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 All the items excerpted here are from a larger, finished, but as yet unpublished work.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

Rune Quest


The Song of Ra

Table of Contents:

Nyarchus the Bard
The Summons
The Encounter
The First Day
The Lord of Dreams
The Tale of Khem
The Orb
The Feast of The Dead
The Cave
A Prophecy
The Brotherhood
The Girl with the Doll
The Talisman
The Descent
The Waters of Release
A Dream
The Light of Aton
The Passing of Adapa
The Last Rest
Crowned With Glory
Fire from Heaven
The Golden Time

[from The Song of Ra]:

Nyarchus the Bard

From what corner of the night’s abyss my seed stirred, I know not. It was well past the witching hour, mid-season of a mild winter, the smell of spring in the air, when I woke from sleep.

I struggled out from the warmth of my pallet onto the chill stones of the floor, pulling a mantle over my shoulders. Dying embers sprang up quickly as I breathed them to life in the hearth, sufficient to light a candle, sufficient to warm my nakedness.

The streaming of the blessed rays had begun, the hour of the gods when the spiritual forces descend to earth. The dawn was not far off.

My harp was almost in tune. The gems on the talisman about my neck faintly glowed in the firelight. The smell of the sea was heavy in the dark air.

I set my fingers to work making chords on the strings of my instrument, changing a note here and there as needed, until I could hear celestial overtones singing above the plucked cadences.

They say the voices of the ancestors can be heard in certain progressions played under a full moon. I listen carefully, knowing the time for such magic is past, but hearing from time to time an echo of ancient spellcraft in spoken phrases or in harmonies of the harp.

Sailors talk of how they sometimes hear whispers of the undead Sea-Lords rising up from beneath the ocean-waves in the darkest days of the Moon Cycle. Of this I have no personal experience. I can imitate the rhythms of the waves on my strings, but I have not yet fathomed the secrets of the deep sea.

In the halls of Poseidon, they say, the chanting Atlantean Elders can still be heard. When the sea is calm, the mariners and the fishermen observe strange lights in the watery depth below the keels of their vessels. Who can say what is real and what is not, or sort fact from fancy in such matters? Sailors are superstitious. They fear what they do not understand, and they cannot contemplate what they fear.

Lest the high magic of the ancients degenerate into superstition, the goddess raises up bards from time to time and puts her power into their words and works. This is my calling. I am a voice through which the Muse can speak. 

When seafarers from the north speak of Atlan below-the-sea and the Mer Folk, there is no end to their credulity. I know the harp strings will say it better, whatever needs saying. Or the bardic formulas handed down from ancient times. So I keep to these. - these and the silence of my own counsel. A bard is not judged ill for being taciturn. ‘Words few, but well chosen’ – this is the counsel of the Muse and this is my counsel. The people know this of their bards, and indeed expect it, for they want to feel the power behind the words and the thrill of something godly when the harpstrings ring. They grant a real bard space in which to be himself, for they know he must commune with the Muse until he ripens the gifting of her force.

The talisman stones set in untarnished silver are sufficient food for my mind’s eye. These gems speak their own spells for one trained, as I have been, to listen. I have seen scrolls that tell the meanings and the patterns in crystal magic, but I turn to these less and less as time flies by. I gaze upon the talisman as I improvise my words and melodies. I listen with the ears of my heart for what She will whisper.

I let the chords find their own progressions, as I prepare to attend the temple. A faint gleam of firelight plays across the bronze wires of my harp as they quiver and hum. I caress and stroke the strings to release their passion. My voice intones the timeless syllables of light. Soon, I will be ready to play for the Sacred Council.

They say the Moon is a goddess. I think she must smell of Cedar. The dew on her grassy thighs is perpetually cold and moist. She is ever hungry for love and plays the role of a stern mistress to those who come under her sway.

She brings the spirit-fire into the darkness of night, and she makes things beautiful into instruments of bliss. A hunger-maker, she carves out strange passions in the loneliness of the human heart. She hollows out a craving in the deep cavern at the centre of a man’s being and makes him ache until at last he can hear the ancient words of quest and homecoming. Then, he will begin to stutter Her cadences – then, when he has suffered the pangs of the alone, and not before.

