Lars Muhl - The Grail: Volume 3 of The O Manuscript: The Scandinavian Bestseller

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lars Muhl was born in Aarhus in 1950. He attended The Royal Academy of Music, Aarhus (Det Jyske Musikkonservatorium) from 1974 to 1976. For many years, he was a successful singer-songwriter first as a band member, and then from 1986 as a solo artist. In 1996, he was awarded the WCMs Songwriters Million Certificate.

The author has had a great interest in spirituality from a very young age, and, concurrently with his music, he studied the worlds religions and esoteric knowledge. Then, in 1996, he was struck down by an unexplained illness, which neither doctors nor alternative therapists could diagnose. This was the start of a completely new existence and the beginning of that quest he has so grippingly described in The Seer. In 1999 Lars Muhl decided to leave music to concentrate fully on his spiritual interests.

Lars Muhl has studied Aramaic, the language of Jesus, and has spent many years writing and lecturing on spirituality throughout the world. In 2003 he started Hearts and Hands, a non-profit and apolitical aid organization based on the voluntary work of various therapists. The aim is to help people who are suffering from life crises such as cancer and stress-related illnesses. In 2009 Lars Muhl and his wife Githa Ben-David founded the Gilalai Institute for Energy and Consciousness.

T HE G RAIL

VOLUME 3 OF THE MANUSCRIPT

LARS MUHL

There is light within people of light, and they shine it upon the whole world. If they dont shine it, what darkness!

Yeshua, The Gospel of Thomas

Prologue

A few years ago an old Spanish manuscript was handed over to me. The title was San Gral and the author was stated to be Kansbar.

The man who gave it to me was first my teacher and then later my friend. In the time between he suffered the indignity of fulfilling the doubtful but archetypal role as my spiritual father. It followed, of course, that I played the role of the dutiful son who, however, never succeeded in totally satisfying his father. The relationship had the classic conflict situation built into it: first the idolization of the father, followed by the inevitable, symbolic patricide.

The old Spanish manuscript is about 400 pages long. It is of no literary value. The contents are more or less uninteresting, at least to the untrained eye. If there is anything in it at all of the slightest interest it is to be found between the lines. And the little the zealous reader may find there is only for the few to whom it has any meaning at all.

Reading the dedication of the manuscript you immediately get the feeling that the contents are a matter between the one in the dedication who is handing the manuscript over and the one who is receiving it. In this case Kansbar and Flegetanis.

The manuscript is dated, Alhambra, 1001, and the dedication reads as follows:

Kansbar is not my real name. But due to the secrets I have been chosen to guard, I have taken this old Persian name. Kansbar the Chosen One. Kansbar the Wise. Kansbar the Seer. Kansbar the Protector of the Grail. I am getting old. For many years I have been searching for the one who is to take over this duty after me but in vain. Only now do I remember the day I met Flegetanis, an itinerant Moorish singer, in a marketplace in a small town on the coast of Andalusia. This manuscript is for him. This is the story of the Grail.

At the beginning I didnt know what to do with the manuscript. Apart from a slight curiosity, I just felt a childish pride that I had been found worthy to guard it. Not until I started reading it, finding that the contents did not live up to the promises of the dedication, did my new-found worthiness evaporate like dew in the morning sun.

For two years, the manuscript stayed untouched in the bookcase in my study collecting dust, until the day the sun sent a pale ray on to it as if it wanted to lead my attention to it once more.

Thus, it was totally without any kind of expectation that I opened the yellowed manuscript again. The moment I took it in my hands it seemed that the light in the room changed. I hesitated and looked up from the empty page.

The empty page?

Outside, the sun was pale and low in the sky. Apparently nothing had changed in the room. Only the book. I turned a page. Not a letter. Not a single word. I turned another one, and yet another, only to see that apparently nothing was written in it. Instead, some neat, almost transparent characters appeared on the paper. The strange symbols and signs seemed to move, and the more I looked at them the more the signs danced in front of my eyes, almost teasingly and diabolically.

I sat for a long time, unfocused and ruminating about the strange thing I had just experienced. When once again I looked at the manuscript, the original text was suddenly there on the pages. I leafed through it and saw that, apparently, the text was intact again. Was all this simply a figment of my imagination?

Then it suddenly dawned on me that, although the contents of the manuscript in itself were insignificant, it nevertheless constituted a protective veil, a kind of key to an otherwise closed world. Not until later did I understand that the manuscript was simply a metaphor, a mirror or a gate to another dimension.

The information that the manuscript communicated was only a pale shadow of a much deeper knowledge. The ordinary text told a local story from Andalusia, mainly about two characters, Kansbar and Flegetanis. The inexplicable signs behind the text, somehow, were the key to this deeper knowledge. However, it was a kind of knowledge which only reveals itself to those who are ready for it. The manuscript,

then, was a metaphor for a possibility that is to be found in man himself: an access to the so-called Akasha files in the great, ethereal, universal memory.

I turned a page and started reading.

PART I

SYLVIA

The train cut like a knife through the European dusk. The rain whipped against the windows of the compartment.

God is peeing, said a small boy sitting on the seat opposite me with his sister.

Carl!

Their mother looked apologetically at me while she leaned toward her son and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

God doesnt pee, his sister answered, He cries.

It was not a fanfare of a statement, just a quiet establishment of a fact with a faint exclamation mark behind it. Like a stifled breath with an immediate, checkmating effect.

He must be very sad, then, the mother sighed resignedly with an empty look at the steamed-up window, before hiding once more behind a womens magazine.

The girl put her head on her brothers shoulder, uncomplaining. Sitting there, they constituted the silent protest of a whole generation against the thoughtless rejection of that Holy of Holies: peoples divine and frail ability to be present.

I smiled sympathetically at them and leaned back in my seat hoping to get some sleep.

In the bag beside me lay the result of two years of intense work, the manuscript for the book about Mary Magdalene, the forgotten, feminine power. But it was also the result of the breaking up of a life. For two years I had more or less roamed about with no other fixed point than the manuscript. In a small house in the Andalusian mountains, at Gare du Nord in Paris, at the Htel Costes in Montsgur. Line by line, piece by piece, at haphazard lay-bys, changing hotel rooms and busy railway stations, wherever it was possible to sit with my laptop on my knees.