Wednesday, December 28, 2005

The End is Near

Snipped off the AP:

J.K. Rowling expects to have a busy 2006, "the year when I write the final book in the Harry Potter series."

"I contemplate the task with mingled feelings of excitement and dread, because I can't wait to get started, to tell the final part of the story and, at last, to answer all the questions (Will I ever answer all of the questions? Let's aim for most of the questions); and yet it will all be over at last and I can't quite imagine life without Harry," the British author wrote in a recent posting on her Web site.

The sixth installment of Rowling's fantasy series, "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince," came out last summer. It has sold more than 10 million copies in the United States alone.

Total worldwide sales of the Harry Potter books top 300 million.

On her Web site, Rowling said she had been "fine-tuning the fine-tuned plan of seven during the past few weeks." She noted that "reading through the plan is like contemplating the map of an unknown country in which I will soon find myself."

Rowling expects to start on the final book, not yet titled, next month.

I'm in the same boat as Jo on this one... excited to see the story's finale, but saddened that we won't be anticipating more Potter-mania. I hope against hope that she might pick up the tale a few years down the road and give us another glimpse into Hogwarts... ~ Bob

It's Contest Time!!!

I'd like to know how many of you actually read Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets...

What better way to find out than to run a contest...

Answer these three questions correctly and email them and your snail mail address to caliburn@comteck.com...

the winner will recieve this: http://www.cafepress.com/autumn_moon.41233240 , signed by yours truly, plus an Autumn Moon refrigerator magnet (http://www.cafepress.com/autumn_moon.38749667), an autographed Cairnwood Manor postcard (http://www.cafepress.com/cairnwood.22342393), and a grab bag of new release paranormal romances...

1. Where did Autumn live before being sent to her Aunt's house in Somerset?

2. What type of rock was Cassie skipping across the surface of the Mississinewa River?

3. Which of the teenagers that braved Cairnwood Cemetery were never seen again?

Answer correctly and your name will go into my Harry Potter sorting hat and my lovely wife will draw out the name of the contest winner....

Let's set a deadline of January 9, 2006 for all entrants.

Good Luck.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

ENDGAME

This has been a great honor for me. Autumn Moon stretched my creative muscles and I owe her a huge debt. I've grown to love her world, the world of Cairnwood Manor and its preternatural inhabitants. But more than that, I have become enamored with Autumn's voice. I was surprised to find it inside me and as I type these words I hear it speaking to me even more. This is not the end of Autumn Moon... this is but the beginning.

I hope you enjoyed this little tale because I enjoyed the hell out of writing it.

I wish you a merry Mother's Night and a joyous Yule...

And now... without further ado...



Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets

Chapter Six

“All Hallows”

We met just before midnight on All Hallow’s Eve with a large autumn moon obscured by heavy clouds. We parked our bikes in the darkened bough and slid through the ancient iron fence that protected Cairnwood Cemetery. It was a chilly night and we were all underdressed. Fashion over common sense has always been the way of youth. We made our way through the maze of headstones and crypts, Sean and Greg leading us through the dark with a cheap discount store lantern.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Cassie whispered.

“You can’t believe it? You’re kidding me, right?” I growled. I was on the verge of a teenage meltdown. The book of spells was tucked uncomfortably under my arm. It was a large, leather bound behemoth and thick with yellowed vellum and seemingly weighed a quarter ton. I was only marginally thankful when the boys came to a stop before a large circular scar in the cemetery lawn.

“Here it is, the spot where White Feather was put to the torch,” Sean said with glee. “The grass won’t grow here. No tree will take root. No weed would consider it home. Moles burrow around it. And the worms stay far away. This is where White Feather was put to death by the very tribe he served as Medicine Man and he cursed this spot and he cursed the Miami and tonight we’re going to call him forth and he’ll do our bidding.”

“All right girls,” Vickie said turning toward us. Her breath stank of trick-or-treat candy. “It’s show time. Let’s see this spell you’ve got hidden under your arm there.”

I was a fool. I guess deep down I wanted to belong as much as Cassie did. It was why she gave up the secret of our little book, and it was why I stepped forward into the center of the circle and opened it. It was why most kids do what they do. They want to belong.

“Can I have the Shaman’s ashes, please?”

“Yes you can, “ Sean said bringing the totem bag to me.

“Dump the ashes on the ground then everyone form a circle around me, holding hands.”

