One Great Year (22 page)

Plato had watched helplessly the dissembling of his beloved professor and friend. How was he to be an Emissary, a guide to people who would not hear or see what was plainly put before them? What could his role be? Feelings of uselessness engulfed him and he grew angry in response. He found himself wandering at the docks, remembering the day that he so fortuitously met Socrates. He almost smiled at the idea that it was chance that had brought him there, for he knew that it had most certainly been destiny.

What now? What now that the foul, foul deed was done? The murder of a genius, a light to all mankind, had occurred without ceremony, like closing a door, snuffing a candle, without even a trumpet blast or shaking ground! Death by corruption, fear, and ignorance and yet the world went on, unaffected and uncaring.

Marcus's armor, honed from many lifetimes of loss, registered a hearty dent. Mankind was unworthy. Time after time, they ignored the messages placed so obviously before them and embraced waste, chaos, evil, and pain.

Where was the unity? Could they not feel their connection to God, to each other? Could he? Marcus felt hopeless and alone, bringing all of his centuries of angst to his current life as Plato. The lifetimes of fighting, teaching, and searching for Theron had exhausted him.

Plato drifted through the port until sunrise, and as the sky lit with gorgeous arrays of red, gold, and orange he was struck again by how life went on eternal. In that moment, and not for the first time, Marcus regretted taking the potion. He regretted his past-life memory. One lifetime of winning, losing, birth, death, beauty, and horror is enough to remember. It was too much. He longed for Theron's company as deeply as he ever had.

Marcus looked at the image carved carefully in the filigree on the hull of the boat beside him: the seed of life. The significance of that symbol finding him in that moment did not escape him. Each petal signified lifetimes of lessons learned and that lives were a cycle, a process. Even as an Emissary, he had come to understand that he too must complete his cycles, and being the thinker that he was, it set him up for deep contemplation.

Plato looked to the heavens for guidance, and after a few moments of silent introspection, he decided he would leave Athens. His Marcus-brain urged him to continue the search. Finding Theron would make him whole again. He had to escape Athens and the inhumanity of Socrates' wrongful death.

The Oracle

Plato departed Athens soon after Socrates's death and spent the next twelve years searching for Theron, tormented by his inability to find her. Socrates had been a fine companion and a distraction from Marcus's loneliness, and Plato continued to miss him bitterly. He couldn't identify the grand purpose he supposed he should feel as an Emissary and his path unfolded day by day.

Plato began plotting the cycle of the Great Year. Plato hadn't coined the phrase or come to the realization alone. It was ancient knowledge, and Marcus had learned it in Atitala, though he wished now he had paid better attention. He studied the constellations in the night sky, knowing that from his place on Earth, they shifted bit by bit and appeared to move over the ages. The nearly twenty-six thousand years it took for the entire zodiac to cycle in the sky from one exact position back to that same position was one “Perfect Year” or “Great Year.”

Plato made certain that, should his writing survive, this fundamental concept was recorded for future generations. It mattered where the constellations were in the Earth's heavens: Taurus, Leo, Aquarius, and the rest. They each had their own significance. The energy that came to living Earth through the cosmos made a difference. The Ages were set: Gold, Silver, Bronze, and Iron. With each Age came a level of knowledge and enlightenment that the Emissaries had been sent to safeguard.

Plato identified exactly where he was in the cosmic circle of evolution—after all, knowledge was power … and sometimes torment. How far from the Golden Age of Atitala had Marcus come? By his best estimation he was in the middle of a Bronze Age. It was disheartening; he was only a third of the way through, and as ugly and ignorant as the citizens of Athens had proven themselves to be, things would get much worse before they got better.

The world was descending into a time when the Darkness had the upper hand. How would Marcus cope with having such great knowledge and memory through times that were increasingly cruel and backward? Where was his Theron? He could bear it, if only she were at his side. Once again he wished for the bliss of ignorance, the serenity of a clean memory.

