Author Archives: Patrice Chaplin

The Stone Cradle – Part 2: The Child From Venus

The Child from Venus was sent to raise us to a higher state of consciousness, so we could reach the etheric plane.

He brought language, healing, and spiritual practice. He wandered the earth, a teacher bringing enlightenment to the planet. He was present at the building of the first pyramid. Around him landscape was duplicated, its central passage made more powerful. He established schools. He could receive strength from the constellation of the Great Bear and seven Stars, which remained motionless, keeping our planet safe.

Most of all, he brought light.

Tracts of light are still in existence today that the Society protects and increases by ritual, for the well being of the planet.

The guardians say the light is finite. Their practice keeps it from fading out.

Had there been mention of a Stone Cradle in history? Only a small one at Ephesus that disappeared into the hands of the Knights Templar. Was there any connection between the Stone Cradle and the crib which held Jesus 3,000 years later? None found. Its existence today seems to be in the care and direction of other intelligences, not of this earth.

Cradle Country


Cradle Country

Is its purpose good? It has its magnetism and brings ailing people to lie on its stone. Documents from the 18th century describe locals choosing to come and lie in the Cradle to die. Others to give birth, and sick children were laid there to heal. The Cradle holds the souls of those yet to be born. In its presence I feel light and as I should be. It makes even the land around innocent and joyous.

My teacher told me how she followed an ambulance carrying my friend Jose Tarres – he was in a bad way – and when the ambulance suddenly stopped she thought he had died.

“Imagine my surprise when the doors opened and Jose came walking out, just like always; a poet of life, light and free,” she said. “I went after him because I thought he was a ghost. He said he had asked the spirit to heal him and let him continue here. Something happened and he was made well. He said he would never forget to have gratitude and bless each moment as it passes.”

She had asked him what the spirit was.

“Not what,” he said, “Who. The being of light, of course. From the Stone Cradle.”


The Stone Cradle – Part 1: Arrival

According to legend, the child of light came to earth over 5,000 years ago and marked the beginning of the Precessional Age, the mystical birth of Venus as the new morning star.

The Celts called the child Lug, the Spanish Luz, and others – later – Lucifer. Otto Rahn, the German metaphysical writer who came to the area in the 1930s to seek information, believed the Grail was a stone, the third eye of Lucifer, that had dropped from the forehead as the fallen angel descended to earth. Whether this light child was Lucifer is not certain, any more than the context in which this disposed angel is seen: a deceptive creature that deflects light? A creative being that lifts our consciousness?

That there was a stone is undeniable, but it was not the Grail or the third eye of Lucifer.

I first saw this stone years ago and did not know what it was. It looked like a fruit dish, big enough for an adult to lie in. The stone was dark blue and smooth as marzipan, cold to the touch, heavy to rock with a slight tremor. The guardians told me it was one of the oldest stones on the planet. This was the Cradle that held the child of light who received from the stone nutrients essential for survival. A woman from the east came to rock the Cradle and, at this time before language, there were markings on trees and stones of a cradle shape containing a crescent moon.

Some said the stone was a meteorite that had crashed to this earth millions of years ago, near the Spanish frontier – yet it was perfectly formed. Others said it had arrived through the portal on the mountain summit. It was one of the oldest stones on the planet, yet it was not clear which kind it was. The prehistoric stone in the area, granite, did not resemble this unaging, faultless object. Writings from the 10th century described the stone as being surrounded by pieces of quartz. It had been kept in the chapel at the top of a hill, behind an abandoned hamlet near the village of Rabos, and in later times rested on a base of lapis lazuli.

Otto Rahn spent months searching for the stone and in 1933 arrived in the ancient city of Gerona (further south) with Howard Hughes – the US entrepreneurial aviator –keen to take the path to the portal, which he seemingly reached, as Hughes replicated portals in the US after the Second World War. The artificial portals did not have a natural quarantine filter, and matter from outer space got in and other material got out. NASA is said to have destroyed all artificial portals.