Because of her, we renew and remember the sad cadences of our loss. For this, she is called our sacred Muse. She haunts those whom she overshadows and infuses them until they become prophets or lunatics. This is the destiny of a moon-lover, and of such weave is my life’s story. I am one who has fallen into her clutches, she who is insatiable. Creatures such as I inhabit the haunted region between dreams and waking reality. I am known as Nyarchus, The Bard.

As the goddess is insatiable, so am I. I have few friends. The ones I trust most are unacknowledged. I am a jealous lover, a devotee of the Moon, a man of solitary counsel. 

My voice and strings sing of yearning. It is my labour to open spaces where her spirit can enter and do its work. I stir the restlessness and the pangs of longing which her moonlight will engulf. Together, She and I create famine; we stir up longing for the unattainable. We stoke the fires of craving. We make men know their inmost hunger so that they will crave the beauty that can be found nowhere on this earth. Among those I touch, some fall into madness. That is their weird. But others rise to a station she has fore-ordained and reserved for them to enter, and these become the cadence-speakers.

When I play for the Archon and the council of twelve, I caress this hidden hunger that lurks in the deep soul. My words brighten the glow in the embers of hopeless yearning. My notes make the moonstone flame glow. It is not long before their eyes turn inward, seeking the bliss that stirs in cave of reckoning.

I can see it in the way they smile, I sense their ecstasy. Their minds soar like eagles when I sound the chords of ascension. And then, they go deep within, to the very bowels of the mystery when I weave the melody downward, slowing the pace of the rhythm, caressing the tones so that they linger in the air. But my mind cannot follow these contemplatives, or penetrate that domain of bliss, not yet.

The music of the spheres arises from overtones, it is not in the chords themselves. I want my audience to listen for what can only be heard by the ears of the soul. My music carries them to this threshold, where they must plunge or withdraw. I voice the Moon’s call, beckoning souls home.

The evening air is chill. Stepping out into the courtyard, I glance up at the tapestry of stars above. Then, crossing the damp pavement stones which lead to the temple, I pause at the entranceway. I speak a short prayer of purification before putting my hand to the latch, glancing to my left in time to see a stray dog round the corner. We briefly stare at each other. He continues on his way. I open the lift the latch, push the door forward and enter.

When I come into the hall, they are already assembled, deep in contemplation, the Sacred Twelve and their Master. Seated in the position of the North, the Lord of Air holds an indigo sphere in his lap. The flames in the tripod cast shadows across his ivory features. He navigates the depths of trance in utter stillness.

Lady Earth holds the sphere of black Jade in the palms of her hands and faces him across the council floor at the opposite pole of the masters’ circle. She has the stasis of ecstasy imprinted faintly on the curves of her lips. She exudes silence like a continuous note in the ether.

Their consorts, and the Lords and Ladies of Fire and Water seem carved in stone. Their dark robes meld with veils of shadow as the fire in the tripod slowly burns down to ash. 

They are twelve in total, as I have pointed out, the masters of the outer circle, and their overlord in the centre who sits gazing into the flames of the tripod – he is the thirteenth.

An attendant enters the circle and drops grains of frankincense onto the coals in the tripod. A cloud rises up from the dying flames and suffuses bittersweet fragrance into the gloom. The incense gently thins as its sacred, smoky tendrils permeate every corner of this pillared chamber.

Tonight, I am constrained to play the music of the Dreamweaver Rune, this being the sixth day following the Full Moon. The goddess measures and times such matters. I have no choice, no prerogative to alter the rhythms of sacred time. She fills the night with mystery greater than the Sun’s fire can descry or understand.

The cadences and chords of each day have been pre-determined, time out of mind. We bards remember what She has spoken. We echo her words from the beginning-time of all things, when mystery was most potent. Our remembrance renews the lunar harmony that would otherwise lose the life-spirit and be forgotten. We bards and initiates seek to soften the hardness and the shielding by which men deny her magic. We incite the hunger her presence fills. Our notes and our voices melt resistance until at last there can only be a total surrender.

It is well known, the goddess reigns supreme where men long for what is invisible. This is my work, to charm the hearts of those who listen, until at last they hear. When they hear the whisper of the Muse, my work is done. Ultimately, they will surrender to their longing for what they cannot name or explain. They will begin the journey home.

I am the singer of that journey home. It is my work and my fate. I am Nyarchus, the bard.