THE HERMETIC CODE-CHAPTER 7

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 01/12/2006 (6894 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

The facts and people in this tale are real; the events have been brought to life by writers Carolin Vesely and Buzz Currie.

In this, the seventh chapter of a special two-week series, Winnipeg scholar Frank Albo reveals the secrets of the Pool.

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Chapter 7

JUST a few hours into our Legislative Building magical mystery tour, and already I was struggling to stay oriented.

Magical numbers at every turn.

A Masonic temple floor, right in the Manitoba legislature’s rotunda?

Who designed this building, anyway?

“Back to the magic, Frank,” I said, as we headed once more into the heart of a building that was beginning to feel like one of those 3-D optical illusion puzzles.

“Do you really think the architect believed that ‘sacred geometry’ would turn run-of-the-mill Manitobans into a higher order of human?”

“Well, yes,” Frank said.

He stopped as we entered the rotunda, his voice echoing in the cavernous room.

“Remember how the Golden Section shows up in nature, in the spiral growth of seashells, the arrangement of flower petals, the divisions of the human body, etc.?

“By incorporating it in the legislature, Frank Simon wasn’t just paying tribute to an architectural tradition dating back to Vitruvius. He was trying to deliver a divine, subliminal message that would impel people toward virtues such as faith, hope, morality and charity.”

“Subliminal,” I said, “meaning we don’t have to know how the building is proportioned to receive the message.”

Frank nodded. “There’s a famous Masonic maxim: Hidden in plain view. Mason or not, Simon took it to heart.

“Let me show you what he hid here in the Pool.

“Go down and stand on the star, and I’ll follow you in a couple of minutes.”

I walked over to the staircase at the northeast of the rotunda and went down the flight to the pool level.

I entered through one of the archways in the circle of surrounding columns and stood in the centre of the Black Star like the sacrificial victim in that tour-book writer’s imagination.

The room was silent as I walked in, but as I positioned myself on the star, I could hear humming and clicking as if I were suddenly tapped into every office in the building.

Then, through the murmur of voices — though it was distorted and seemed distant — I heard one I recognized.

“Wait there, Carolin,” Frank was saying, “and I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”

I waited, heard the sound of feet on stone steps and saw Frank emerge from the same archway.

“Say something,” he commanded. “Anything. Sing if you want.”

Right. I said a tentative “Heeellooo,” and heard…

“That’s so cool!” I blurted out, and again heard my words… resonating at a different pitch.

“It’s like a strange sort of sound booth, isn’t it?” Frank said. “Sounds from all over the building are caught, distorted and magnified at the Star.

“Harmonics in temple architecture date back to ancient Egypt and, in the Renaissance, architects applied it in churches. The belief was that buildings arranged according to the most harmonious musical intervals — such as the musical fifth — could draw upon God’s creative power and impart that to humans.”

“Hmmm, the musical fifth,” I grinned, “another Fibonacci five. Does the Star represent anything else?”

“Oh, for sure,” he said. “In the ancient Near East, the eight-pointed star was the symbol of Ishtar. She was the Babylonian goddess of love, fertility and war. Ishtar was called ‘Queen of Heaven’ because she was associated with the planet Venus.”

“So you think the legislature is a temple of Ishtar?” I asked.

“It’s not that simple,” said Frank. “Architects and artists, inspired by archeological discoveries of the 19th century, often drew upon ancient near-eastern motifs to add an exotic flavour to their designs. But the star evokes memories of the first religious altars where sacrificial offerings were made to gods of the underworld.

“In fact, the most famous story about Ishtar is her descent into the Underworld, the place where mortals went after they died.

“But Ishtar wasn’t the only deity able to descend into the realm of the dead and return to this world. The other was Hermes, the Greek god of commerce, invention, cunning and theft. He guided departed souls to the Underworld.”

“Why don’t you tell me about this over dinner?” I suggested. “My treat. This is just too much — pagan gods, sacred geometry, Freemasons.”

“And that’s just the beginning,” said Frank, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

We walked down the three marble flights and out under the bust of Athena to the front walkway and Broadway.

A few minutes later, we were standing in front of Amici, Winnipeg’s grand Italian restaurant.