Otto Rahn wrote Lucifer’s Court, an account of his journey along the frontier. The artist, Salvador Dali – familiar with the Cradle – understood that it had many dimensions and at times could go so far from the four we know that it became invisible. It could even be seen from different angles in unexpected places and was observed at sunset in the sky seemingly made up of cloud.

Jose Tarres, my friend, took me on that first visit to the chapel. I remember it was lit by oil lamps long and flat – said to be from a time before Christ. I was surprised the stone could bring so many visitors and that guardians took care of the chapel.

I did not know that in the stone’s vicinity rituals were carried out and that it could deflect bad energy and assist the pathway between life and death. Jose Tarres, the custodian of the private society that for centuries had guarded the Cradle, showed me maps of the terrain and the position of the stars at the time of the child’s descent and how that changed the planet’s course irrevocably.

Powerful, mediumistic members of the society could attune back to that extraordinary time. The beneficent gifts the light child had brought were still carried in the folklore of the province. The arrival of this being had caused huge turbulence and storms in the atmosphere and the inhabitants in the mountain region were terrified, believing the sun would crash into the earth.

According to legend, all was still; the being was here. There were new lights in the sky.

A new age had begun.

The Stone Cradle

The Portal

I first heard of the Portal when I was 15 and hitch-hiking through France and into Spain with my friend Beryl. We were taking the roads as they came, towards freedom which was undeniably ours.

There was still an innocence about that time which allowed us this way of travel – not possible in later years. We were Bohemians to the core, dressed in the artistic style of the outsider: drainpipe trousers; long white fisherman’s; sweater; rope sandals and ankle chains; Brigitte Bardot kiss curls; white lipstick; black rimmed eyes.

We were stopped at the frontier by the Spanish police. They had never seen anything like us. What were we? Extraterrestrials?

‘They’ve been through the Portal’,  the men decided,  trying not to laugh.

It sounded good and we asked if the Portal was a club we had somehow missed on the journey south.

One policeman pointed to the nearby mountain, Canigou, its peak visible on this bright day. He said the Portal was right there on the summit.

‘It leads from here to other places – so they say.’

Beryl liked that. ‘So you go from here to there . . . ’

‘And you don’t come back’, said the policeman.

Beryl said she would check it out one of these days.



I was driven north towards Mount Canigou by two men who worked for Dr. Arnaud, the Custodian of the Society – which held metaphysical information and secrets of the area. Near the frontier a group of men were peering into a ditch by the roadside.

‘He went too far.’ The man, a local farmer, pointed at the mountain. ‘You can’t see it, but I have heard it sucks you in.’

‘It’s on the summit. Invisible,” said a second man. ‘So they say.’

The Portal. I remembered Beryl all those years ago at the same frontier. However bizarre, her style of dress couldn’t diminish her beauty, which made being her friend, on occasion, a little difficult.

Dr. Arnaud took me away from the group and spoke softly. ‘The man went too near. That’s the verdict.’

‘Too near what?’

‘It’s the American, isn’t it? The one who has been here looking into things. They say he is CIA.’

Was he? I felt cold. ‘Its the Portal – isn’t it?’ I asked what he knew.

‘Human beings are not welcome up there. That man had no protection. You can’t just enter a Portal as though you are going from one room to another.’

‘If he was on top of the mountain how did he come down to this street?’

‘Not pleasantly,’ said Dr. Arnaud.

He held me back from the growing knot of men bent over what I took to be the corpse. I needed to know if it was the American or someone else I knew. Then Jordi, who worked for national security, arrived with more men and gave instructions to the photographer. Seeing me, he crossed the road rubbing dirt off his hands. I could tell he was surprised I was with Dr. Arnaud who I suspected he did not like.

‘Anyone you know?’  he asked me.

‘I would like to see.’ I turned to Dr. Arnaud for approval. ‘Just to be sure.’

Jordi, physical and effective, was used to danger. He brought people to safety.  He had no time for academics like Dr. Arnaud. He had never done what Jordi considered a day’s real work and nicknamed him ‘Velour hands’.