Plato searched for Theron's energy as he traveled, and he kept himself busy passionately writing. He remained aloof, isolating himself from other people and determined to avoid the pain of attachment and loss that had affected him so deeply. He spent some time in Italy and was befriended by a philosophically minded man named Dion. Dion looked up to Plato and the two men enjoyed great philosophical debate, but after a brief time Plato moved on. Plato did not know then the role Dion would later play in his life.

Plato ended up in Egypt. The ancient land of Khem felt like a comfortable second skin. He had been there in more than one previous lifetime. His memories came back to him in lucid dreams, as real and vivid as daily life.

As the Great Pyramid of Giza had risen up before him, owning the vast landscape, Plato had been reminded of Atitala. The pyramids were a gift from another Age and were the ultimate symbol of spiritual connection, ascending and descending, pointing to heaven but anchored in the Earth. Plato smirked when he heard that the Egyptians were claiming the pyramids as their own creations. The memory of the Sun Gods—Emissaries who had engineered the structures—had been lost or relegated to myth over time.

The School of Mysteries was Plato's ultimate destination in Egypt. It was a legendary and secret society founded by Hermes who, unbeknownst to Marcus, had once been Red Elder. The hidden schools were modeled after those in Atitala and Lumeria and were in place around the globe to enlighten and educate the worthy. Marcus had been there before in other lives, though he had never crossed paths with Red Elder in those times.

While still at the Academy in Athens, Plato had listened gladly to stories about the Egyptian Mystery School. It was said that the ancient mathematician Pythagoras had spent many years there, and Plato was sure he must have been an Emissary. He wished he had shared a lifetime with the genius; they could have discussed the mathematics and geometry that Plato found so enthralling.

Unlike the civilizations of the Golden Age when the schools had operated openly for everyone, the current corruption and darkness of humanity made secrecy a necessity. Only the honorable and trustworthy seeker could be given the knowledge. Only the solid and unwavering could study in the sacred halls. Marcus had more to learn … and perhaps Theron would be there.

Plato was happy to be returning to the Mystery School; the difficulty was that he had to find it. Like water, the mystery schools were constantly moving. Plato had made his way to Heliopolis but, though he felt that he was very close, he had been unable to find the enigmatic location on his own.

The marketplace in Heliopolis bustled and squawked, hot and pungent in the noonday sun. Plato inhaled the scents of spices, humans, and beasts as they rose and fell around him. Despite having adopted the robes of the locals, Plato was recognizable as a foreigner.

“Mister, you need?” a young boy called to him in several broken languages, trying each in turn. Plato was struck by the boy's tenacity and language skills, and he turned. There was a familiarity. He did not see the indigo karmic code of an Emissary, but he did recognize the aura of this soul. They had met before. Marcus knew it was the same soul who had once shown him mercy as Sartaña's guard in Stone-at-Center, and he filled with gratitude at the memory. It was remarkable to find him once again. It must have meaning.

“Yes, I need,” Plato answered. “I need … School of Mysteries?” he said in broken Egyptian. The boy's eyes opened wide, and in one swift motion he ducked past the shoulder of a fig seller and ran away. Plato called after him in disappointment.

Deep in thought, Plato continued his walk through the noisy bazaar and purchased his daily bread. Plato munched the hard, dry loaf and sipped tea before he made his way to the largest of the nearby temples. Sweat ran in itchy streams down his back. The high columns and ornate structure of the temple were borrowed from another time, and they had begun to crumble and falter in disrepair. Plato entered into a vast stone courtyard.

“I wish to see the high priest,” he requested of a nearby boy wearing temple robes. The boy hurried away and returned moments later demanding an exorbitant fee, a donation of gold from the foreigner. Plato was appalled and refused the boy's request, sending him back to his master empty-handed. The Greek was leaving when, from a nearby corner, a boy emerged. Plato recognized him instantly. It was the boy from the marketplace who had run away.

“The high priest is bad man. I take you to Mystery School,” the boy said in choppy Greek, stepping back into the shadows and beckoning Plato to follow. The beautiful green and blue glow of the young man's aura pleased Plato as it mingled with his own, and he felt sorry for the masses, blind to the glowing energy hovering around every person.

