Notes of the Rabbi

From the notes of Rabbi Israel Abuhaṣeira   26.7.1915

The shadows are whispering again.

They have followed me here, it seems. Even here. One would have thought this tiny monk’s cell would prove inhospitable to such creatures, but it is not so. I cannot make out the words, but I catch the rhythm of languages now lost to the living, accents that have not been heard for millennia. I know that if I turn around suddenly in an attempt to see who is speaking, I will nothing behind me. Nothing but shadows.

So it has been each time I have tried it. Whoever my tormentors are, they hide themselves well. They are watching me. I know not what witchery this is, there are no passages in the Talmud nor Mishna, none in the Koran nor any of the other holy texts from the mystics of the East. No words of wisdom to heed, only my own thoughts, my own sanity to hold near.

Before me lies a stack of parchment, now wrapped in oilcloth and bound for travel. My hand trembles as I draw the package close, knowing the value of what it contains. It seems to me the whispers grow louder as I do that, and agitated as well. Dread voices, brittle as old parchment, that murmer threats from the shadows. Will they follow me when I leave this place, and if so, will their presence be noted by others? Or is it only I who will hear them, only I who will feel the chill of their presence, only I who will look into the darkness surrounding and tremble at the thought of what ancient beings might be watching?

Enough. Enough. This is not the report of a scholar, not the words of a man of Faith, a man of God, but the ramblings of a madman. Have I become so unnerved in recent nights that I have forgotten my training? Forgive me reader, whomever you may be, and accept this record of my recent discovery. I have culled the most important notes from my journals here for your perusal. I have only the highest hope that you will be worthy of the knowledge I bequeath. Judge for yourself the value of what I have found, and its significance for future generations, for the Final Days, for the War to end all wars.

2.8.1915

Today I heard tales of a fragment from Aze’kah from the Valley of Elah near Shocoh, reportedly a small piece of something larger. Supposedly from the time of Revelations 16:21 along with a parchment so old that it dwarfs any text that scholars have thus catalogued by millennia. The rumor was told to me by an Assyrian practitioner of gematria who sat at my campsite one night which was located in the ruins of an ancient palace now buried by a thousand years’ rubble. There, where pagan kings once received the words of their gods, amidst the detritus of a fallen empire, I traded him news from distant lands for shadowy rumors of priceless antiquity. The fragment and parchment are said to be in a monastery, he said, far north, a secret place where the sun scarce invade. There it is guarded against inquiring eyes by those who can see into the depths of a mans heart, and only pilgrims whose motives are judged worthy will ever be permitted to see them. It was about then that he began to realize the value of a scholar who knew most of the ancient tongues, and it took all my diplomatic skill to delay him from action long enough for the sun to rise, making my escape possible. I took his tale as one takes all things from a strange wandering mystic, with a good bit of skepticism. Any information they part with is suspect, they can lie to get what they wish and gain something for nothing, so is the way of many in this area, especially in the crowded streets of Cairo, or so I have heard. Nevertheless, it seems to me that if there is even a particle of truth to his tale, I must get there before any hint of it reaches the ears of The Order of Solomon’s Temple, for surely they covet it for their own, to hide it or even worse, destroy it as apocryfa. So it is a foregone conclusion that I will head north on the morrow, along the traderoute once ruled by the Assyrians, and trust that my quest be justified and I deemed worthy if this place I find. One cannot let an opportunity like this go uninvestigated, the Pauperes Commilitones must not be the only ones to be gifted thusly. Their ways are old, perhaps as a scholar not only of God but of science as well, I may unlock truths unknown since before the time of the Deluge.

'Note: The Rabbi speaks of the apocalypse, with the mention of the chapter in Revelations, and also the final mention of the great flood (Deluge). He also warns us of Templars by mentioning them twice. --Patrick'

14.8.1915

Only three days in Tabriz, and already I have unearthed whispers of the same legend. A German theologist has told me tales of explorers who went in search of the fragment. Some, it seems, ascended into the northern mountains and simply never returned. Others came back from their journey confused, with no clear memories of their travels. He himself was not so sure that the fragment and parchment even exist, but he insists that only those true of faith or blood should go in search of it, for clearly the magic protecting such a relic would overwhelm anyone else. I was not sure of that, but I did not say so. It is not that I do not believe in magic from the Heavens, I have read many accounts of holy items that cannot be disputed. I have learned in my journeys that it is doubly dangerous to not only go blindly forth but to also let one’s faith alone guide you without actual facts. So far I had neither in abundance for this quest. I took my leave to find a place to rest, in the morning I will buy fresh supplies and head for the northern mountains. Sometimes a lone man can go places where a group cannot.