He took my arm, not waiting for Dr. Arnaud’s answer, and we crossed the street. The men made a space and we looked down into a ditch.

The thing was like a grey paperclip pulled out of shape. The body had been electrocuted to the point of non-existence and lay twisted, shrivelled, metallic, grey, the remains of his clothes still smouldering.

I allowed myself one look.

‘The American?’  Jordi asked.

‘Could be anyone.’ I didn’t look back.

‘He was sure a curious type if he climbed over 3,000 meters to find a portal.’

‘It’s not where it is, it’s where it goes,’ I remembered; the frontier police, answering Beryl.

‘Why is he burned like that?’

‘There’s a lot of electricity around that mountain sometimes. It’s said it comes from out of space. The American was too curious.’ Jordi crossed himself. ‘He was even looking into graves. But we don’t need to bury him.’ He peered down at the ditch, ‘He’s already lying in one.’

In all directions were small burial signs; broken or sinking headstones;  a cross, its message obscured; an urn half visible.

‘It’s the old cemetery outside the village, unused for years,’ said Jordi. ‘I wonder what he was doing up there.’

Whatever – you don’t come back. That other time had the answers.



The vast mountain – majestic, absolute – was unusually accessible with no shading of weather or camouflage of light to create atmospheres and promote mystery. From summit to base – it was brilliantly lit by the strong sun and  challenged to give up it’s secrets; its crimes. It was too present and the light brought it nearer to our frail, only too human, group. It was innocent with no relation to our misfortunes. I could hear my teacher from the past, her voice in my thoughts. ‘But of course you have to let go. Do you think anything is yours? What do you own?’

Not much as it happened. She had shown me that on our journey of the 11 Sites under the Constellation of the Great Bear.

Jordi took hold of my hand. ‘You will have to reach his family.’

What if it wasn’t the American in that old grave? Whoever it was, twisted over like a paperclip, they had been violently electrocuted. It occurred to me it was not caused by lightning, as the news reports suggested, but more likely an atomic blast.

‘Is a Portal so dangerous?’ I asked Jordi.

‘Oh it’s not the Portal’, he said,  ‘But what came through.’

‘From where?’

‘From out of space.’  I thought he said the stone, the cradle.


Out Of Nowhere He Was There

I saw him in the church of St Germain as he passed beside me on his way from the altar quite unexpected. Out of nowhere he was there.

He was beautifully made and moved with the sureness and ease of a performer. His sun-streaked fair hair – long to his shoulder – had life and style no hairdresser could improve.

Then I saw he was wearing a knee-length, white robe in soft fabric, held with a simple clasp. He walked barefoot, a substantial chain around one ankle. I saw his face for a mere moment; it did not give away any age. It was a perfect face, the exquisite eyes; blue-green filled with the joy and glory he had recently beheld.

Other people did not seem to notice him as he made his graceful way through the clusters of tourists and local Parisians, and I was too absorbed in him at that time to find it strange.

Later, I realised his exceptional charisma should have commanded attention anywhere, but not, it seemed, in this famed church. He was clean, pure, filled with light that came from being close to the sea in sweet air and kind sun. Of course, he was a movie star. He did not hesitate as a visitor might, and as though knowing this place well, he continued towards the exit but did not reach it. He just was not there.

Like a light bulb pinging out, he was gone.

Had he knelt by one of the saint’s statues – out of sight – or opened a side-door to an inner chamber? What had happened when he reached the exit? Did he continue barefoot across the pavement to the Deux Magots Café? Had he left his sandals at the entrance in the care of the beggar?

Or did he live nearby, perhaps around the corner leading to the Place Furstenberg? Or was he allowed in this church to fill himself with divinity, theological study or divine meditation? Or he didn’t exist in this earth reality at all?

I turned to my friend, surprised she had not commented and I asked what she had thought. She had not seen him.

