real teacher is within, I try to make an opening that permits that inner guidance to come forward. That is all. That’s what Socrates used to say too, that he was only a midwife. This is how it is.”