I glanced at Frank in his T-shirt and me in my tank top and flip-flops, considered the limits of a feature writer’s expense account and led the way downstairs to Bombolini, the funky bistro attached to the restaurant.

We ordered linguine della casa, made with fresh and smoked salmon. I sprang for a bottle of pinot grigio.

Fortified, I figured it was time to find out how Frank had gone from a graduate student of religious studies with Ivy League ambitions to, as Premier Gary Doer had put it, “Canada’s Dan Brown.”

I knew he was embarrassed by that tag, but it seemed to me that he’d taken a big leap from translating ancient biblical texts to digging around parliament buildings deciphering occult symbols.

And he’d become a Freemason to boot.

“So, Frank,” I said, “you have a brush with a sphinx and end up majoring in esotericism at the University of Amsterdam. What did your professors, let alone your wife, have to say about that?”

Frank smiled as if he’d been waiting for this one. “Well,” he said, “some of my profs commended me for applying my knowledge in a modern, secular context, but others took me to task for my sudden change in career plans.

“When I told my thesis adviser, he sat back in his chair and said, ‘I can write you a letter to go to Harvard, Frank, but I can’t write you a letter to study the occult.’

“Amsterdam has one of the only graduate programs in the world devoted to the study of mysticism and western esotericism, and the Dutch government awarded me a scholarship.”

“How did your wife feel about it, pulling up stakes and moving to Europe?” I asked.

Frank smiled again. “Tara took some convincing. She’s also a religious scholar, and a specialist in critical philosophy, so she’s always the voice of reason.

“But she came around. Last year we sold everything, packed up our apartment and ended up in Amsterdam with little more than our clothes and a few boxes of books. And our kids, of course.”

“And now you’re back home trying to out the Golden Boy,” I joked. “Tell me more about this Hermes dude.”

Frank leaned forward.

“Remember that paper I had to write when I was at the U of W?” he said.

“That assignment turned into The Sacred Marriage of Hermes and Ishtar Exemplified Through the Architecture of the Manitoba Legislature.

“Hermes for the golden statue on the dome and Ishtar for the Black Star directly below him. You couldn’t pick two better deities to reflect what Manitoba thought of itself in 1912, when its principal resources were its railway system and fertile fields.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Taking Hermes first,” said Frank, “he was the son of Zeus and was the fastest and most cunning of the gods. Zeus was amused by Hermes’ audacity and humour, but concerned with his thievery. He made Hermes his personal herald and put him in charge of treaties, commerce and travel.

“He was the messenger of the gods. In that aspect, you’ve more likely heard of him by his Roman name, Mercury.”

“Mercury,” I said. “With wings on his feet and helmet, right? I’m afraid I know him best as the trademark for FTD florists.”

“They’re one and the same,” Frank said.

“But the Golden Boy has no wings,” I pointed out.

“No, he doesn’t,” Frank agreed, pushing a piece of paper at me across the table. “But he did in the architect’s original drawing.” I studied the sketch. There was our Golden Boy, holding his wheat and his torch — but he was wearing a winged cap and had wings on his ankles.

“No, he doesn’t,” Frank agreed, pushing a piece of paper at me across the table. “But he did in the architect’s original drawing.” I studied the sketch. There was our Golden Boy, holding his wheat and his torch — but he was wearing a winged cap and had wings on his ankles.

There was a note on the right side of the sketch: 13 feet.

“I found a letter Simon wrote to Georges Gardet, the sculptor, in February of 1916,” Frank said. “Simon wrote that he had decided on a statue of Mercury, like the famous bronze the Italian Renaissance sculptor, Giambologna, did in 1580. He followed up a month later with that sketch.”

I handed the drawing back to Frank and he tucked it in his bag. “So,” I teased, “you’re sure our hat-less, wing-less, 17-foot boy is Mercury a.k.a. Hermes?”

Frank nodded. “He’s Hermes, no doubt about it.

“Now, let’s talk about his love life.”

My ears perked up.

“Hermes, like many of the gods, had numerous romances with both mortals and goddesses,” Frank said, “including the goddess Aphrodite. She’s the Greek version of Ishtar.”

“And what about their so-called sacred marriage?” I asked.

“Tomorrow,” Frank promised. “Tomorrow, we’ll take a look at their children.”

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