15.9.1915

This land is not as hospitable as it once was, the Ottoman Empire invaded Tabriz and stole it from the Russians in June, there is great strife here as well as the fact that they investigate anyone that seems foreign for fear of them being a spy. Especially at my age I was suspect, but as was the case at the Courtyard of St.Mary of Zion in Axum, Ethiopia I managed to negotiate supplies and passage after being held and interrogated for 7 days. Negotations that consisted mostly of several days of favours and labor done for the guard posted there. But the task proved to be a blessing in disguise. Buried amongst a pile of long-forgotten manuscripts that I found shoved away in a room of the library I found the notes of a scholar who had once sought the same as I, in a place called the Monastery of Blind Whispers. He spoke of a village in the mountains near Eynali mountains, where news of the monastery might be sought. And so I have taken his fragile notes with me, for I am sure the owner would rather they be in the hands of a scholar and preserved for all eternity than be burned as so much of the city was when the Russians retreated.

Tomorrow  I head North once more, the precious notes tucked into my pouch. Into the mountains themselves, steep and forbidding. I search for a path which the scribe calls “so narrow and winding that it is better suited to goats than to men”. Alas, the road to knowledge is never neatly paved. I managed to purchase some gear and supplies from the Ottomans that should be of use.

18.9.1915

I came upon the village today. It is little more than a gathering of huts. There is one greathouse made of wood and stone where one might buy coarse ale and escape the winds of the mountains for a short while. I was grateful for the shelter by the time I arrived and even grateful for the ale, bad as it was. But though I plied the locals with artful questions, I could not gain anymore information on the thing I sought, or any sign that they had ever heard of it.

Tired, disheartened, I paid what I was asked for the use of a rough pile of straw, and wondered if I had come all this way for nothing. I was exhausted, and fell asleep before the vermin in the damp straw even realized I was there. But sleep did not last long. Sometime after midnight I awoke suddenly, as a man does when his sleeping mind catches some hint of danger. Breath held, I lay silent in the darkness and tried to locate the cause of my sudden alertness. Could it be that these poor peasants had come to assault me? That would not be unheared of, though it hardly seemed worth the effot. I doubted that the few fragments of text I carried would have carried much meaning for them, and my coins were few enough. Yet, it was not a human stirring I slowly became aware of, but something far more metaphysical. A strange chill licked across my temples, as if some cold and bodiless thing had bent down to lick my flesh. Deep inside I felt an upwelling of terror, not rational in nature but wholly instinctive, such as a mouse is sure to feel when the shadow of a hawk’s wings suddenly sweep across it. Yet, unlike a mouse I did not run for shelter. Nor did I give voice to my fear and cry out for help, though my dread said that if I did not I would surely perish. What right did I have to seek out the wisdom of the ancients if the very scent of mystery so unmanned me? So I waited, trembling, silent in the darkness, wishing I knew what the name of the presence that was in the room, yet fearing to discover its nature.

The chill passed across me once more and I could feel my hackles rise, yet I forced myself to be utterly still. If I strained my senses to the utmost it seemed I could almost see the moonlight coagulating in the darkness of the shadows in the corner, and it was from this faintly silverish form that this coldness seemed to emulate. “Who are you?” I whispered at last. “What are you?” It did not see fit to answer, but it seemed to come closer to me and a tendril of moonlight passed so close to my face that I could feel it. Something fluttered down by my face, brushing against my chin like the wings of a moth before coming to rest onmy chest. And then…the presence was gone. As suddenly as it had come in the first place, as completely as it had never existed. I lay frozen for what seemed like an eternity, as my pounding heart sought its normal rhythm again. Finally I reached up with a trembling hand to see what it was that lay upon my chest. I half expected it to take flight as I touched it, but it did not, and as my fingers closed around it I realized it was nothing more than a piece of folded paper. The touch of such a mundane thing brought me back to myself, and I sat up in my straw bed and fumbled for the flint. It took me time to strike a light, for my hands were still shaking from all the adrenalin, but once I did so I lit the lamp and held the paper close to the glow, so that I may study it. It was a map. Crudely drawn, and not well-labeled, but after I looked at it for a time I came to realize the Pass and even the tiny village where I now took shelter. And north of that…there was a twisting road marked in faded brown ink, with turns and landmarks indicated, and beyond that a single phrase, in markings so ancient that none in this village would be able to read them. Few in the world could read them, in fact, save those scholars who specialize in ancient tongues.

It was scribed in that language which is known as Enochian, the language of Heaven. The first language spoken by men, taught by the Children of God, the elohim. On the note it just read Monastery of Blind Whispers. My path is chosen.

22.9.1915

It took me four days to reach that place called the Monastery of Blind Whispers. As soon as I saw it, I knew why that name had been chosen. Of course it could be called nothing else.

The monastery is set deep within the narrow valley, flanked by granite cliffs so high and steep that even a goat would have trouble descending them safely. For a brief time at midday its fields garner sunlight, but mere hours afterwards they are cast into shadow, and night falls so quickly after that, one could hardly descend the distance to its gates without stumbling through utter darkness. The wind blows constantly through the rocky formations causing a sound like thousands of whispers, sometimes they even sound eerily like words.

