The space is lit as dimly as is practical; in the centre is a (double cube) altar on which is the Grail hidden under a square of wood completely covered with a cloth; on top of the cloth is a single pillar candle. Inside the altar should be a paten of bread and salt. The audience's script sheets should be handed out to them before everything begins.
6 brethren enter w/ Templar tabards
over modern street clothes, or else fairly elaborate but clearly
symbolic rather than functional Templar costume. They deliver
the following dialogue as though it's a catechism they don't really
What is the time?
It lacks an hour of dawn.
What is the place?
It is the Île des Javiaux, where the Grandmaster departed this world in flames.
Then our vigil is just begun.
Aye, but joy is surely the lot of those who watch and wait.
They embrace, formally & fraternally (maybe with some elaborate quasi-Masonic handshake?), turn and peer eastward.
Bro A (sighing)
I want to sleep.
We have to watch the east for the word.
What word? From whom? We're not really soldiers any longer. You're an accountant, he's a hardware tech, she works in a bookstore, he's a telemarketer, she's a tech writer, and I'm collecting unemployment!
We certainly don't have anything like a military discipline. We can't even decide between pizza or Chinese, let alone doing anything serious.
We do the same thing every time we meet, like we're afraid to do anything else.
What we need, and don't have, is a purpose. Our forebrothers had a purpose, to protect the holy land. What purpose do we have?
To go through the motions of antiquated ceremonies that don't mean anything anymore, of course!
Bro B (patiently)
To remember what was, so that we can be ready for what will be.
And what's that? What are we waiting for, exactly? Nobody knows, do they, anymore than we know what the rituals mean.
Everybody slumps a little, but they're all still looking more or less eastward.
Bro F (thoughtfully)
In the Arthurian stories, when they had forgotten their purpose, the Grail procession passed through the Round Table hall at Pentecost and gave them a purpose: to seek the Grail.
What, you want us to go hunting for mythic chalices?
Bro F (more firmly)
No, but I think we could use to have some kind of quest. I mean, what was the Grail, anyway? A cup? A cauldron? A stone?
A person? Parsifal asks, "Who is the Grail?"
It's something new, anyway. Let's do it. Let's each go on a quest to find the Grail, whatever it might be. If it was so powerful, it's got to still be around somewhere.
And probably not on the other side of the earth, either; the Round Table knights didn't have to travel to Jerusalem to find it, I bet we won't have to fly to England for it.
Bro B (uncertain)
Leave the vigil? I'm not sure I feel right about that.
You stay, then, and we'll go. Have a nice wait.
The five brothers turn away from the east and head in separate directions. If there are enough audience members, each brother should take some subset of the audience with him to lead on the meditation. If there aren't, then the brothers should all retire "offstage" (including Bro B) and each enter in turn to lead his respective meditation. If done in serial, there should be a pause between each, with the Meditation Transition, else leave the Transition out entirely.
All the meditations have the same intro and outro if done in parallel; if done in serial, just do the intro and outro once.
Center and focus yourself with fourfold breathing; 4 beats in, hold for 4 beats, 4 beats out, hold for 4 beats. The sound of your breath, the sound of my voice, the sound of other people's breath, the sound of the street, all serve gently to send you further into yourself. Feel yourself slipping away from here, floating away, to a place you know, a familiar place, a comfortable place, a place with a door or gate to the outside. You stand in front of it and open it, but on the other side is not the usual view. You step through.
WRATH (Bro C)
You are standing on a road leading away from you into a wood. Walk along it. At first, the trees are fairly widely spaced apart; there is sunlight dancing in the branches. But as you continue, they come to be growing closer together. The light is dappled, dimming. It is getting darker, harder to see. Darker with every step. Soon, the canopy of trees is so dense it is difficult to know whether it is night or day. The road continues clear, but beyond path to either side, it has become impossible to see. There is only where you've come from and where you're going. Which is good, because by now you cannot see at all, and only the feel and sound of the path under your feet gives you any idea that you might still be progressing. And so you progress.
