THE HERMETIC CODE-CHAPTER 8

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 02/12/2006 (6893 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

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

In this, the eighth chapter of a special two-week series, Winnipeg scholar Frank Albo takes Carolin to the sacred chamber.

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Chapter 8

I arrived at the legislature early the next morning, so I sat on the front steps outside the building and read the newspaper.

It’s going to be a scorcher, I thought, as I glanced at a headline about Winnipeg’s hottest summer on record. I was imagining how the almighty Simon would feel if we messed with his sacred geometry to install air-conditioning (I’d heard the premier’s office is the only room that has it), when Frank showed up with a large coffee in hand. Didn’t look like he’d slept much.

We bypassed the great marble staircase this time and headed straight to the Pool.

“The offspring of Hermes and Aphrodite,” Frank said as we approached the entry, “were androgynous — half female, half male, and called Hermaphroditos. Hermes was also the father of Pan, who had a human torso but the legs of a goat.

“Come and take a look at these lamps.”

Frank walked over to one of the bronze-green lamps that encircle the Pool. Beneath their globes, carved into the metal on opposite sides of the pole, were the heads of a man and a woman.

So that’s where we get the term Hermaphrodite, I mused.

“And take a look at where their legs attach to the pedestal,” he said. At the end of each leg, I saw a hoof.

“So at the top of the building you have the god of commerce and rapid travel,” Frank said, “and in the sacred pool below, you have the goddess of fertility. The railroads and the wheat fields. Pretty apt, don’t you think, for a province that saw itself as the breadbasket of the world?”

“What about Ishtar’s connection with the Underworld,” I asked. “What’s that got to do with this altar motif?”

“Well,” Frank said, “even if it was an altar to a deity of the Underworld, it doesn’t necessarily celebrate darkness or evil, but rebirth.”

I thought again of blood trickling through the veins of black marble, but I said nothing.

“Even a room of protection and an altar don’t add up to a temple, though,” he said. “There’s kind of an ABC to temple-building: the room of protection, the sanctuary and the most important room, the Holy of Holies.

“The room of protection is the Grand Staircase Hall, where we found the bison and the skulls and Medusa heads. The rotunda and the Pool, here, is the sanctuary — the sacred place for divine service, such as breaking the Eucharistic bread in a Christian church. So we have A and B.

“Now we’ve gotta find C — the holiest room.”

We were now standing at the balustrade by the Black Star.

“OK, wherever would you find a holy room in this place?” I asked. “Surely not the Legislative Chamber, where all the politicians shout at each other?”

“That was my first guess, actually,” Frank said. “But it doesn’t fill the bill. Not that there isn’t plenty to see in it — I’ll show you later. But a temple’s sacred chamber is pretty exclusive. Only the chief priest is allowed to enter.

“In fact, in Solomon’s temple — and remember that the Freemasons trace their traditions to the building of that temple and base their rituals on it — the Holy of Holies was a room where only the High Priest could go, and even he could enter only once a year — on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

“So what’s the most exclusive room in the Legislative Building?”

He answered his own question, pointing left.

“Over there, with the rope across the door.”

We were facing the door to the Legislative Chamber, and Frank was gesturing toward the east side of the building. Indeed, there was a roped-off door.

“It’s the lieutenant-governor’s reception suite,” Frank said. “Closed to the public — but we’ve got permission to enter.”

“Why is it off limits?” I asked.

“I’ve heard it’s because the handwoven carpet is too precious to walk on,” Frank said. “Maybe that’s true, but I doubt it.”

We walked into a room that seemed to be square, with wood panelling. “Walnut,” said Frank, seeing me examine the walls. The handwoven carpet was blue, as was an ornate curtain that hung behind a desk — the lieutenant-governor’s, I presumed — along the east wall.

Facing each other across the room — one on the north wall, one on the south — were two mirrors, both in elaborate, though not identical, gilt frames.

“In the French and Scottish Rites of Freemasonry,” Frank said, “a blindfolded candidate is enclosed in a small, dark room called the Chamber of Reflection. There’s a wooden table with bread and water, a human skull, a representation of the god Hermes and” — he looked to the wall — “a reflecting mirror.