How fitting, I thought, as I tucked my hands beneath my cloak for warmth, studying the place from above. I wondered what manner of creature made its haven in such a dwelling…for it seemed beyond doubt that the monastary would be home to those which do not suffer from darkness, if it had not been erected by them in the first place, so strange were the curves of the structure built straight into the rock.

It took me a better part of a day to descend the treacherous path safely. I was met at the gate of course. It would normally be impossible to approach during the day without being noticed, and so there was a monk there to greet me. To my surprise the man was blind and I wondered who had sent him to greet me, it must have been someone sighted so they had seen me, the whispers would’ve drowned out any sounds I made during my descent. He nodded in silence as I gave my name, and did not seem surprised when I asked for shelter. Of course I would ask for shelter. Where else was there for a traveller to go in this desolate region? I walked beside him, passed other silent blind monks who glided about their business in the cold stone halls without sparing us any notion. It was impossible to tell from their faces if they had been intentionally blinded by some means or if they had otherwise either been born blind or went blind naturally, the primitive stone lamps were not lit as they wrote in silence. I thought to myself that I would not be surprised to find any seeing members of the monastary here at all, so engulfed in darkness the place was, the only illumination coming from my own oil lamp. I also wondered where they got their food, this far from civilization. Tomorrow I decided I would attempt to meet the abbot and receive permission to view their library.

23.9.1915

Breafast was meat, served directly after the Lauds service ended. Apparently it is easier to herd the beasts that feed on scraggly mountains growths than to try to raise crops in the shadows. Of course it did not escape my notice that such a diet serves well to replenish man, especially men whom judging by their complexion did not venture into sunlight very often. Some of the elder members had skin nearly as white as their hair.

After breakfast I was taken to see the abbot. He was a most gracious man, and clearly he was pleased to have a travelling scholar as a guest. I did not have the impression from him that he knew of the map I had been given, or that he had in any way anticipated my arrival. So if the person or creature that gave me the map had not been in the service of the abbot, then whom? Someone knew, perhaps the abbot had someone above him? Finally I decided to take a chance and asked him “Who is monachus here?” Testing the waters as they say.

“We are all monachi,” he replied with a soft whisper so mellifluous that it betrayed his age. Of course, it was true. The title used for the monks of the meditteranean lords of monasteries means only “monk”, in a literal sense. Yet I knew that by my question I had made my enlightenment known, and whether the abbot understood it or not, he was the tool by which I had rendered proper greeting to all members of the monastery, present or not.

The abbot took me to the library himself, and despite his attempt to maintain an air of humility, his pride in the collection was obvious. As well it should be, for here in this place was a library that Alexandria would have envied. For a few moments I just looked about, gazing upon the stacks and racks of books, scrolls and even incised tablets, drinking in the sheer wealth of knowledge surrounding me. Then I remembered why I had come, and it sobered me considerably. In truth, while so vast a library might be a pleasure to visit under other circumstances, it was a daunting sight indeed when one sought but a single tome. The selfsame tome that the Pauperes Commilitones had stolen before the roman emperor Aurelian burned the library of Alexandria some time around 270 Anno Domini.

I did not ask for it directly of course, but I had displayed  such appreciation for the collection that in time the librarian was pleased to serve me, and he showed me where the most ancient materials were kept. Fragments of manuscripts so fragile that the slightest breeze might damage them, clay tablets inscribed in long-forgotten symbols…he watched me for a while to make sure I knew how to handle such things without damaging them, then left me to my research. God in Heaven, if only I could transport this entire collection back home! But despite the many hours I spent there before nightfall shut down the monastery, I could find no sign of my objective, nor any clue of where to look for it. Ah, well, had I truly expected better? The most precious gems are not left lying around in plain sight, are they? This search will take time, and above all else persistence.

24.9.1915

Another whole day of searching. I have found treasures beyond price here, drawings of Babylon and of the statue of Nebuchadnezzar, even drawings of how they managed to make the pyramids, fascinating technique! So simple and yet ingenious, I would never have thought of it myself! So many things, yet not the one thing I seek.

25.9.1915

I have rummaged through all the ancient fragments, texts which detail the early years of our Lord Christ, a time which the Bibles have omitted entirely, and I can now understand why. The deeds of the son of God at that point in his life would not go down well in the eyes of Christians worldwide nor would they suit the picture the Vatican has chosen to portray. I am now searching through the more prosaic volumes. There is a chance of course that the Book is not kept in the library at all, but how can I proceed without knowing for sure? At least the collection is well-ordered. There are a few shelves I can skip over entirely, for they are unlikely to shelter my quarry.

26.9.1915

I dared drop a hint today of my true purpose, to see if it would spark any sign of recognition in the librarian’s expression. It did not seem to. Tomorrow I shall do likewise with the other archivists, and see if any take the bait.