Gradually, so gradually you can't quite be sure whether you see it or not, there seems to be a light growing up ahead of you, in the distance, faint and far. But as you continue, it gets brighter, and now you're certain that you're moving toward light. The trees are beginning to thin again, and by now you can see that night has fallen while you were walking. The light continues to grow brighter, and shortly you emerge into a clearing where the light source is. Hanging from a tree branch is a golden shield embossed with a lion's head, and it glows from within; hanging beside it is a wooden mallet.
Take up the mallet, and strike the shield with it.
Immediately, there is a deep, thunderous ringing, like a great cathedral bell, which becomes a roar, as though the lion head were roaring. From opposite you, there rides into the clearing an armored knight on horseback, in black armor, with visored helmet, the pennant on his lance pure black, and his shield covered with a black cloth so that his device is not visible. He dismounts and salutes you; you look down at yourself and see that you are now dressed in gold armor, a naked sword in your hand, and the lion shield is on your arm.
Without warning, the knight attacks you, and you find yourself fighting for your life. However adept a fighter you may or may not be, your opponent moves with the ease and power and grace of a dancer, and though his blows look barely more powerful than a caress, you can feel deadly force behind them as you parry them. But you do parry them; and though all your best efforts cannot penetrate his defense, neither has he wounded you. Feel yourself entering into the dance; it is like a minuet, gracious and formal. It is like a waltz, swirling and complex. It is like a tango, rhythmic andsensual. The strength of his blows strengthens you; his skill is your skill.
Suddenly, he ceases abruptly; without seeing how it happened, you see your sword hilt-deep in his breastplate. He falls without a sound, like a ghost, or a dream. Bend down and strip the cover from his shield; what do you see there? Lift his visor; whose face is it you see? Both things blur as you look at them, and now the device on the shield is a heart bound round with rose briars, and his face is your face. The light in the eyes is not dimmed; the lips move and form the words, "I love you." And now it is yourself lying on the ground in black armor, and a shining golden warrior stands victorious over you, eyes warm with love, smiling, saying, "And I you."
WORK (Bro D)
You are standing on a dirt road, rutted with wheel tracks, which leads down into a valley. The hills are dry and brown, dotted sparsely with bare trees. Faintly on the breeze, you smell burnt wood; other than the sound of your feet as you walk, and the slight whisper of the wind past your ears, you can hear nothing; no birdsong, no voices, no living noises of any kind. The fields are fallow, the earth of them grey and barren-looking, like nothing has grown there for a long time. Keep walking.
The burnt smell is growing stronger, along with other smells now rot, refuse. There are buildings up ahead; as you come closer, you see that they are the source of the burnt smell, but they are not even smoking now, just black shells. There is still nobody to be seen. The road begins to rise now, and uphill from you, you see a large building a manor house or a great hall or a castle. There is a torn and faded banner with a bull's head hanging over the open gate; go inside.
It is dark and musty-smelling; nobody emerges to meet you. But now you can hear something, coming from you can't quite tell where. It is the sound of ragged breathing, which shudders and catches, the sound of someone weeping voicelessly, in exhaustion or pain so profound that they hardly have strength to weep. Track down the sound and follow it. It seems to be coming from behind a door; open it.
Here are people, finally. Many of them are hurt; most of them aren't conscious; all of them look starved. The one who was weeping looks up at you with fearful eyes but makes no move to flee, as if even flight would be too much effort. Let your heart go out to these people; think what you might do to help them. You have a shirt on; strip it off and rip it into bandages. You have a little food at the sound of you unwrapping it, some of the people rouse themselves enough to plead weakly with you for some. You hand it all out until there is none left, and you bind up wounds as best you can.
Now you go hunting around the hall for something else in the way of food. You don't find any, but you do find more people, and you bring them back to the other room, supporting the weak ones, the halt ones. Finally, you come upon a room that seems to have been a sort of private chapel. It is empty and looks like it hasn't been used in a long time, and there are no candlesticks or any kind of vessel except for a tabernacle behind the high altar. Go up to the tabernacle and open it; it isn't locked. Inside, there is a covered silver bowl, black with tarnish, and in the bowl are the communion cakes. Pause and think.
