Soul Matters Volume Six: Bondage Battleground

They threw Phil into a cell with a steel door. As the angels turned to go, one of them said, “I’ll lock him in, but I need to check the cell first.”

The others left and the lone dark angel inspected the four by eight straw-matted cell.

“I’m Abbadona,” he said softly.

Phil recognized the name and peered more closely at the angel. He was tall and thin like Sammael, with sharp features, but his eyes were dark with what looked like sadness.

Abbadona continued, “This place is shielded. No one gets in; no one gets out. The walls are magic screens. They will mirror back to you your fears and weaknesses. You must hold your mind steady, or you will go insane. At this lowest level, the magic is the strongest. Few people survive down here.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Phil asked with suspicion.

“I am on your side.”

“Manuel told me that," Phil allowed, "but Azazel named you as on their side.”

Abbadona’s eyes dropped in what looked like despair. He slowly glanced to the door as if wanting to just leave. “In truth, I am both. If you fail this test, it confirms Sammael’s way was right all along. If you pass, then maybe I can redeem myself.”

“You weren’t supposed to tell me anything, were you?”

“No. Part of the power of this test is not knowing the cell’s properties. But you would have figured it out on your own.”

“Thank you,” Phil said with sincerity.

Abbadona inclined his head and left. Phil heard the outside bolt slam home. The test had begun.

Heeding Abbadona’s advice, Phil sat in a cross-legged position and began to meditate.

It was odd to achieve that certain level of meditation and not be thrust through the door to Manuel’s patio. Instead, he passed through that level and settled deeper into a quiet awareness.

As there were levels of thought, brain wave patterns, concentration, and awareness, so too there were levels in meditation. All the levels, though, were maintained by practice. Strength of mind, in this regard, was no different than muscle strength.

With the mind, though, holding oneself at a specific level gave access to what was called a ‘state-specific reality.’ Through Manuel’s tutelage, Phil had become competent within a few of these other realities.

Without consciously meaning to, Phil brought to mind the warrior rune on the archway at the bottom of the envisioned staircase. He remembered it had called to him, and since he had nothing better to do, he answered the call.

He focused all his attention on the arrow-shaped symbol. As with staring long enough into a fire and ‘becoming’ the fire, Phil eventually became the rune.

Feeling a subtle shift in his essence, his eyes drifted open. The walls of his cell moved to life. He recognized his cell was now a holographic torture chamber.

The method of torture, however, came from his mind and memories. He opened his eyes to an early memory of humiliation. He peed his pants at the San Diego Zoo. On that bright Sunday morning, he became so excited about the animals, he hadn’t listened to his body. When he recognized the need to pee, it was too late. Both his mother and father berated him. Then they made him wear his soiled pants the rest of the day as punishment.

The ringing question was, “Can’t you do anything right?” The next memory was a reiteration of this theme. He didn’t get something else right. Then something else. The memories were a parade of evidence he could not get the important things right.

Since the original question was rhetorical in nature, getting it wrong became an expectation. Then it became the incessant voice in his head, the presence looking over his shoulder, the censor Pam felt in bed with them. This was a demon of his own making, though, and Phil acknowledged it as such. It started as an external accusation, true enough, but those accusations had no power until he agreed with them — until he bought into the lie that his existence included the inability to get anything right.

He rewound the tape to the first memory, freeze-framed it, and inserted himself as an adult into the script. Then he let the movie begin.

“Phillip,” he said to his four-year-old self, “do you want out of this jam?”

“Yes,” the little boy said looking to his parents who stood stationary in surprise.

“I brought some pants and a bowl of water to wash you. Your parents didn’t bring spare pants. They’re sort of embarrassed by it, and they’re taking it out on you.”

Phil projected the pants and clean-up kit into the scene. He hustled the boy behind a nearby tree, helped him clean up, and gave him the pants.

“Thanks,” the body smiled.

With each succeeding memory, Phil did something similar, thereby retroactively denying the Critic/Censor in his head the basis of its power.

The cell walls reappeared as the last reworked memory faded. Phil let his eyes close. He refocused on the warrior rune. Soon there was the subtle shift signaling he merged with the rune.

His eyes drifted open again. He was sitting on a needle-rock high above a bleak landscape. The sky was dark. A giant worm-like creature swam towards him, its great body undulating for speed. The cavernous mouth opened, blotting out the sky, and swallowed him in one gulp.

Phil knew utter loneliness in the worm’s belly. He felt complete abandonment. There was no honor in how they sacrificed him. They were only taking out the trash and the worm collected it.

Whoever ‘they’ were. Phil sensed there was a community that ostracized him, but he wasn't sure who that was, nor why they banished him.

He languished in the worm’s belly for an agonizingly long time, but he stayed with the feelings of loneliness and abandonment, observing them with warrior intensity. He didn’t permit these feelings the opportunity to drag him into despair, even though they pounded on him seeking release through self-condemnation. As the emotions finally lessened, he exited the worm’s tail.

Now he was floating in dark space, but ahead of him shimmered a crystal city. Pixie-like creatures fluttered to him and guided him to a crystal palace.

“Stay with us,” the crystal princess offered. She blew golden dust on him, and his mind fogged into a dream-state. A dull bliss invaded him, like sex after dropping Ecstasy. From some deeper part of him, Phil realized he could stay here until he died.

Refusing that option, he sharpened his mind into focus by pulling the warrior rune into consciousness, and he politely told the princess, “No, thank you. I am alone because it is the price of individuality.” The scene faded, and the cell walls returned. Phil closed his eyes again to merge with the rune.

When the merging shift occurred, he opened his eyes to find himself sitting on a throne. The king stood before him, and a packed hall of people silently observed.

The king spoke, “What is it to be a king? Answer this accurately. The Sword of Damocles is suspended over you by a thread. Answer falsely and you die.”

Agrat knew the answer; perhaps Becky as well. Agrat promised him two things: Becky would die, and a feminine mystery would be revealed. The mystery must have something to do with ruling one’s people, otherwise he wouldn’t be sitting in Damocles’ throne. What was it? What mystery was revealed?

Agrat said a queen must be a servant to her people, which made sense in that the people would get what they need. Morrigan said as much about the masks of God. She also said they serve mankind in a most complex way. What way? By knowing what those needs were. Empathy. They would have to blend with the people and discover the real needs, the ones behind the grasping ego’s impulses. But this knowledge was not enough. They also required a mandate to act on behalf of the people. A vote was insufficient, necessary because masks of God gained life through people’s belief, but a mask of God came to full life when En Sof charged it with Divine authority. Kings of old claimed this as the Divine right to rule.

The mystery, Phil realized, was blending and unblending, empathy and individuality, the ship of state and its rudder, and the ship’s destination coupled with the skill to make the voyage. It was deriving an authorization from consensus and the bold action to fulfill the mandated needs. This was the service a king promised his people.

Phil focused on the king, “A king wields his power through compassion for his people.” The king smiled, and the scene faded. The cell walls returned. Phil closed his eyes, and the rune was waiting for him.