27.9.1915

None of them have any knowledge of the Book, I am sure of it. Meanwhile, another night has proven unproductive. I may have to follow the abbot’s movements and see if he goes into any secluded areas of the monastery, and that is a course fraught with peril for if I am caught I would surely be thrown out without hope of ever returning. Denied the explorations that stir my blood, that pull at my very soul, I would surely die in that place. There is only so much you can seek in a single library, no matter how well appointed. I pray I do not end up trapped here.

28.9.1915

God in Heaven! I have found it. Or perhaps, more accurately…more chillingly…it has found me. I can scarcely write, my hand is shaking so badly. Never in all my years have I seen such a thing, or even dreamed it existed! To have touched it, to know it real through all of one’s senses…Slowly. Slowly. Record it properly. Begin at the beginning. I decided to visit the library late at night, when the monks were all asleep. For I had determined by now that the item I sought was not on any shelf, where the lowliest monk might stumble across it, but instead must be tucked away in secret somewhere. The most logical place was in the darker corners of the library itself, and by dark I mean the near inaccessible corners, for there was naught here but darkness surrounding my singular light source. After that, well, I did not relish the thought of searching the abbot’s room without permission, but if that was required to find the Book, so be it. I had not come this far to give up now.

The plan was not as simple as it seemed. Unlike normal monks, who retire with the sun, the denizens of this place were accustomed to working in near darkness, and so they were free to keep to a later schedule. Hourly I stole down to see if the library was yet deserted, but it was nearly ten o’clock before I was satisfied. The monastery was silent by then, save for the sighing of the night wind, whispering down the long open halls, and occasionally the distant squawk of a triumphant owl. All was perfect for my explorations. <- note the mention of an owl --Patrick

Silently I slipped inside the vast chamber, shutting the heavy door behind me so that the light of my candle would not be noticed, then I realized how silly that notion was, yet closing the door gave me some comfort. The one flame was all I needed, my eyesight had become accustomed to the darkness in this short time. I began to search. I emptied first one shelf, then another; feeling behind them for secret switches, measuring the walls that divided them from one another, tapping the stone walls softly to search for hollow spaces beyond. It was an immense task but I am a patient creature, and I know that given enough nights I could account for every nook and cranny of the place. God willing, that which I sought would be hidden here somewhere.

Midnight passed, then another hour. My muscles began to ache from the unaccustomed strain of squeezing into various tight spaces, and I could not afford to waste precious time or candles on taking breaks, so I let them ache. Finally, with a sigh, I set my candle on one of the heavy oaken tables in the center of the room, one surrounded by wooden chairs, and allowed myself to relax. What had seemed like good progress as I worked had in fact gained me little, and I saw that it would be many nights before I had even half of the library accounted for. I was very glad that the food here contained enough protein so that I do not lose strength, though I crave bread or vegetables. There is nothing more frustrating than to have to leave a job unfinished to go rest. I turned back to the candle again after a while meaning to take it up again and assault another new section of shelving. But I stopped and my hand froze in mid-air, and for a moment I could barely think clearly, so focused was I upon that one point of flame. For as I watched it flickered wildly, then bent to one side, as though a breeze of some sort were playing across it.

Here?

I looked about the room. No windows anywhere that could be seen, and the door was tightly shut. Even if an errant breeze had managed to squeeze across the threshold, it could not be responsible for this, for the flame pointed in another direction entirely. I picked up the candle, slowly, carefully, and used it as a compass to trace the course of that errant stream. Doing so brought me to a narrow alcove whose several shelves supported stacks of scrolls. Trembling with excitement I put the candle down on the nearest table, and then began to empty those shelves. As I did so I could feel a chill breeze on my face, and I knew for certain there was some hidden opening behind the rolled parchments. Yet I was careful with them, both in removing them and in setting them aside, for it would be a crime to damage such precious artifacts, even in search of something greater.

At last they were all transferred to the table, leaving bare shelves before me. I brought the candle close…and by its light I could just barely make out a crack in the wall behind, from which the breeze seemed to be issuing. My heart began to race as I tested one of the shelves, and yes, it came loose easily, sliding forth from its moorings. So did the others. It was not long before I was able to squeeze myself into the alcove and test the back wall with my fingers. Sliding them into that narrow crack, then, pulling at the heavy wood as best I could – to no avail – and finally pushing at it. And it moved, as a door will move, and swung open before me. A gust of chill air greeted my face, damp and clean and tasting of mystery. I brought the candle forwardand its light illuminated a space that had clearly begun as a natural cavern, though score marks on the walls showed that it had been smoothed and perhaps expanded for human use ages ago. On the far side I saw several horizontal crevices, fringed with stalactites like teeth. It was from there, no doubt, that the breeze was issuing. But the observations could not hold my attentio long, for in the center of the room there was a table hewn of gray stone, and set upon that was a great leather-bound book. I felt my heart skip a beat as I gazed upon it, and for a moment it seemed I could not breathe. Then I forced myself to step forward, one step and then two, until finally with an outstretched trembling hand I reached out and touched its cover. And yes, the leather was what it appeared to be. I have held enough volumes bound in human skin to know the feel of it beneath my fingers. Cold air brushed against the base of my neck, this time not from any natural wind. I whirled about, but saw no-one behind me. Yet the feeling of being watched persisted, and I felt my hackles rise as I turned back to the book and slowly, carefully, opened it. It was not a book proper; but a folder of sorts, with soft pages of translucent skin meant to separate the papers stored inside it. I turned the first one aside to see what had been places there and found a simple manuscript, written in a dialect of Chaldean more ancient that any I had seen before. About the main text were notes of some kind, each written in another ancient script. I counted five languages in all, the most modern of which was a Latin used circa six hundred years before Christ.