These are consecrated hosts; the shew-bread of the temple; holy food. Is this blasphemy? Possibly. Is someone likely to be upset by it? Probably. But they are food, nonetheless, and you take them. The people you feed them to don't seem to notice what you're feeding them, or if they do, it doesn't matter.
The day is dragging on; you begin to feel tired. As you help the ones who are too weak to feed themselves, as you comfort the injured and dying, sometimes you see them look at something beyond you, just over your shoulder, with wide, astonished eyes but you don't have time to look, and they're probably only hallucinating anyway. There seems always to be one more mouth to feed, one more burning brow to lay a cool cloth on, one more wound to clean and dress. You keep working.
Now you are really exhausted; but you keep moving because it is the only thing you can do. And still, people's eyes follow you as you work, seeming to see something you can't stop moving long enough to look at. Finally, there is no more food, and you have no more strength, but also there are no more people needing you right now. You keep looking around for something to do, more automatically than anything else. And suddenly all the strength leaves you, your legs give way under you, and you sink down among the people you were helping. They look at you now, for a change, and you can see their gratitude, but now also you can see a light from somewhere behind and above you; a comforting hand touches your hair, and as your eyes close in a sleep you can no longer fight, a soft voice says, "It is enough."
WAY (Bro A)
You step onto a path through an oakwoods. As you make your way along the path, a deer pauses in its feeding to gaze steadily at you, but doesn't flee away; it simply turns back to browsing. The birds are almost riotous with song; rabbits and other small animals busy themselves in plain view of you, without fear. Through the trees, you catch occasional flashes of sunlight as though off some body of water.
You haven't gone very far when three men in livery step out of the woods and, seeing you, seize you angrily without any warning at all. You get the idea from them that they feel you've done something especially heinous, but you can't understand what that thing is. They pull you roughly along with them, upbraiding you the whole time. But still you can't make out what it is that you might have done wrong.
Presently, they bring you to a big clearing you can see from here that the water glints you saw earlier are coming off a little lake in the middle distance, between some trees. There seem to be people in the lake, and you catch glimpses of white, but before you can decide whether you're looking at a large bird or at a man in linen swathings, your captors shove you along to stand in front of a vigorous-looking older man. He frowns on you with a restrained severity, and begins grilling you with questions you don't know the answers to. "Why did you do that? How did you get here? Where did you come from? What were you thinking?" You're still confused, but now troubled, too. Maybe you did do something wrong. Finally, the older man throws up his hands, calling you nothing but a fool. But just then, a change comes over him, as he seems to think of something. He looks at you more penetratingly now, his brow furrowed. He gestures your captors away. "Go see to him," he says, gesturing toward the lake, and reluctantly the men leave. Then, to you he says, "Come along with me. I have something to show you." He leads you through the oaks, much more gently than the men before him, with an arm around your shoulders. His steps are slow and careful, but the trees seem to be rushing past as though each step took you many yards.
You begin to climb a gentle slope, and at the top of the slope is a palace. He takes you through a gate into a great chamber. Its floor is tiled with silver and gold like a chessboard; all around are pillars of deep blue stone flecked with gold and deeply glowing red-orange stone, alternating. There's a gathering of knights here, standing at eager attention. Presently, a man is borne in on a litter. His face is taut and pale, his eyes and cheeks hollow. He rises with difficulty, and with something of a frantic look, whips open the front of his tunic; there you see an open wound, seeping blood.
The scene shifts, blurring like the rushing trees; the white-swaddled man is a huge white swan with an arrow in its breast; the swan is a pelican pecking at its breast to feed its young on its own blood; the pelican is an armored angel in a chariot shaped like the crescent moon, bearing in his hands a great golden cup brimming with effulgence; the angel is a small naked boy surrounded by an aura of golden-flecked blue light he looks intently at you, holding his finger to his lips. You feel a pang in your own heart, as though there were an arrow lodged there; your hand moves involuntarily to press against the pain, and as it does, the changing images become still again. The wounded man has collapsed onto his litter; a pair of squires are covering something up with a shroud, something that was giving off a light that is dimming. Other squires are passing out loaves of bread and cups of wine.
