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  • Writer's pictureLinda Odhner, with photos by Liz Kufs

Excerpted Inspirations #134


[Hanno Hath, enslaved with his people by the Mastery, has found the Lost Testament of Ira Manth, and started to translate it, since he is the only one who can read Old Manth.  The mor of the Manth people suggests a parallel with the Freudian ego and the Swedenborgian proprium.]   	 	Hanno then explained as best he could what he had learned from the newly discovered manuscript.  It seemed that the old Manth people had a name for the vital force in all living creatures, and this name was mor.  They understood that the mor was a good and necessary energising power, that drove people to do their best, to work hard, to aspire to make their dreams come true.  To the old Manth people, the more was the source of courage, and honour, and worthy pride.  However, this same noble power, when allowed to grow too strong in a man or in a people, turned courage into violence, and pride into anger.  As the mor swelled, it empowered the people, but it also led them into conflict with each other.  They made war, and learned to fear and hate, and the more they feared and hated, the more they called on the power they believed would protect them.  In this way, the mor filled every person to the brim, and bursting the skin that separates one from another, it merged into a single force, which fed on itself, and all its member people, and could never thereafter be destroyed.  This great, terrible, united power was called the Morah.    	Bowman knew it all, even as his father told him of things he had never known.  Had he not been touched by the Morah?  One of many, part of all.  No more fear now.  Let others fear.  	“Ira Manth speaks of three generations,” said Hanno.  “A time of kindness.  A time of action.  And a time of cruelty.  At the end of the third generation, the power of the Morah is at its height.  Terror follows terror, as men forget how to love, and are driven to rule or be ruled, to kill or be killed.  At such a time, the Singer people return.”  	“And die.”    	Hanno nodded his head.  Bowman understood.    	“We’re living in such a time now, aren’t we?”    	“I believe so,” said Hanno.  	“I know so,” said Ira, shuddering.  “The wind is rising.  We must reach the homeland.  The wind will blow everything away.”  	Bowman did not speak.  How could he explain to his parents that more than anything else he felt deep within him a sweet relief.  He felt as if at last everything that was strange in him, everything that made him solitary and apart, was part of his true purpose.  He had to be as he was, to do as he must do.  Even his failure all those years ago in the halls of the Morah, when he had surrendered to that sweet, deadly power; even that, for which he had so long blamed himself, now became part of his destiny.  In his fear, he had let the Morah touch him and possess him.  Now he was grown older, and the time was coming when he would redeem himself.    William Nicholson, Slaves of the Mastery (2002), pp. 380-383)

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