An allegory of the illusions and follies of men

Guest article by Mel Cairn

Introduction by Occult Mysteries

In these testing times when the Liberty of Man is threatened on all sides by those who would enslave not only his body, but his very mind and Soul, it is appropriate that we choose the famous statue of that name to illustrate this moving and powerful short story, kindly contributed by one of our regular readers and a good friend of the Editors. The base of this statue contains a bronze plaque inscribed with a sonnet by the American poet Emma Lazarus, the last verse of which includes the following lines:

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

The discerning reader will recognise the occult truths contained in this inspiring verse, which conceals far more than a simple exhortation to human charity and compassion, commendable as these noble virtues are.

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N THE DAWN of the new day, the snow fell heavily through the thick, clinging fog that sentenced vision to solitary confinement in a cold, grey prison. Whipped by howling winds, icy flakes screaming inwards from all quarters lashed against my skin with the stinging ferocity of sharp sand. Turning my back to the worst of the onslaught, through squinted eyes I glimpsed a brightness in the midst of the frigid fury and instinctively began to move towards it. The closer I drew to the source, the clearer my vision became until at last, I could plainly see the radiant figure of a man standing alone in the squall, surrounded by an apparently impenetrable shield of still, intransigent air, as though here before me were the quiet calm at the very eye of that ferocious storm. I stopped short of intrusion, torn between the desire to seek sanctuary within that haven of undisturbed peace, and the sense that closer advance might dissipate whatever power it was that held the raging elements at bay.

At that moment, the sound of anguished sobbing penetrated even the screaming howl of that dread maelstrom. The fog swirled in spiralling, icy curls as the figure of a young girl emerged from the greying gloom, running headlong into that region of tranquillity to grasp the legs of the man at its centre; clinging tight and looking up into his face, her body heaving, spasm-wracked with desperate pain. Quivering against him, the hot tears running from the despairing child's eyes rolled down her trembling cheeks, splashing into the snow that carpeted the ground on which they stood, surrounded by the thickening fog, as though entombed in its frigid embrace.

"All is lost," she cried ". . .they have taken everything! Evil men are poisoning everything we love! We tried to stop them. We tried to . . . but they are too powerful; too rich. All is lost. All is lost!"

"Hush now child and hold those bitter tears," he soothed. "Hold them, unless they are of compassion shed for those of whom you speak. I see them, but clearly, stripped of the self-made delusions they draw around their feeble frames. I see them, naked, abandoned, terrified of the fate that they have hooked, which binds them wriggling and writhing in agonised torment, and even now reels them in to their certain doom. Pity them; pity them.

"I see no power. They are enslaved to the most unevolved impulse that stalks this realm. They dwell in a house of perpetual, constant fear; a squalid hovel that they have built with their own grasping hands, terrified that one day, as it must, as it will, the mask behind which they hide their revolting repugnance will slip and fall away, exposing them to their mesmerised acolytes as they truly are. Hollow, vile creatures all, dwelling in carcases made so pustulent by the minds cravenly cowering within, that even starving worms will turn away in the end. Pity them; pity them.

"Slaves to the lowest. Look! See? And what then does that make them, that they are thus mastered? Aye, slaves one and all, and willing, for each and every one of them has purposely and deliberately chosen to crawl on their hate-stuffed bellies in that shadow land, giving themselves heart and mind to their beast. Pity them; pity them.

"Fear is all they know, my child, and they know it very well, for it has wrapped and warped itself around the weft of their every moment in the empty lives they believe that they are living. And because they know it so well, it has become the only weapon they hold in their twisted hands. Look! See how they wield it? See how they swaddle themselves in its foetid raiment? See how they have their smiths fashion it into crosses and shields in the vain and futile attempt to avert discovery? See what evils they enact and witness the disgusting audacity by which they enact them in the name of one whose name they are not fit even to utter. Pity them; pity them.

"Now look again, and see how the beast turns on its enslaved pawns. Watch as the great toad's hunger grows ever more ravenous; ever more rapacious. Look into the cold black beads of its eyes and see how it feeds on its sterile spawn. See how they shrink and shrivel under its relentless gaze. See how their festering forms dwindle to dust as their black, beatless hearts are consumed by its insatiable need to feed. Oh Pity them!

"Be not afraid, and be not drawn into that web of distrust and hatred. Turn your heart to pity, your words to comfort and your mind to the Light. Let it grow within you and with a whole heart, do whatever it moves you to do to brighten the way of those who, as you did but a moment ago, desperately despair. Pray, and work. Pray, and work and never, never allow your mind to return even for one moment to that dread darkness."

One by one the shadows crumbled to dust. A flaming torch appeared in the child's hand and before my eyes, she grew to adulthood—a towering figure radiating Hope; a flaming beacon signalling the way home. A golden path stretched out in Love that every refugee from the rocky shore of night might enter her sanctuary and partake of that gift of Liberty, at the merest glimpse of her Everlasting Light.

NOTE: If you have enjoyed this story you may also like Coincidence: a new article by Mel Cairn about a very strange phenomenon, published in August 2022.

Article © Mel Cairn. Introduction and Afterword © Copyright
All worldwide rights reserved. Published 26 February 2017. Updated 14 August 2022.

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