And then I began to read what lay before me, and the rest of the world ceased to exist.

How can I describe that moment, when I first came to understand the magnitude of what lay before me? Was it the opening verse which made it clear; with its simple statement of narrative intent? '''This is the tale of the time before the Deluge, of the Nephilim and the Benei Ha’Elõhïm, written of in Genesis, of the Bowls of Wrath in Revelations where huge hailstones fell from the sky crushing mortal man underneath as angels fought through Heaven and earth. Or was it the notes on the Light Bringer, Most Unclean, The Morning Star, Lucifer and how his thousand year imprisonment had been changed to last tenfold, supposedly to end around the coming of the second millenium God forbid.''' Notes which surrounded the text, penned by scholars that had come here before me, Moses Maimonides, the mage Abramelin, Zoroaster, Hermes Trismegistus. Or was it that first line of text, hinting at the manuscript’s true author, the first stunning suggestion that this well preserved fragment might have been penned by the prophet Moses from Goshen, he who parted the Red Sea by the grace of God.

I found a corner where the rock formations would allow me to sit, and I brought the volume over to it and began to read. My hands trembled as I touched the pages of something so very priceless. Here was a whole chapter telling of the exploits of Noah and his Ark, complete. Verse after verse in ordered precision, nothing missing, nothing damaged, nothing illegible. True, I had sought such a thing coming here, but deep in my heart I’d thought the legend of this Book had probably been inspired by no more than a few incomplete pages of apocryphi. This is a treasure!

I studied it for hours. I ran my hands over the fragile pages again and again, as if they were some dream of phantasm that might disappear if I ceased to touch them. And I read. My God, I read! The story of Eden told as by one who had been there, of Adam’s original wife Lilith, not Eve, not as a simple tale, but with all the depth of recounting one might expect from a witness. And all about these words were the scribblings of those who had come before me, sometimes authoritative in tone, sometimes so casual that they seemed almost an affront to the majesty of the text. Who else but a prophet or scholar would dare write thus, would dare to set his own pen upon such a sacred document? I had a passing fancy of adding my own notes, but banished that quickly. Such arrogance on my part would surely not be tolerated.

I heard the bell ring in the distance for Lauds, signalling the rising of the sun and the start of the day’s activities. For a moment I shut my eyes and trembled, unwilling to tear myself away from the Book. At last, hands shaking, I forced myself to close it, and put it back in the position it had been before. The chamber did not look like it had seen a visitor in much time, but I could not afford to take chances. With one last glance behind me to savor the wonder of the place, I squeezed back out through the alcove and quickly restored the shelves and scrolls to their original positions. The candles flame was steady when I was done, for I had closed the door completely. Just to think, if someone else had not failed to do so, I might still be searching the outer chamber in vain…

There. That is all of it, the whole story. I cannot eat or sleep now, only stare at the wall opposite me in a haze of wonder, waiting for the daylight hours to pass. Only the night matters now. Only the night…and the Book.

'Note: Lilith is mentioned here again. The parts of the Bible the Rabbi mentions are from Genesis, including the Great Flood. Curious is the "alternative" story of Eden and also again the mention of the apocalypse as told in the Revelations, which is in the New Testament - seems like the Rabbi paid equal attention to that unlike most of his brethren. --Patrick'

29.9.1915

I returned again just before midnight to find the library vacant, and this time it was a work of perhaps twenty minutes to to clear the way to the hidden chamber. It was exactly as I had left it, and I breathed a sigh of relief to see it thus. In nightmarish fantasies I had imagined the master of the monastery discovering my trespass and locking the precious Book away, so that I might never see it again. But no, it was still there, just as I had left it. And this time I had come prepared to deal with it. Preparation is always of paramount importance, I had no wish to make the same mistakes I had while in Vienna a few years ago, when I encountered another such as myself whom became my arch nemesis. He stole the manuscripts I had been sharing with him and reported me to the local authorities, I shall curse the name of Jervais forever. '< We should look into this Jervais character. Seems dangerous. --Patrick'

I laid out a pile of the finest vellum sheets, a bottle of deep-black ink, and a pen. It was my intention to copy all that I could, in order to bring this wealth of knowledge back with me, to share it with the world, and the organization that fights for good against the Templars and the followers of the Light-bearer. Perhaps in another time and place I might have tried to steal the original pages, but here it was out of the question. There was little doubt in my mind that if I hid even a fragment of the Book among my things I would not get five steps beyond the gates before the master of this place knew what I had done, and my punishment would make Christ’s torment on the cross seem mild in comparison. I have heard of some monachi whom had learned from ancient enochian scripts some of the magic of the ancients, they who came before, the first ones, they who preceded the Nephilim, the Benei Ha’Elõhïm.

