Welcome to the teachings of Sir Swithin Swift. These are the words of an enlightened man. I gained liberation after I left my native Albion to follow in the footsteps of my maternal Uncle to India. Many years later, once my true, divine nature had been realised, the Blessed Powers guided me back to the land of my birth. My awakened spirit was now sensitive to the ancient Gods of this land and they communed with me, as they had once communed with my uncle before me. They revealed a path to enlightenment that can be trod on these shores. In these teachings I set forth this path to spiritual awakening as revealed to me by the Gods of ancient Britain.
I had embarked upon a journey to the south-west of England, intent upon researching my uncle’s adventures and I had stopped off at the city of Chester. Whilst meditating at that cities’ cathedral, I had envisioned the demonic gargoyles animating and detaching themselves from the stone.
I attributed this vision at the cathedral to residual, egotistical attachments that I had yet to completely discard and I left the church, spending the remainder of the day exploring other sites of interest, notably the shrine to Minerva left by Roman craftsmen in their quarry. Today it occupies a field on the banks of the river opposite the city.
If one should find oneself in a city dedicated to the Goddess of craftsmanship, one should never spurn the craft of the brewer. That would be tantamount to impiety. The hostelries of that city are very fine, many of them being of considerable age and harbouring a host of ghostly atmospheres. I had intended to leave the city during the late afternoon but such was the quality of the brewer’s wares that I found myself leaving one inn at ‘kicking out time.’ Unable to secure any form of reasonable lift at that hour, I opted to seek rest.
I took refuge under one of the rows – roofed timber walkways raised above the streets running between the cathedral and the river. The oldest of these features date from the Middle Ages and there are still sections of centuries-old stone or timber housing assorted shops, businesses and apartments. The rows are constructed so that there is a broad section of wood panelling sloping from the walkway up to the rail that overlooks the street and it was on one such platform, under a particularly ancient arch, whose massive timbers afforded the most protection from any disadvantages of the elements, that I laid down a roll of plastic for the night. Although several people did walk by, including a police patrol and although there was even a late night encounter in the street below which veered between the familiar and the threatening, it is possible to make one self unseen and by turning away from public view, breathing slowly and thinking myself out of existence, I was able to escape detection and enjoy some rest.
I was woken by the sound of something flapping against the wood below me. It sounded like paper flustered across a breeze. I allowed my mind to drift a little and the sound persisted until it became a distinct slapping and dragging sound; at that moment I sat up, suddenly convinced that something was clambering up toward me from the street below. My movement coincided with a scratching rattle, like a can hurried across stone. This was followed by the idea that wet footsteps padded up the stairs from the street not far from my resting place.
I stood and hastily rolled my sheet up, animated by an uncharacteristic feeling of fear and a sudden desire for home, and the comforts of pubs I knew and for the park where I could pitch my tent and for my dear acolyte’s house where I was permitted to stay and forced to bathe once a week.
Such sentiments brought feelings of guilt and I decided it was time to move to a place where I could meditate and rid myself of these volatile feelings; I told myself I was haunted by remnants of the days when I was languished within the waves of the ego and throwing my pack over my shoulder, I hurried away from the sounds, determined to leave the city and cross the river. As I went, refusing to glance back, I heard a moist, flapping sound that kept pace with me and I thought of my vision at the cathedral when the gargoyles had appeared to writhe free of the stone.
I told myself that such a building embodied the cosmos – its exterior a leering, grimacing parade of the instincts, alleviated by visions of selflessness, whilst within, the emptiness of all save devotion to a selfless, compassion rose to the heavens. I told myself that any apparition descending from the images of sin, would be powerless against a mind anchored upon a selfless compassion but as I crossed a small bridge over an alleyway, my imagination was assailed by the image of a particular carving; it was a representation of a snout-faced, bearded figure, whose body split into great wings and a hoofed body. Of all the bodies, grasped in the stone, it was this which glared out with an imperious pride, the pride that sets one’s individual urges and needs against all else, the pride the Christians would attribute to Lucifer.
It was great relief that I made the end of the rows and still the sound of some thing or several things, heaving and sliding after me, assailed my consciousness. I only looked back after I had descended to street level and hurried into the empty road. The broad, pedestrianised street, lined with shops was empty. The gloomy timber rows were blank but as I turned to face downhill, I caught from the corner of my eye, a suddenly, expansive gleam. I was left with the idea that several people were suddenly illuminated in a flash of light and they all were craning toward me.
I looked back, my heart apace and walking downhill as I went, but the street and the rows were dark and nothing appeared in pursuit.
I hurried down hill, passing under the ornate bridge set in the city walls and looked behind. Up the street, the air was streaked with strands of light; they sparked, glistening, rather like light reflected on waves and from this viscous, glistening weave, matted shreds of shadows slipped out that were ghosted to and fro on an unfelt wind. In my mind’s eye such shadows became the figures that crawled from the cathedral. Terror resurrected itself within me and I turned intent on running when I crashed immediately into the slick torso of a shrouded figure. I felt it give and collapse under me as something gushed from its headless collar. I threw myself onto the road before I realised that I had fallen over or run into a bin bag that was suspended from the railings bordering the bridge.
Fearing that my mind was collapsing, I strode across the ‘Hand-bridge’ into the groves of the Goddess, Minerva, determined to gather my resolve and confront whatever dogged my psyche.
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