“How did you find me?” Plato asked when they were outside.

“Everyone who seek Mystery School go here, so … high priest rich and fat, but he don't know where is school. He torture me if he think I know. I still not tell. He not worthy.”

“How do you know I'm worthy?” Plato asked.

“You not pay,” the boy answered, smiling openly. Plato admired his logic, though he himself would have required more evidence.

The young boy's name was Amnut, and he was older than he had first appeared—about thirteen years. Plato soon learned that he and his uncle had led many deserving, and some not so deserving, seekers to the site of the secret institute. Apparently Amnut's uncle was not quite as discerning as he.

Plato followed his guide adeptly, scurrying through the maze of alleys and carts. The smells of cooking and urine assaulted Plato's nostrils. Laundry hung overhead in colorful strips, and bells and metal clanged and chimed around them chaotically.

Amnut came to an abrupt halt. There was no grand portico, no signs. There was a steep stairway leading into a cellar beneath a two-story, grey stone building that had been built and rebuilt in the same spot many times. A cart almost blocked the access completely, and without his guide Plato would surely have missed it.

A mother hollered from above them, and he heard the sound of children running while a baby cried for food or sleep. At the base of the stairway there was a thick wooden door, above which Plato looked for the carving of the right eye of Horus inside a gold circle. Marcus knew the symbol well and had seen it in other times and cultures, always referring to the great third eye or “eye of protection.” It was the sign of the Mystery School within.

Plato overpaid Amnut and sadly bade the grateful boy farewell. Marcus guessed that the young man's sole purpose in this lifetime was to lead travelers to the School of Mystery. Amnut had never entered the rooms himself.

Arriving at the Mystery School was exciting. Plato's Marcus-brain revved with anticipation. There had been no secrecy in Atitala—there had been no need—but now there was a password. Plato knew the sacred statement that would identify him as a friend and would open the school to him. It was catalogued with every other significant and insignificant detail in his Marcus-brain.

As expected the door was locked. Plato knocked on the thick barrier. Nothing. After a few moments he knocked again. This time the door opened a crack and a middle-aged man in a colorful robe peered out.

“Anima mundi,” Plato whispered quietly, though it was unnecessary. The village was so loud around him he could have shouted. The words meant “world soul,” the energy that unites everything.

“Anima mundi,” the man repeated, stepping back so that Plato could slip inside. The door swiftly closed and locked behind them.

Plato immediately searched the faces of the men and women, girls and boys all looking at him curiously. The room glowed with the indigo hue of the Emissaries, but none of them was Theron. Marcus was disappointed and retreated deeper into Plato's consciousness, despite the abundant warmth and friendship of the place.

The small space was lit and sweetened by beeswax candles that were placed on each of six rough-hewn tables. The seats were simple wooden benches, grooved and polished from centuries of use. The floor was dirt and sand that was often swept and neatly raked. There were twenty people huddled in cozy study groups in the quaint front room. The stone walls were unadorned and were dark and grey. Small sporadic holes up high near the ceiling allowed for airflow but let no light in.

The cleric who had opened the door welcomed Plato and listened intently as the newcomer accounted for his arrival. Plato was led further into the school to meet the high priest. He entered through a low doorway and came soul to soul with the familiar and powerful karmic energy of Red Elder. He was elated.

“Good high priest, I am known as Plato. I come to you a humble student,” Plato said, lowering his head. His Marcus-brain was at full attention, sending him waves and zaps of information through past-life memories and images.

“Marcus,” the high priest said cautiously. “I am happy to greet a familiar soul from ages old.”

“Red Elder? I cannot help but wonder how
you
know
me
,” Plato replied suspiciously, his mind reeling. Red Elder had memory. Could Red Elder have been the cloaked director in the caverns with Helghul on the night of the exodus from Atitala? Was it possible?

“And I cannot help but wonder … why … unlike your fellow Emissaries … you know me? Your memory was immediate. How can it be?” Red Elder asked. “I feel your mistrust but worry not, I am with the Light.”