So I set about to copy the ancient document as precisely as I could, in order that anyone whom sees it can later study it. After much deliberation I had decided to make two copies: one an exact duplicate of the original, including ink blots and misspellings, and the other a translation into modern language of the text and all its notes. Though the former would have more value for posterity, I must admit the second was more dear to my heart, and I worked hard to capture the colloquial tone of the notes.

Here was the expulsion from Eden, it paralleled the biblical version to perfection. Here was the last conversation between Qayin and Hevel, hinted at in the Bible but never fully transcribed. Here was the blindness of Adam as I read of also in the Nag Hammadi, the pride of his Maker, and the defiance of Qayin in all its glory. And surrounding all that were the notes of five distinct scholars, passing commentary not only upon the text itself, but upon each others’ opinions. By their use of language I knew them to be ancient, not modern scholars writing in ancient, dry, dead tongues, but men of the past for whom these were vital, living languages. Clearly some of them had returned more than once to add new notes. Perhaps…perhaps one or more even dwelled here at some point as I do now. And as I wrote this I realized again the feeling of being watched, not being alone. But no sound, no rustle of fabric, not drawing of breath breaks the deafening silence. A chilling thought.

It seemed then that I became aware of a presence in the room, as if someone were hidden in the shadows nearby, watching me. Yet though I held the candle out with a trembling hand, it illuminated nothing but rock all about me. Was it just the thought of ancients that so unnerved me, or the thought that they might be watching in some form? I did not need a fragment of the Book to tell me that ancient scholars had methods incomprehensible to modern man, methods with which they turned lead to gold, grew great things out of the eggs of a black chicken that walks backwards, turned the flow of rivers to run upstream, even to converse with those long dead. In truth, I was glad to leave when dawn came, for though I had not yet finished my transcription my hands were again trembling, and further effort would be wasted.

Yet, I sensed in the shadows, that unseen and unnamed presence, following me. The monachus? Or something worse? A spirit of those gone before, lingering here in this, what must be the holiest of places. Would my existence end with my heart stopping in fear? Would I die in my sleep for having copied this most precious treasure?

I write this now before I surrender to slumber. If no more is added to my journal, then you shall know that they whom live here have little tolerance for those who would copy their treasure and bring it to the outside world.

30.9.1915

I am watched. Beyond question. By whom I do not know, for the dirt on the floor of the chamber records marks from all who pass, and the only footprints there are mine. Yet I am watched. I know it in my soul. I can feel it on the back of my neck, that chill which warns of danger…yet how can I stop, much less flee this place, with what I have already seen?

I arrived tonight as I had previously. And for a moment I was so focused upon my work, an anticipation of finishing my transcription, that I did not notice the room had changed.

There were two books this time.

Two.

I stared at the table for a moment, then slowly came forward and opened the second with a trembling hand. It was like the first in form, but the tale that its pages revealed was very different. This was the tale of Lilitu, the first woman who would not lie beneath her mate. And of Qayin’s awakening to the “glories” of the Bringer of Light. But even more, it was a tale of conquest, of an angry Qayin whom disavowed God, and then claimed Lilitu as his mate, together to join the Most Unclean to rival the Heavenly Father.

I have seen many texts, many an apocrypha, fakes, forgeries and originals in my lifetime. None have dared to condemn Him in such absolute terms as this. None have depicted a Qayin so predatory in spirit, even in the first nights of his banishment. None have convinced me before, that truly there are those whom follow the Wicked One, and await the times of reckoning.

'Note: The text seems to make it clear that Cain not only was with Lilith but openly defied God and worshiped Lucifer. If we are to believe Lilith walks among us, perhaps in the form of our sister, then what about Cain? --Patrick'

2.10.1915

A third volume appeared tonight. How much of this Book exists? Could it truly be complete? Will I be allowed to copy it all? Who brings these here leaving no traces of passing, last night I left flour I stole from the pantry on the floor to find tracks, nothing. I read of the curses of the Angels tonight, and for the first time fully understand the scope of Qayin’s defiance. I will not even attempt to summarize it, for my own poor prose could not begin to compare to the original. It seems to meI hear whispers now, coming from the shadows, and sometimes if I listen closely it seems to me I hear my name spoken, or the names of places I have been, or of the others I intend to share this knoweldge with. As if, while I read their Book, they read my thoughts and soul in exchange. Are these the powers of the Nephilim that I had read about? Or they whom guard the Book? If so, have they judged me worthy of reading it, or is that judgement yet to come? And if I am not worthy, what then?