Sean did as I asked and then joined the others. They encircled me, hovering on the border of the scarred earth. Sean, Vickie, Cassie, Nancy, Greg, and Angela locked hands and gazed at me with wide eyes, anticipating goddess knows what. I turned the pages of the book until they fell on the proper spell. Overhead the clouds parted and the magic words were illuminated by moonlight.

“By my Will alone I erect a tower
Of defense charged by the ancient powers
Of Earth and Fire, Water and Air
And of the Spirits that dance bare
Beneath moonlight in the silent places
Here kindled by what time replaces.

Across the threshold of life and death
I call forth that which takes no breath
But Life anew is granted to it
Turn to before when Death withdrew it.

Remove the touch of Death’s dark gift
Pull back the soul that was cast adrift
Return it to its flesh and bone
Let the severed skein be sewn.”

I remember quite vividly the tickle of power as it coursed from the book and into my hands. I trembled with the power and fell to my knees, dropping the book to the ground. As my hands and the dirt met a jolt of esoteric energy snapped, the air smelt of burnt hair, and a wave of ghostlight expanded from our circle, racing across the ground until it was out of sight.

What I didn’t know was that Sean Duncan was full of shit. He’d not dumped the ashes of White Feather upon the earth. He’d dumped ashes from his father’s wood-burning stove. He had made the story up. Sean was looking for kicks and he got kicks in spades. Let this be a lesson in why magick is not a game and not to be played at.

The spell was cast and directed, but the ashes were bogus, so the spell sought to make a connection, to become whole and complete and since we were standing in the middle of a boneyard, well I’ll give you two guesses as to what happened next.

The first thing we noticed was the sound. It was horrid. The night became filled with a sickening sucking sound as the moist earth began to give up its dead. They crawled out of the ground on their hands and knees, lumbering to stand upright. The dead were such no more. The foul smelling corpses had become animate and rose from their eternal slumber and shambled toward us. We gathered close, terrified and glued to one another. There was quite a bit of screaming, not all of it my own.

The first of the undead to reach us was just under six feet and more skeleton than flesh and blood. It had been aground for quite some time. It reached out and grabbed Sean and drew him in despite the redhead’s best efforts to beat it away. Its skull descended and bit into the boy’s shoulder and warm blood sprayed across our faces. Nancy fainted and hit the ground hard. Angela ran wild into the night and was never seen from again. Greg was tugging at the skeleton that had latched onto his friend but was getting nowhere fast. My thoughts were simple. We were all as good as dead. There were more than a dozen of these creatures coming toward us from all sides and we were but children in the midst of preternatural horrors that were not some bedtime fright story. This was real and immediate.

I felt a cold, wet hand clamp hold of my wrist. Cassie screamed as a fresh corpse spun me about. I couldn’t find my voice to scream. I was frozen and my eyes were locked on the inhuman thing that had grabbed me. It pulled me closer and fear kept me from resisting. I was two months shy of thirteen and sure that my life was over.

Suddenly a blur of gray and black struck hard into my undead assailant and I was thrust back into the arms of my youthful companions We watched in amazement as a young wolf tore at the head of the fresh corpse, cracking its skull open and spilling its gray matter onto the Cairnwood lawn. The wolf then turned toward Sean and the skeletal attacker.

Sean screamed as the creature was pulled from him, taking a huge chunk of flesh with it. The wolf had the skeleton on the ground, pulling its leg from the rest of its body.

“What the hell do we do now? They’re still coming!” Greg was livid and near spastic. “Rin Tin Tin can’t stop them all. Oh God! Please! Somebody help us!”

“Autumn.”

The voice was calm and ethereal, floating across the lawn like a dream. It is as real to me today as it was unreal to me then.

“Autumn, Sebastian can keep them at bay for but a little longer and I will only be able to control myself for an even shorter time than that.”

It was my mother.

Dirt covered and bloodless, her white gown and hair in disarray, there was still a beauty and majesty to her presence. It was my mother and she was alive. All the pain. All the loss. It all came flooding back in a wave of guilt and shame.

“Mommy?” I felt Cassie’s grip tighten on my arm.

“Send us back, daughter. Back into the ground.”

“Mommy, please…I don’t want you to go.”

My heart was breaking all over again.

“My precious child, I’ve never left you. Not once,” she said. “Now, pick up the book and recite the ancient words in reverse. Send us back to the earth before it’s too late.”

I picked up the book of spells and did as my mother commanded. I undid what I had done and the fiendish undead staggered back to their places of rest. All of them but my mother. She fought the spell for as long as she could for there was work left to do.