The older man who brought you here is peering at you; he seems to be waiting for you to say something, waiting eagerly. But mindful of the small boy's gesture to you, you say nothing. For a moment the man looks much older and wearier. Then his face turns as grim as when he first met you; he takes you by the arm, hustles you to a door and shoves you out of it, slamming it behind you with the cry, "Be on your way!" As you look back at the shut door, one last time the small boy appears again; this time, he throws out his hands toward you, and from them comes a light which fills you with energy even as it hits you like a blow.
WOE (Bro F)
You step out onto a busy sidewalk in a good-sized town. People are going about their business with barely a glance for you, bent on whatever destinations their errands take them. You're jostled back one minute, pushed along the next. There are storefronts, street vendors. Food smells, people smells, the cries of the stall keepers, people shouting, traffic noises; prosperous chaos, business as usual.
Something is missing, and you can't quite pin down what. Continue down the road let your feet take you where they will. Peer into the faces of the passers-by; what do you see there? Anxiety; tension, avarice; hostility; apathy? What don't you see there? Peace; affection; generosity; hospitality; warmth? Soul? All this time, in all the racket of this place's life, you've heard nothing that sounds like music. No street players; not even someone whistling. In any given day, you hear music without ever noticing but not here, and you notice its absence. The press of people is beginning to tire you; their stress might be beginning to affect you. Look around there's a side street down which it looks like you might be able to get away from this for a minute or two. Make your way through the foot traffic toward it; slip down it.
It isn't a dark street, it seems safe enough; in fact, there seems to be nobody on this street at all, though the current of people continues flowing past it as ever. But for some reason, nobody's course takes them down this reach. Turn away from the busy street and walk down this one. This street seems to be mostly residential close-spaced two-storey buildings, all shut tight and quiet, curtained windows like closed eyes. The sound of the chaos seems to die away as you go further down the street ... finally, the street dead-ends at the front steps of a little stone building like a church. There are weeds growing through cracks in the steps; ivy climbing up the walls obscures completely whatever sign may have been there to give the church's name or denomination it could be anything. One of the double wooden doors at the top of the stairs is hanging a little ajar walk up and give it a try.
It's utterly dark and quiet inside; it takes your eyes a little
time to adjust. When you can see again, you see empty benches
askew, some turned over. There's a long table at the far end.
Your footsteps ring a little as you walk up the center aisle.
You might set the overturned benches upright as you pass them.
The dark wood of the tabletop is almost white with a thick layer
of dust. As you come closer, there's a flurry of wings, whistling;
a flight of startled doves flees from you out through vacant windowpanes.
A single feather floats down in front of you; brush off the altar
top with it. There are designs under the dust, but
they're worn to where you can scarcely make them out. Whatever this place was, it hasn't been used for anything in a long time. It is peaceful, though.
Sit down in the dim quiet and listen. The space has a sound of its own; the air in it breathes, as in the soundbox of an instrument, or a sigh across the end of a great pipe. The sound of your breathing gives a rhythm, slow, measured, stately, like a solemn processional. The place is awakening to you. There's an answering susurration to each of your breaths, as though made by the beating of great, vast wings. Something is coming. You can almost make out, in the dappled light, a shadowy cortege passing in front of you, above the table winged figures with faces downcast in mourning, or perhaps in prayer. First, a figure carrying a white lance with a white point, from which a rivulet of red blood runs down to the figure's hand; then, two more bearing great candles; finally, an angel wearing a golden helmet shaped like a hawk's head. In the angel's hands is something so bright that you can hardly bear to look at it, so bright you can't even see the angel's hands. The angel stops in front of you and turns to you, holding out the thing. And suddenly there's a great thundering of music, bells and organ, pipe and cymbals, high and bright and clear; it is like a deluge after a drought, a deep soaking that fills you up with rapture, profound grief and profound joy mingled like water and wine, the light rains hard upon you; you taste blood. Your consciousness can't bear this and slips away from you, like dust brushed away with a feather.