“According to some Masons, the chamber is meant to symbolize the womb, caves where primitive man lived,” Frank explained. “It’s a preparatory stage of contemplation and self-reflection prior to the candidate’s initiation. After the candidate performs the ritual dictated by the Worshipful Master, he’s turned toward the mirror and is claimed to be born a new man.”

“Frank,” I said, “aren’t you pushing it a bit? The lieutenant-governor isn’t the Hebrew High Priest. And isn’t a mirror sometimes just a mirror? Maybe it’s there so the lieutenant-governor can straighten his tie and fix his hair.”

Frank didn’t appreciate the humour. “The lieutenant-governor is the Queen’s highest appointed representative in Manitoba,” he countered, “just as the High Priest is God’s highest appointed representative on Earth. The lieutenant-governor gives royal assent to all laws passed in the province, just as the high priest gives divine assent to God’s laws in the Jewish temple.

“As for the mirrors, they’ve got a long connection with divination and magic. Where do you think the crystal ball comes from?”

“As for the mirrors, they’ve got a long connection with divination and magic. Where do you think the crystal ball comes from?”

I sighed, and went to pull back the lieutenant-governor’s curtains to peek out his window.

The shady trees made the east lawn look lush and inviting, and off to my right I could see a corner of Government House, which is the lieutenant-governor’s official residence. Any time I’ve driven past here on a summer Saturday, there has always been at least one wedding party getting their photos taken.

But this was a sunny Tuesday morning, and the grounds were empty. And apparently I was, hallelujah, in the ‘holy of holies.’

I turned back to find Frank rummaging in his bag. Out came a tape measure and then a book.

“See what you think of this,” he said, opening the Bible.

“My sermon today,” said Frank, drawing himself up as if he were in a pulpit, “is from the First Book of Kings, Chapter 6.

“It is,” he said, discarding his pastor’s voice and resuming his own, “the part describing the building of Solomon’s temple. I’ll just read you a little bit — the part about building the holiest part of the temple, the part where God himself would reside.

“Starting at verse 19,” said Frank, and read:

“(19) And the oracle he prepared in the house within, to set there the ark of the covenant of the LORD.

(20) And the oracle in the forepart was twenty cubits in length and twenty cubits in breadth and twenty cubits in the height thereof: and he overlaid it with pure gold; and so covered the altar which was made of cedar.”

Frank set the Bible on the lieutenant-governor’s desk and handed me the tape measure. “I’ll hold the end against the wall,” he said, “and you read out the length.”

“In feet or metres?” I asked.

“Feet,” said Frank. “A British builder in 1912 would work in the Imperial system.”

I stretched out the tape. “Twenty-four feet,” I said.

“Now the other direction,” said Frank, putting his end of the tape against the wall behind the desk. I stretched the tape out to the room’s west wall.

“Twenty-four feet again.”

“But the Bible spoke of cubits, didn’t it?” Frank said.

I was suddenly reminded of an old Bill Cosby skit, where he is Noah and God is giving him instructions to build the ark. “What’s a cubit?” Noah asks the Lord.

“What’s a cubit?” I asked Frank. “I mean, I know it’s supposed to be the length of a man’s forearm, or some such.”

Frank nodded agreement. “But the room and much of the building seem to be full of Masonic iconography,” he said, “so I think we’re justified in assuming it’s a Masonic cubit, and that has a precise length. It’s 14.4 inches.

“So take the calculator and figure out the dimensions in Masonic cubits, please.”

Twenty-four feet. How many inches? That’s easy. Twenty-four times twelve is — and I punched the keys on the calculator — two hundred and eighty-eight. And 288 inches, divided by 14.4 inches to convert the dimensions into Masonic cubits…

I looked at the calculator and looked at Frank. “The room,” I said, “is 20 cubits by 20 cubits.”

It was as though I were looking at the building plans of Solomon’s temple itself.

I struggled to keep a grip on my skepticism. “If this is the Holy of Holies of Solomon’s temple,” I said, “the Ark of the Covenant should be here. Shouldn’t it?”

Frank’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, it should,” he said.

“So where is it?” I demanded.

“It’s hidden,” he said.

“Hidden where?” I asked.

“Hidden the only way Frank Worthington Simon would hide it,” he said. “In plain view.”

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