She bade me cast another spell. A spell of forgetfulness. None of my newfound friends would remember what transpired this night. At school come Monday there would be no bond for having endured and survived a horrible adventure. I would not become a part of their circle. Poor Angela had disappeared into the night and after months of searching by authorities she was presumed kidnapped or worse. Sean’s shoulder wound was said to be from a dog attack and for a time people were forced to keep a tight leash on their animals. Only Cassie and I would remember what happened that terrible night. Only we two would be forced to live the lie. It would shape our lives and lead us down paths I had imagined were but fairy tales and myth. Such is the world of magick.

One thing that did come from that night was being able to have closure with my mother. I got to tell her one last time that I loved her and I got to hear the words roll off her undead lips that she loved me too. But her last words to me, as I followed her to her grave, stayed with me for years to come. “Beware where your heart may lead you, for the magic of the tongue is the most dangerous of all spells.”

As I turned away from her I came upon Sebastian and my Aunt Astrid standing together in the moonlight. He had Aunt Astrid’s shawl wrapped around his waist, though I’m sure it was more for my benefit than his.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Keep my secret safe, Autumn and I will keep yours.”

“I will,” I said, choking back the tears. “And Sebastian… thank you.”

He smiled and raced off into the night. I loved him then and, in a way, I still do.

Aunt Astrid took the Book of Secrets from me and the key from around my neck, but as she kissed me on the forehead and led us back toward Severe House she said, “All things must pass. Tonight was a night for lessons learned. Tomorrow your true education begins.”

And I was a very good student.


FIN

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

This week's installment of Autumn Moon...

Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets
by Bob Freeman

Chapter Five

“Oak Hill”

The Oak Hill Cafeteria was a vast feeding ground filled with the din of chaotic teen angst and the clatter of lunch trays and silverware on the grey glace laminate tables that stretched out in their even little rows. I never served in the armed forces or spent any time behind bars, but I was sure that this cafeteria was little different from the mess halls that catered to such folk. Cassie and I waded through the throng of middle schoolers to semi-join a group of students who, if they weren’t careful, would end up in the later group of adult cafeteria dwellers. Sitting in a tight group, near the lunchroom stage and furthest from the kitchen, these were kids with more than schoolwork on their minds.

Sean Duncan was the ringleader and eager to set things in motion. Around him were gathered his closest friends. Angela Conley was a cute brunette, a bit on the skinny side, but with a razor sharp mind and a love for the theatre. Her boyfriend, Greg Stevens, was a math wiz and band nerd who seemed to be born a bit shell shocked and quiet. Nancy Wilson was the real odd ball in this group. A straight A student, vice president of the junior high class, and a runner up at the State Speech Team finals, Nancy had a secret crush on the Stevens boy and tended to hang out as near him as possible.

Cassie and I were not part of the in-crowd and were not even able to crack the peer group walls of this collection of misfits, but they were the closest we could come to calling friends and so we sat near to them at lunch, though rarely spoke or were spoken to.

“The circle is now complete,” Sean grinned.

“Yes, oh wise one,” Angela and Nancy chimed in. They giggled and then caught themselves, almost embarrassed.

“Quit clownin’,” Greg said, re-crossing his legs and picking up his dog-eared copy of Kerouac’s On the Road. He flipped the pages making a rhythmic sound. “We’re here, so what’s the big mystery? What are you cookin’ up for Halloween this year?”

Sean reached to the floor and produced his button covered backpack. With a wide grin the redheaded teen reached within and produced a small leather bound sack that looked as if it were plucked from a fire.

“Ta-da!” Duncan proclaimed with fanfare.

“What is this?” Angela cooed, sliding closer to him and reaching for the bag.

Sean slapped her across the hand and barked, “Hands off, bitch,” he laughed. “This is the real deal, kids. These are the ashes of White Feather, last of the great medicine men of the Miami Indians.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” Greg leaned forward, pulling his girl away from Duncan.

“He’s talking about conjuring up an Indian Spirit, dimwit. If you ever pulled your head out of those text books you’d probably have half a clue as to what’s going on around you, nerd boy.”

Everyone’s head turned toward the stage and the voice that spoke. Vickie Rybolt dressed in black, wore black make-up, dyed her blonde hair black, and did her best to think black thoughts. In another decade or so they’d have a name for the angst-ridden teen… Goth. In the early sixties, however, as the free love hippy movement was beginning to flower on the west coast, most just considered her “troubled”. And she was. Just not in the ways that people assumed.