WISDOM (Bro E)
You have stepped through a megalithic three-stone arch into a stone circle. It is bitter cold, and the sky is a blue-grey twilight; it could be dawn or dusk. Everything is hushed, except for the glittering snow crunching underfoot as you approach the center of the monument. There is something lying there. The sky is lightening for certain; look to the horizon where it seems lightest. You find yourself looking through the trilithon by which you came here in the first place. Some yards away from the circle is a solitary stone. You maneuver yourself to where you can sight through the trilithon over the top of the further stone, and almost fall over the body in the middle of the circle.
It is a young man with long reddish hair and a short beard;
the hair has several braids in it, dressed
with animal bones and teeth, and various types of birds' feathers. Under a stag-hide cape, his bare skin is both tattooed and battle-scarred. The head of the stag hide has slipped off the man's head, and you can see clearly the three wounds by which he died a blow to the head, a garrotte, a blade in the heart. Beside him is a beaten bronze cauldron with raised designs, brimming with his blood. He has died the threefold death of the winter sacrifice, and his face is as peaceful as that of one asleep. Look out through the stone arch across the top of the monolith; the sun's first ray sears into your corneas, blinding you for a moment.
When you can see again, you are not where you were. Now, in the east, there is an altar, and around you are walls. You are standing in a great, round basilica, surrounded by a congregation of people in opulent dress, richly decorated with embroidery, pearls, garnets, and topazes. Look up; high overhead is a vast, domed ceiling, covered in gold leaf; the gold gives an inner glow to the icon of Christos Pantocrator painted there, his luminous eyes seeming to look just over your shoulder at something you can't see, his face looking severe, sorrowful, compassionate, and remote by turns.
Look ahead; a priest, vested in gold and red, is busy with
something, his back to you. Look around
you; all have bowed their heads with reverent awe, and now in front of the altar the priest lifts a great, golden chalice high over his head, crying, "Hagios! Hagios! Hagios!" From a small window, high up the wall to your right, a lance of high noon sunlight breaks into the basilica, and on the dancing dust motes the Dove descends as the people's praise rises, and from somewhere there is a tumult of bells pealing.
You close your eyes against the brilliance, and when you open them again, you are no longer where you were. There is just one bell tolling now, slowly, slowly as a failing heartbeat. Again you are in a dim twilight, and again outdoors. But around you is the gentle westward current of a great, deep river, and you are standing on a large island in the middle of it. Beyond the island, to the west the city stretches as far as you can see, through a gap in the city walls for the river to pass through, with a great cathedral looming up about half a mile away, brooding in the half light. Although nearby is a sort of raised stage and grandstand, you are alone. Turn around; you can barely see, in the gathering dark, two charred stakes of wood, black ashes around them still smoking a little. As you watch, a figure steals up to them and scoops a little ash into a cloth, then flees. Now it is too dark to see. It is dark for a long time.
Then it seems as if, perhaps, the fire was not all extinguished; from all around, sparks come flying up. Your gaze follows them, upward, dancing and gathering in the vault of the night sky, like a vast bowl of lapis lazuli upended, spilling and gathering fire, blazing brighter and deepening darker. The heavens wheel above you, and a triumphant shout rings across the night: "The last sacrifice is accomplished!"
WILL (Bro B)
You step out into an empty lot. You're carrying a single, fresh, deep red rose. There's nobody around, but there is a bench; have a seat. You're waiting for someone to come, someone you've never met, to lead you to a really marvellous event, one of the most important in your life so far. You've waited for this for a long time, yearning for it without really knowing what you were yearning for. It's evening, the shadows are lengthening. You've been instructed to prepare yourself, but you're too nervous to be really calm; you can't let yourself go into a full meditation for fear that the stranger will come while you're in trance. But you try to breathe slowly and evenly.
Look into the rose, follow the inward spiral of its petals and let your thought follow your eyes, inward. Smell the rose; it gives up its scent like a prayer, like your own prayer for your heart's deepest desire, the thing you want so intensely that you can't even articulate it, all you can do is to yearn wordlessly toward it, the rose turning toward the sun.
