Startaker: Under the Shadow of Thy Wings by Marian Goddard
He remembered his return to Bebenhausen, entering without ceremony and standing silently in the chapel, listening to the familiar chanting of the monks as their voices drifted round him like a soft mist and upward he imagined, up through the arched roof, through the rain laden clouds, upwards through the blue skies and darkened heavens, to God.
He’d stayed unnoticed in the shadows and pulled his hood over his face, using the power of his will to summon the three brothers who had already come to him in his dreams. And the first to turn his head had been Gaspard, who was standing head and shoulders above the others, his upturned face aglow in the candlelight. He was hearty still, only his snow white hair attesting to his age.
Then Brother Ignatius turned also and Christian remembered him as the kindly monk in the scriptorium whose task it had been to teach him his letters.
And another, with a delicate, open face and penetrating eyes who, he learned later was a novice, Inigo Overmeir, a doctor of medicine, who had offered himself up to Holy Orders to better serve the needs of the people.
He’d acknowledged them one by one and then walked out into the frosty morning to wait until they had finished their prayers. Then suddenly it was as if a bear had crushed him in its great paws, squeezing the breath out of him, lifting him up and spinning him around. He’d turned his head to see Gaspard, laughing.
It was a welcome that still warmed his heart when it came to his mind.
And he’d told him of Andre’s fate and the big tears rolled down his cheeks, unashamed. There was no thing that could be said to lessen his grief until the others came, offering words of solace and manly comfort and he knew immediately that these were the men he had been waiting for.
Later, when the moon was in its ripeness and the signs in the heavens attested to its portent, he’d sworn them to secrecy, to be faithful and diligent and to commit to writing all that he should instruct them in, so that in the years to come not even a syllable of Truth should be lost.
In this manner by four men only, began the Fraternity of the Rosie Cross.
They worked hard, setting down a magical language and writing, which had been carried in secret through the ages from the time of Adam and Enoch. And they made a large dictionary, full of wisdom, which still made Christian stand in awe at the magnitude of it.
They’d tried also to write the first part of a book ‘M’ but the overwhelming concourse of the sick hindered them, being the more important, for its relief was the true reason for the Order’s existence.
And when the great construction was finished, Christian declared it to be a wonder and named it ‘Sancti Spiritus’ in honour of the love that had gone into its making, resolving then to draw yet others into the Fraternity.
To this end was chosen, in the same manner as the first, Brother Bacon, a skilful painter, Brother Georgio, the alchemist, Petrus Dominensis, the secretary, and joy of joy and wonder of wonders, his cousin Raymond, his father’s brother’s son, who had searched for him for years, travelling from monastery to monastery on the strength of a rumour; that the son of the heretic Germelshausen had been spirited away from the world to save him from the flames of hell.
When the greater portion of the work had been done, the brothers dispersed, to discourse on their learning to other parts of the world in the hope of small successes and to learn like the adepts of old, some new thing that might be helpful, for the betterment of all.
And they made an agreement… that they should have no other profession than to cure the sick and that freely and without reward.
They would draw yet others into their fold, from every condition of life and every faith, men of science and understanding and passion. And some would be learned men, advisors of kings, wise governors and profound thinkers, like the great philosophers of old, agreeing not to keep their knowledge hidden, but offering it to all, with proofs and demonstrations.
He knew that the strength of the Brotherhood would swing like a pendulum through the years, that there would be times that its message could be shouted from the rooftops, pinned to the gates in the public squares and printed in books. And he knew there would be other times when even the name Rosicrucian would send a chill through the blood of the ignorant. A hundred years from now, a thousand. It would make no difference. The spirit of man evolves slowly and each must gauge his own readiness for the truth.
But the Order would endure.
And now, his part in the Great Work was over.
He closed his eyes and offered up his thanks for it all.
And it seemed to him that the whole room had filled with light. He sensed it beaming through his eyelids, felt it warming his face, tingling against his skin.
He laughed with joy and contentment.
And soon he heard it…
The faint swish of his mother’s skirts against the bed…and his father’s deep, strong voice…
Calling him home.
*
March
In the year of God’s Good Grace 1614
Tubingen, Germany.
Monsieur Naude sat with the crumpled letter in his hand, gazing with unseeing eyes out of the window at the snow that had settled like a virgin fleece upon the ground. He was deeply saddened.
Brother Andrew was dead.
He knew he’d grieve the loss of his fine company, miss their cheerful discussions, his laughter. There was not even a corpse to weep over. Andrew had passed into the Lord’s care tending the lepers in Montpellier and he’d been interred secretly, with scant regard for ceremony. It was left to himself who succeeded in his place, to build for him a fitting memorial.