“Jesus, Vickie…”Angela snorted, “hows ‘bout a little warning before you creep up on someone.”

“That defeats the purpose of creeping, loser.”

“So why don’t you just beat it, weirdo. No one invited you and this certainly doesn’t concern you.” Nancy Wilson was on her feet. She didn’t like Victoria. She hadn’t for a long time, going all the way back to grade school and the two girls rolling around on the playground pulling each others hair. Cassie said the fight happened after Vickie’s mother had very publicly announced she had been having an affair with Nancy’s father. It shattered both families and, in the small community of Converse, was quickly the talk of the town. Nancy had called Vickie’s mother a whore and a home wrecker. Vickie had responded with a right cross. The two girls considered the other their mortal enemy.

“Chill out, Nance,” Greg said as he stepped down from the table top and placed his hand on Nancy’s shoulder. “What’s your interest in this, Vickie?”

“Well, lover boy, if you must know…” Victoria hopped off of the stage and slunk over to the skinny boy, “my grandma was a Miami Indian. If you’re going to be playing around at conjuring up one of my ancestors then you’re going to have me tagging along…not that it’ll work. It’s going to take more than a shaman’s ashes to wake the dead. You’re going to need some type of spell or powerful mojo to pull that off.”

“”I know where we can get a spell.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. We never spoke to these guys. We just hovered about. And we certainly didn’t talk about what I feared Cassie was going to talk about.

“Cassie,” I fired off giving her the look of death.

“Wehaveabookwithspellsandmagicandstuffandoneofthespellscan…” she took a deep breath, “raise the dead,” she spewed as quick as she could.

“Cassie!” I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t believe it.

“Well, well, well… what have we here? A couple of pint-sized Samanthas? If it were coming from anyone else I’d call them liars, but everybody knows that the Severes are knee-deep in black magic,” Vickie cooed, slinking over to where we sat.

“That’s not true,” I said. It was little more than a whisper.

“Oh, it’s true all right,” Vickie smiled, “and you little witches are going to help us conjure up a spirit on Halloween night.”

I stared at the floor, with my heart firmly stuck in my throat, and tried desperately to disappear.

It didn’t work.


There you have it... only one chapter remains... join me next week for the thrilling conclusion to Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets when I post "Chapter Six: All Hallows"

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Well, she has a key...what will she do with it?

Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets
by Bob Freeman

Chapter Four

“Aunt Astrid’s Attic”

There were few things in this world worse than the knot of fear that grips your stomach. That’s the way I should have felt that day in Aunt Astrid’s attic, but I was too young to realize what I was getting myself into. The hard lesson was still months away and to this day I can still feel its sting. Life is a string of mistakes and failures that infuse in us a sense of right and wrong. If only the fates could be less cruel when delivering its lessons.

“Don’t I look fabulous?” Cassie had asked, twirling clumsily in the center of the dusty old attic. She had dressed herself in oversized heels, a wide-brimmed hat trimmed in lace, and a mink stole, all carefully culled from an old paper grocery sack. I wasn’t overly amused. As much as I loved Cassie’s company, she seemed somewhat younger than her years and often came across as a pint-sized Pollyanna.

“Quit goofing around and give me a hand,” was my retort. I was elbows deep into a thick menagerie of ancient cobwebs and struggling to pull an old steamer trunk into the light. It was large enough for Cassie and I to both lie within and have plenty of head room. I was convinced some great treasure was bound to lie inside. I could almost hear it whispering to me, beckoning for me to free its contents from their inanimate slumber.

“No way, Autumn,” she stammered, “that’s gross.” I could smell the fear on her as surely as I could smell the reek of mothballs that clung to her makeshift wardrobe.

“Don’t be such a sissy,” was the best response I could muster.

“But what if there are spiders?” she squealed. Ah, the truth revealed. Yet another phobia that plagued the princess of hypochondria. Even at such a young age I was skilled in the ways of psychology.

“Fine,” I said smugly, “then you play dress up and leave whatever goodies there are in this trunk to me.”

“What kind of goodies?” she asked, taking the bait.

“I guess you’ll never know, now will you?” I said with as straight a face as I could muster as her head dropped in resignation.

“Oh, all right,” she said, kicking off her high heels. She came to my side and the two of us pulled with al our might, dragging the behemoth into the center of the room so that it could catch the maximum amount of sunlight that was streaming in from the window overhead.