4.10.1915

If the first three volumes were unnerving to read, the fourth is doubly so. Here is a description of the story of Enoch, and the events leading up to the Great Flood. Yet it is not the story itself that is so affecting, but the tone, the choice of words, and their implications.

For in the fourth volume, Qayin regards himself as second to the Son of Perdition, nearly a god himself. Is this the truth or a delusion born of his unique condition? As I read upon his decision to hide away the blood of three Benei Ha’Elõhïm and of his beloved consort whom passed in her metamorphosis to become one of the Benei Ha’Elõhïm, her betrayal to Qayin, her wish to seek absolution for her sins against Him. He also hid away another part of each, sealed in the wood from the date tree and given to his disciples to be hid until a time to bring them together originates. I feel a chill go up my spine, for it is nothing less than a declaration of war against the Almighty. Would that those samples of blood still survived. And they even might, as I have read of Templars using the Blood of God to create creatures of perfection, to help in their fight. I cannot recall the time, but if memory serves me correctly it was sometime around their first attempts to regain the Holy Land.

It has become clear to me that the commentators know each other, though how I do not know, as they converse in script even though they have lived hundreds of years apart. I have tentatively identified one “voice” that seems to be of Zarathustra, a scholar and magician of great fame.

'Note: Here we find mention of us and that Lilith had a metamorphosis to become a child of God. Her betrayal of her mate Cain and her wish to seek forgiveness. What is worrying is that the feathers we have uncovered were hidden by Cain until the time is right. Is this the time? Are we part of the plan or disturbing it. As we have suspected it was the Templars who first created us, using the seeds. --Patrick'

7.10.1915

Volume five is but a small one, four simple verses and their commentary. The subject is the Great Flood and those who survived it.

It explains much, I fear. And it does not bode well for the moment when the followers of the Tempter awaken to walk the earth again. A war has started, I dare say unwittingly started by Him in an attempt to quell it in its first steps.

The whispers are louder now. I can almost make out words.

'Note: Once again the mention of the flood. We should research this further and prepare, if we can. --Patrick'

8.10.1915

I feel tired beyond my years, constantly harassed by whispers I am no longer sure are real, they may be imagined as I have slept poorly for weeks now. Nearly losing my mind, I know not which is true. I pray to Him for guidance and suddenly I feel his love sing in my veins, and with it my heart is almost strong enough to read what is in the next volume. It is called Prophecies.

It tells of the death of mankind, and the coming of Harmageddon, the great cataclysm, the End of all there is. The rising and resurgence of the Great Destroyer, returning after the false imprisonment, coming to claim what should have rightly been his nearly eight millenia ago. It tells of the complete annihilation of all living things. I will write no more on this, but leave it to those whom read my transcription. It is not my place to interpret such things, or even to comment on them. I wish I had never read of it, for so it has been written, so it must be done. Truly I feel overwhelmed, and can barely steady my hand enough to copy the words.

The whispers are strangely still tonight. Perhaps my fear of them has driven them off.

'Note: The Rabbi feels that the prophecy must come true. Is it all predetermined. Are we only powerless pawns in the schemes of some all-powerful madman as Douglas so aptly put it? --Patrick'

13.10.1915

The last chapters in this volume – for yes I must regard them as chapters and not fragments of the whole – and I have copied them, but my heart is not in it. I have written the words, the laws in the Commandments of God himself, the ultimate sign of his hubris. And I have copied proverbs that reflect the wisdom of the ancients, or at least their prejudices.

But, my mind is still on the work of days past, on the prophecies I have read. Are they true indications of the future? And if so, do they record our doom? Even the commentators are not sure. But I read again and again the description of the doomed, and I wonder who else it could refer to if not us, mankind.

The fourth shall betray her own, disavowed. Treasured childe whom shall endeavor to return, seeker of knowledge, eventually seeking acquittal to join her brethren whom may forgive her trespasses, as she has trespassed against them. Having been drunk on dreams of death and shadows.

The whispers have returned. It seems their tone is darker now. Have I displeased them?

'Note: I do not understand the part about the commandments yet. Neither the comment on the wisdom of the ancients or their prejudices. The end part is easier to decrypt - it speaks of our sister once again. It seems clear that the prophecy is for her to seek our forgiveness. But it leaves open our decision. We must discuss this further. Jason has always been of the opinion that we should seek her, even after she planted her high heel on our foreheads. --Patrick'

14.10.1915

My heart nearly imploded as I returned this night. The tomes were gone, all of them, not a volume left, not even the original Book. Nothing on the table, an empty cold slate of stone. I stood there in abject horror, my work was still undone, incomplete. I lay my hands upon the table as if seeking something unseen, they felt naught but stone. I fell to my knees to pray to the Almighty, to beg forgiveness if I had displeased him or any of his childer. Then my heart stopped as from the shadows to my side came a voice, soft but still so powerful, quite as a whisper but yet so close as if to feel the breath in my ear. I hesitated to turn to look, fearing what I would see, perhaps my end. But after shivering in terror for a moment I turned to take the candle and walked closer to the shadows. Nearer and nearer, closer and closer. Until I saw him.