“The altar is made of stone from the Pyrenees,” she said. Then she remembered she had been aware of a sudden perfume – unlike any other, and it had faded slowly. I finally decided he was an archetype of Jesus that I had been privileged to see. A few days later I recalled a man had mentioned on a Facebook post a being in the church of St Germain. He had remarked on his indescribable beauty and the fact no one else seemed to have noticed him.

Had others, he enquired, witnessed this phenomenon that moved with such familiarity in the dim light? I wondered if he was an eccentric compelled to dress up in this raiment and make appearances in the church.

But for what reason had so few – it seemed – witnessed them? Or were we into something else altogether?

Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés

Predictions in the Dust

The day came when I had to get my life out of storage and start reducing the possessions.

Each object had a dozen memories, and then there were the letters and photographs and diaries never to be forgotten, impossible to throw. The books were easier. The childhood toys better not to be gone through. I didn’t realise I had such a big life.

Then came the sadness, the mourning for what could have been. It was a grim business. It had to be gone through again because there was only space for half the stuff. Hours later I chucked away the file from my drama school days, and all those mementoes I didn’t even remember. It’s like a death, I decided.

Covered in dust and dirt I reduced the last box and it was done; then I saw a sheet of paper had come loose. I was on the point of throwing it away, then saw it was a psychic reading from the sixties. Mir Bashir was a popular palm reader in those days and everyone went to him for advice and forecasts of the future. He would roll ink over your palms then press them onto fine paper and then read the lines. I was going to have a very public marriage, a writing career, three children. In the nineties I would start a mystical life in Spain and live in the mountains. I would die in the year . . . guess!

All I know is we can strengthen and change what is coming to us by our actions’ thought evolvement.

And I didn’t have three children.


Patterns in the Ether

[The following is taken from The Fortune Seller.]

Against a background of night-time fusion between the city and other realms, I spoke to the lonely looking for love; a new life, magic, their deceased partners. Some needed to talk, others to be cheered up. Was there really a spirit guide out of sight with all the answers? I certainly hoped so because I was a little short in that department.

Then I got three women in a row with the hots for their handymen, and each man putting in a new kitchen. Was it the same with another room or did this nurturing area provoke unsuitable passion? Each woman believed her handyman was in love with her, but the man felt unworthy to say so or shy or worried about his marriage, or hers. I heard about molten, hot eye contact as he installed the oven, the fact he was available at any hour, the energy between them more electric than anything he was putting in that kitchen. Personally I thought in each case the handyman would do pretty well anything to keep the money coming in and if it took molten hot looks they’d be provided. Then I got three women on the trot, all called Frances.

I had to admit there were patterns out there in the ether. I thought it was the guides’ way of playing a joke. The only problem – I had no idea of the guides.

The Fortune Seller

How To Disappear

How easy is it to drop out of sight? By the very act of hiding you draw attention from neighbours and curious friends and otherwise. Money helps. Unless money is part of it and you need to make some to stay unseen. The two-hit singer in my book, The Fortune Seller, said she had to disappear. She was suddenly out of fashion – crashed – but her good life habits were the last to go and she was in debt. She needed obscurity to reinvent herself. She couldn’t take any usual form of work because she was still recognisable.

She discovered that the best way of hiding was to become a chameleon; fitting into an unseen line of work that gave her an identity rarely questioned. A night psychic on the telephone. It couldn’t be more perfect.

You answer the phone, give a tarot reading to a stranger. You are paid by the minute and, if lucky, it pays the rent. You learn to attune to people. You see with your ears. No-one ever sees you  not even the employer. Your voice is all you need and a photograph of someone not you for the ads. You do the employment agreement on the phone and are accepted because of the way you sound. No one knows what you’ve done or where you live. You learn to know people by their voice and what they don’t say. If you pick up enough psychic skills you’re in. You’re safe. Only one obstacle left. Fate. A client recognised the singer’s voice and it almost hit the tabloids. She dropped the tarot pack and left town. It was said, months later, she was hiding out in mid-America singing in a club.