I popped the latches and with Cassie’s help we struggled to lift the heavy lid that barred us from the mysterious treasures that lie within. We strained and struggled, grunted and cursed, and then at last the top gave way and we fell forward, tumbling into one another, striking our heads together in the process.

If I remember correctly our response, in unison, was a resounding, “Ow!” We sat dumbfounded and giggling half-heatedly while rubbing our respective foreheads. We would both wear knots there for a week, but, being young and adventurous, we dusted ourselves off and set ourselves to the task at hand.

I rose slowly from the ground and peered into the gaping maw of the steamer trunk noticing that the trunk was “on it’s back and the reason the “lid” was so heavy was that it was filled with drawers. It was my introduction to this wondrous form of luggage. It was like a compact wardrobe or chest of drawers. With Cassie’s help we righted the massive impedimenta. Sometimes in the early morning hours and I feel that little twinge in the small of my back, I swear it’s because of that damnable trunk.

Properly aligned, the steamer trunk was a beauty. It towered over the both of us as we had yet to reach five feet in height. On the right were a series of six drawers, with a rich paisley like pattern covering it from head to foot. The drawer knobs were lion heads with wings spreading out from behind. I was sure then, and know now, that they were solid gold.

The left side of the trunk housed a metal rod that allowed clothes to be hung. It caught my attention first and foremost because of the beautiful piece of fabric that hung there. It was silky smooth, like velvet and seemed to be black and purple at the same time, sort of like the fur of a cat might look when it’s wet and the sun hits it just right.

“What is it?” Cassie asked. She reached out to touch the fabric and a smile carved itself into her pretty little head. “Ew,” she giggled, “it tickles.”

And she was right. The fabric was charged with what I would have then called a type of static electricity, but now know to be more esoteric, for it reverberated with magical residue. I pulled it from the confines of the trunk and allowed it to unfurl. There was no mistaking its purpose.

“It’s a cape,” I said.

And it was beautiful. A silver broach marked by an arcane symbol pulled the cape together at the neck allowing a matching hood to fall away. The inner fabric was a matte black while the outer material with the oily sheen heralded its true majesty.

“A cape,” Cassie mused, “you mean like Superman?”

“No silly,” I said in awe of the piece, sweeping it up and overhead and allowing it to settle over my pre-teen body. My whole body coursed with the residual energy that was entwined in it. “It’s more like something for Halloween, I think. Like something a witch might wear.”

“Oh boy, maybe there’s some face paint inside.”

“Maybe,” I said, not at all interested in finding face paint, but to search the trunk more thoroughly was definitely on my agenda. “Let’s have a look.”

The trunk unlocked many more secrets and would lead to paths both dark and cold. Little did I realize, once I opened up the first of the drawers and removed the item inside the wonders that would be revealed… and the terrors that would seek to possess us all. Cassie and I would meet in secret many times over the course of the next two weeks, studying the various artifacts within. It all seemed rather innocent and harmless until the start of school and the slip of a tongue… well, not really a slip so much, I guess.

Monday, December 05, 2005

New Book on the Occult Tradition

The Occult Tradition by David S Katz
Jonathan Cape Press, £17.99

Dan Brown's sequel to The Da Vinci Code, it is rumoured, will be about a masonic conspiracy in Washington DC. It would certainly fit the pattern of his previous books. In Angels And Demons, his first thriller featuring code-breaking scholar Robert Langdon, a sinister secret society called the Illuminati figured prominently.


Then, in The Da Vinci Code, we had - among other things - the Knights Templar, who have long been a favourite topic with historical conspiracy theorists.

To see where the next book could be coming from, we only need to look at that funny picture on the back of every US dollar bill, showing a truncated pyramid with a disembodied eye floating above it. The American founding fathers' fondness for masonic symbolism has long been a source of puzzlement and speculation.

Walk into any bookshop and you will find a plentiful supply of books about Atlantis, pyramids, lost ancient wisdom and secret societies. Brown's ability to turn this esoteric pop culture into readable thrillers has made him a millionaire and spawned countless imitators. But where did it all come from? David Katz's fascinating book offers a few answers.

Right from the start, Katz - an Israeli professor of literature and history - makes his position clear. There are, he says, lots of "trashy" and "parasitic" books on this subject, and his is not one of them. Instead, his book "traces the growth and meandering path of the occult tradition over the past five hundred years and shows how the esoteric world view fits together".