He sat there on a seat of stone, merely just a chiselled block I had not noticed before. All was silent as he just sat and smiled at me, the whispers were gone. The man was frail, thin and emaciated, with a bald spot in the middle and long white hair to match his impossibly long beard. On his lap he held a long box of some sort, only a hands width high and just a little more across but nearly as long as I am tall. He motioned with his hand for me to come closer, his other hand on the wooden crate. I could not refuse, I felt compelled to go nearer. With no command I went to my knees before him and bowed. His smile was soft and warm. He bade me rise with a motion of his hand.

(What I write from hereon that is his speech I cannot replicate correctly, for as much as I try I cannot remember the exact words of phrases he used, so I must just attempt to bring across what he said. To be franfully honest, I do not even recall what language he spoke though I understood him completely.)

I sat before him, crosslegged. His smile never wavering, seemingly at peace with everything, quite like the Buddhist monks I met in Tibet. He said, and I paraphrase “You have seen all you must, this knowledge you may share with those whom you deem worthy but beware, few are. What was left would have destroyed you, for it was '''only a name. A name I cannot and shall not speak.''' Do not show your writings, keep them secret, keep them safe. Remember them and educate others of their worth. For it is not the words you came here for is it? So you may have thought initially, but what you found has been more profound than you could ever know. It was to be. Your coming was inevitable.”

I sat in silence for a moment as I looked at the frail man, dressed in nothing but a type of attire reminiscent of a toga but made of hide. I asked him “What’s in the box?”. He replied “That which those coming after you need, one of four. Others will follow your work, it is imperative that they do if we have any hope of stopping what has been transcribed”. Again I ask him, “So the box is not for me?” He shakes his head slowly. I continue “Who will come after me? Who shall I tell of this place?” I felt like a child being looked at by a grandfather, small and unknowing. He replied “They shall come after you, not in your tracks but after you. They will follow your work, this which you shall leave for your closest, in a time to come. They will come in another age, with boxes of light they will find me here, and if they are of the Blood, the path shall open for them. And I shall provide them with that which they need, and I do not mean only the contents within.” He says as he gently glides his hand over the smooth wood of the container in his lap, which vexed me, I wished to repeat my question of its contents but I believed it to be an exercise in futility. “I shall also grant them the strongest tool of all, that which I have granted you as you read through the tomes of ages past. Hope, and the dawning of a much needed Faith in Him.” I look to the ground, contemplating his words, and as I look up he is gone, only the stone pedestal upon which he sat remained. I got up and gazed across this small cavern of a room that I have spent so much time in, now so empty, vacant, yet so full of something I cannot understand. Inside me a feeling I have felt only in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. I heard a whisper, this time it was not ominous, it was soft and full of reassurance. It said only one word “Go”. I left the cavern and closed the door and by the time I had shut it and begun to pull the shelf into its place to hide the entrance, it was sealed. Solid stone, with no trace of there ever having been a door or portal there. I replaced the shelf and books and scrolls and returned to my chamber to at least pretend I was sleeping, as there was absolutely no chance of it, not with I had just witnessed. Who was that man? How long had he waited? Who were they that should come after me? What’s in the box?

The next day as I was making my way out, in an attempt to leave I was greeted by all of the monks within the monastery, all waiting outside in silence. They had formed a path out, standing in silence on both sides. It was eery as their gazes followed me with their blind eyes, all standing serenely. At the very end of the row on the right stood the abbot, he nodded towards me and said “I hope you found what you needed and have filled your head with knowledge and your heart with love and faith. May God watch over you, farewell.”

I decided to return to Tafilalt, Morocco, to the estate of my parents to contemplate my findings. And perhaps to court the girl at the pastry shop whose almond mhanchas always fill me with delight. My trip home was successful and uneventful though I did fear that my nemesis would have caught word of my travels and try to intercept me and yet again steal that which I have found, but such knowledge could not be allowed to fall into the hands of Jervais and his ilk, The Venetian branch of Hermetic Templars. I shall share my knowledge with few, but attempt to rally those to my cause that I deem proper. Perhaps there already is some organization to which I could turn that has the power to use the knowledge for good, to save us all from damnation.

'Note: The ancient man spoke of a possibility of stopping the impending doom so perhaps it is not all predetermined after all. The mention of the church in Jerusalem was an interesting hunch from the Rabbi as Douglas now remembers that the third one had been taken there. The big question in this final chapter is the mention of the name. So there is another tome, or a fragment that mentions a name. What name is that? What should we do if we encounter it? --Patrick'