A chapel, a garden, a gilded statue made in his honour?
No. It was not the way of the Brotherhood.
An earthly memorial would not do.
It was to Andrew he owed the privilege of acceptance into the Order and to him that he’d taken his solemn vow of secrecy and fidelity. He’d told him that the Fraternity would remain not long hidden, that soon the whole of Europe would rejoice in the treasures it held. He hoped with all his heart it was so. The plight of the sick and downtrodden had become unbearable, ignorance still weighed heavy on the people and the Old Enemy still whispered silkily into the ears of the willing.
He swallowed the sour bile of guilt. Many a time he’d spoken against the Brotherhood, written long tracts condemning it, denied even its existence. It had seemed to him to be the only way to deflect attention from its activities, and keep himself safe.
The witch burnings had become an obscene testament to the ignorance of the people. Thousands upon thousands of poor souls had been condemned to hang or burn and the church had encouraged its parishioners in the denunciation of their neighbours, frightening them with tales of spells and storms, still born babies and blighted crops.
Great men too had gone to the flames for having the courage to speak the truth. The learned Dominican Giordano Bruno, not too may years ago, gagged lest he utter another word of truth and burnt at the stake for daring to speak of the plurality of worlds and the infinity of the Universe.
And there was Copernicus, so terrified of the inquisition’s torturers that he dare not publish his works till he had taken his last breath.
And Paracelsus, so full of compassion and wise remedies, called ‘Cacophrastus’ by his enemies and hounded out of his homeland for tending to the poor and refusing to bend his knee to fools.
The longed for reformation begun by Luther when he nailed his thesis to the door at Wittenberg was disappointing in its narrowness and slow in easing the poor conditions of the people. These were still dangerous times to declare a heresy.
He sat, his head in his hands, listening to the sputter and hiss of the damp logs in the fireplace as the afternoon wore on, the white fog rolling in under the long window making it seem as if he were sitting high above the clouds, alone.
At length he decided. He would journey to Montpellier and take up the work Andrew had started. His place of refuge had become
He looked around the shabby room, at the crumbling stonework and faded tapestries. Why had he not noticed that it had fallen into decay? It had always seemed to him to be filled with light. He did not know how old the house was. Those who had gone before were all dead and its history had been lost.
It was well hidden, surrounded by high walls and wizened oaks, their branches tangled together as if to protect it from prying eyes. And now it was he who saw to its invisibility, keeping the townsfolk away with tales of ogres and imps and evil spirits. Because it was the meeting place of the brethren.
He decided that before he left he would make it worthy of its heritage.
It had ever been his duty to provide for the unfortunate and his medical training had fitted him for further service, which he gave freely. But still it was as if he had been provided with Fortunata’s purse. He was a wealthy man. He could obtain the finest woods, the palest marbles and the greatest works of art. Though for the sake of secrecy, the work must be done by the brothers, it could be again as it must have been at its creation, full of beauty and life.
He would begin here; in the very room he had taken his initiation. The paint was peeling badly and the beams across the high ceilings were beginning to sag. And there were burns on the floor and along the walls as if it had been used as a workroom or laboratory. No matter, he would make of it a hall more beautiful than those of the greatest palaces of France.
As his eye moved from the floors to the wide inglenook, they caught upon the large brass plate that had hung in the same place since he’d first stepped across the threshold, thirty five years ago. Though much importance had been attached to it, no-one could remember why, its purpose lost in the verdigris that covered most of its surface. He decided to clean away the corrosion and examine it more closely, to make a better place for it in the newly restored room.
The plate was wide and heavy and one man could not lift it, so he called for some of the others to help. They strained and pulled, prying it out little by little. And then they saw that there was a nail, somewhat strong that was keeping the plate in place.
So they wrapped a pitchfork in a woollen cloth and used it as a lever to urge the nail out of the wall.
And suddenly it gave way and took with it a large stone and great deal of plaster, leaving them all enveloped in clouds of dust and cobwebs and when the air cleared they saw with astonishment that a wooden door had been uncovered by their labours.
With many exclamations and expressions of wonderment they pulled away the rest of the plaster and exposed the whole of the door. And brother Joseph, whose eyes were better than the rest, let out a whoop of excitement, for there was writing carved in the wood at the top.
‘Post CXX annos patebo’
‘After 120 years, I shall be opened’?
They all began to talk at once, but Naude held up his hand, he was the more senior and respected by all. “My dear brothers, time has fallen away…and the poor are waiting. These freezing nights are an ordeal for those with little means. Let us leave our discovery till the morrow… and attend to our duty.” And they all nodded in agreement and departed till the morning.