That is a big ambition, and this is not a particularly big book. Moreover, the time period it has to cover is not really 500 years, but is instead more than 2,000. Yet although Katz's book is necessarily incomplete in what it can cover, it lives up to its goals remarkably well. Anyone wanting to understand the deep historical connections between the numerous strands of modern esoterica would do well to read it.

THE STORY BEGINS with Plato. The Greek philosopher believed our world to be a shadow of the true reality, so for Plato's later followers - the neo-Platonists and Gnostics of the early Christian period - wisdom was to be found by looking beneath the surface appearance of things. Truth was 'occult', meaning hidden, and it became the business of philosophers and alchemists to seek it by mystic means.

Katz fast-forwards to the Renaissance, when many people believed in the existence of a lost, ancient Egyptian book, the Corpus Hermeticum, offering the key to astrology, alchemy and magic. In 1463, a Balkan monk showed up in Florence with the fabled book, which he had found in a Byzantine archive. It turned out to be less spectacular - and a lot less old - than initially hoped, but this did nothing to shake the belief that the ancients knew far more about the secrets of the universe than later generations, and had left their wisdom in code.

Isaac Newton was a firm believer in this hidden code theory. As Katz explains, Newton thought that the lost Temple Of Solomon, described in the Bible, was a scale model of the universe, built by people who knew all about gravity and planetary orbits. Brown's next opus - whose title has been announced as The Solomon Key - will presumably regurgitate such information, as the hero tries to solve a mysterious murder.

Seventeenth and 18th-century interest in Hermeticism spawned numerous clubs and societies, some more secretive than others. Many people tried to join the Rosicrucians, but nobody could find out where they were. Even when the society's creator announced it was all a hoax, some reckoned he was lying so as to hide the sinister truth.

Freemasons claimed to be the modern heirs of the builders of Solomon's Temple, and the Knights Templar, and one of their early leaders in France was Andrew Ramsay, an exiled Jacobite whom Katz considers "a key figure in the development of esoteric lore". Ramsay gave Hermeticism a new twist by saying it all started not in Egypt, but in China.

The Order of Illuminati began as a student society in 1776 and was soon accused of infiltrating Masonic lodges. "By the time the French Revolution began in 1789," writes Katz, "not only was there a myth of conspiratorial secret societies, but a reality as well, as life imitated art."

The remainder of Katz's absorbing book illustrates this well. Through Swedenborgianism, spiritualism, Mormonism and other belief systems, he shows how people have continued to be inspired by the notion that life is fundamentally mystical, interconnected and inexplicable. Equally, certain people are attracted by organisations offering elaborate rituals, ancient tradition, and ascending levels of rank. Some find what they are looking for in the Boy Scouts, others need something a little edgier. Symbolism, sprinkled in art and architecture (or on dollar bills), adds to the sense of significance.

Katz is under no illusion about the fakes and charlatans who have used esoteric lore as a way of profiting from a credulous public, but what is fascinating about his study is the way it makes historical sense of patterns of belief which - whether you share them or not - have a certain coherence over time.

Thus, for example, the enigmatic Madame Blavatsky, founder of the Theosophical Society, made an "impressive attempt to synthesise... a single esoteric philosophy tinged with an aura of Indian wisdom". Blavatsky claimed to have seen a book of magic in a Himalayan monastery whose wisdom she relayed. Detractors soon identified the various modern books she had cribbed for her alleged mystical vision, but the Theosophical Society she founded became a respectable political movement in India, playing an important role in the independence movement. In the end it did not matter whether Blavatsky's ideas made sense.

Many would say much the same about Brown's novels. His secret masters of the world may be a myth, but imagining they exist can make for an enjoyable reading experience. Like Blavatsky, Brown can pick his themes from the mass of esoteric literature already extant, and his success has led to a renewed surge of the sort of "parasitic" book Katz despises.

The Occult Tradition is of a different order, demonstrating how ideas can lodge themselves in public consciousness and stay there for hundreds or even thousands of years, regardless of whether they ever had any basis in fact. The book's only flaw is that it is too short to cover such a vast field in adequate depth; but for people seeking a sane, authoritative and entertaining guide to the intriguing world of fringe beliefs, this is an excellent starting point.

Saturday, December 03, 2005

Karen Koehler speaks...

Karen Koehler, incarnate goddess of KHP Industries, has stepped down from her lofty perch and blessed us with her wisdom... for some insight into the realm of publishing, especially from the female perspective, you should read her latest report over at the Horror Channel:

http://www.horrorchannel.com/index.php?name=Sections&req=viewarticle&artid=251&page=1