*
The next day, they assembled early; having made their way through the twisting, secret labyrinth leading from a hidden door in the tavern to this very room.
They began with a prayer of thanks. And a hope of protection should the door reveal something beyond their understanding.
Joseph used his young strength and put his shoulder to the door but the wood had been sealed with pitch and it took many blows before the door gave way and opened, creaking inward on its rusted iron hinges. They stared at each other in dismay. There was only a set of dark stone steps leading down into blackness.
What could it possibly be… that must be locked and sealed behind a wall for one hundred and twenty years?
Naude’s sinister warnings to the townspeople had taken on a life of their own and their imaginations were supplying the rest. Nevertheless, they took a lantern and followed each other down the stairs.
It seemed to take an age to reach the bottom; the ground was slimy with mould, the air damp and fetid. Long strands of dusty cobwebs brushed against their faces, tugged against their wigs. The lantern began to flicker, filling the air with smoke and making their shadows long and menacing in the dim light. And then they reached another door, fashioned from oak and carved with symbols and strange signs. They held their breath in anticipation as Naude grasped the latch and pulled open the door.
And suddenly they were standing in a brilliant, golden light, with all around them colour and movement and strange, glittering ornaments.
On the floor beneath them was painted a terrifying dragon, its eyes gleaming with menace, its talons poised to strike. And above them, a planetary heaven lit by an impossibility…a small glowing sun.
Every bright wall was made with doors and cabinets and in the centre, a great altar, made of brass and etched with mottos and figures.
And they knew, as they looked around the wonderful seven sided room, at the love that had gone into its making, that they had found the resting place of their beloved father, CRC…
And Europe had at last given birth to the child of Enlightenment.
*
SUB UMBRA ALARUM TUARUM JEHOVA
‘Hide me under the shadow of Thy wings, Jehova’
ONE MORNING in 1623, Parisians were hailed by mysterious placards on the streets of the city:
‘We, the deputies of the Higher College of the Rose Croix, do make our stay, visibly and invisibly in this place, by the grace of the Most High, to whom turn the hearts of the just.
We demonstrate and instruct without books and distinctions, the ability to speak all manner of tongues of the countries we choose to be, in order to draw our fellow creatures from the error of death…’
*******************
During the middle ages, the Church’s stranglehold kept the masses in a twilight realm between the practical realities of survival, the hope of heaven and the threat of hell.
At a time when most of humanity was beaten down by misery and suffering, interminable wars were being fought in the name of religion and the rich held the power of life and death over the common people, social reform, the healing of the sick and religious freedom seemed unattainable.
Yet, from the mystery schools of Egypt, Chaldea, Persia and India, there has been carried through the ages, a gnosis, grounded in nature and informed by the highest ideals of service to humanity.
It was brought to Europe with the traders from the East, the alchemists, by the crusader knights in their contact with the Arabs, with the troubadours in their love songs, hidden in the monasteries and religious orders.
This knowledge had always been proclaimed heretical and brutally suppressed.
With Europe mired in this bigotry and ignorance, it is the tenacity and courage of the few who fought to disseminate the truth that shines through the centuries…men like Copernicus, Galileo, Paracelsus and Giordano Bruno.
The great Dominican, Bruno was burnt at the stake for holding to the infinity of the universe, the possibility that there could be life on other worlds.
Copernicus was so terrified of the Church’s reaction to his discoveries that his works were only published after his death. And Paracelsus wandered from one land to another, healing the sick, taking no fee, showing ordinary people the power inherent in nature… because the learned would not listen.
Christian Rosencreutz was expounded as a myth by his supposed creator, the brilliant theologian Johannes Andreae, one time abbot of Bebenhausen, who years later blamed it on the depravity of his sixteen year old imagination. At a time when the stake and the rack were very real p
Two strange documents were published in Germany in the early seventeenth century, the ‘Fama Fraternitatis’ published at Kassel in 1614 and a year later the ‘Confessio Fraternitatis,’ elaborating on the former, together with the “Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz,’ they were regarded as the “Rosicrucian Manifestos.’
And they caused a sensation throughout Europe.
They told the story of an august fraternity, the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross, and one erstwhile wanderer Frater CRC, whose search for knowledge brought him into contact with the wise men of Damcar, in Arabia.
His attempt to share the knowledge he’d acquired with the learned of Europe in the hope of a humanistic reform was unsuccessful, so he gathered together this gnosis and founded a fraternity, based on the ideals of tolerance, the welfare of humanity and the right of every man to find his true place in the great wonder of nature.
It survives to this day.
Authors note:
I owe a great debt to the manuscript ‘Fama Fraternitatis.’
It is for the spirit and love of humanity embodied in its simple allegory that this work was written.
M.G.