You're getting restless. Still nobody has come for you. You're starting to feel angry. Where are they? Have they stood you up? You came like you were told, you've waited patiently ... now you're waiting impatiently, with growing frustration. You consider giving up, getting up and leaving. But it would be just like the way of things for them to show up right after you'd left, wouldn't it.
It's beginning to be late. You begin to worry. Where is the person you're supposed to meet? Your anger, having no outlet, is starting to turn inward, to become depression. Maybe you're not in the right place; maybe they already came and didn't find you, and went away again. Maybe this was some kind of test and you failed it.
How could you have thought that you deserved such a great thing
to happen to you? But you've
waited so long, thirsting, like a desert land under an unrelenting sun. You thought that maybe this time the rain would come, the fulfillment you'd longed for.
You look around in the deepening twilight; there's nobody visible. You're all alone, the same as ever. the banquet has not been spread for you; the invitation isn't coming.
Your prayer still has no words, but now, instead of coming easily and sweetly, it seeps out from under your tight shut eyelids, wrung from your clenched heart. You are worn out with waiting; you have neither strength to hope nor strength to give up. It is quiet, dark. The sun has set, the stars are coming out. And still you wait, because that's all there is to do. But your heart is no longer in it. You're all out of ideas; all out of faith. Lay the rose beside you, and put your face in your hands.
[pause here for a bit]
Gradually, the trance of sorrow lifts just a little, enough
for you to be aware ... and suddenly a voice just behind and to
your left says, gently, "I come in the name of the rose."
You look up, into a light like a pillar of fire.
And the vision fades as the light fades; you float in a comfortable
darkness for a time. Then you come to rest on your feet, and the
light returns to show you a new vision. Step forward.
And the vision fades as the light fades, and you feel your
breath, 4 in, hold 4, 4 out, hold 4, and you feel the clothes
on your skin, and the weight of your body as you sit, and you
hear the sound of others around you, and of the room and the house
and the street, and you are here, in this place, in this time,
in this place, in this time, in this place, in this time. Sigh
and stretch; open your eyes. It is finished.
While the (parallel) meditation is going on, the Brother leading it lights a candle, and the group comes back with it. If they're done in serial, the Brothers light their candles during the last meditation; in any event, each Brother holds onto the candle until the time for placing it comes, at which time each places it at the point of a hexagram.
Bro C (setting candle on the altar)
I have seen a wonder, done a mighty thing,
fought myself in anger, conquered me with love,
died and was victorious, strange as it may seem.
I won something, surely; it was not the Grail.
Bro D (setting candle on the altar)
I found desolation, saw the land laid waste,
met those needing my help; I could not refuse
gave myself in service, spent my strength away.
So I was diverted; so I failed the quest.
Bro A (setting candle on the altar)
I was taken captive by another's rules,
suffered scorn and anger, witnessed miracles,
kept a holy silence and was made outcast,
lost my way and found it; but I found no Grail.
Bro F (setting candle on the altar)
I sought contemplation, fled from the mundane,
there beheld a vision, holy and profound,
passed out from the rapture, woke and it was gone.
I was so close, so close! But I, too, have failed.
Bro E (setting candle on the altar)
I saw ages passing, bound by sacrifice,
history unfolding, all asperged with blood,
heard a voice that told me this was at an end.
I don't know its meaning where's the Grail in this?
Bro B (setting candle on the altar)
I held to the vigil, as I've always done,
listening and longing, hoping against hope,
fighting disappointment, thought I saw a sign
something great is coming, but I don't know what.
All (except the brethren)
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them.
Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
The Word of the Law is ΘΕΛΗΜΑ.
All Heaven is aflame with a great blast of trumpets; and the world is alight with one flash, that
sundereth every spirit that liveth, branding this Sign upon them:
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
The Brethren look around them in surprise and wonder during this speech, as though the empty air addressed them, then notice as for the first time the altar now brightly lit. They deliver the next lines to each other with growing excitement and rapture
I can touch the wellspring in us -- brothers, feel: the Grail is Love.
I can taste the draught of power -- brothers, drink: the Grail is Life.
I can smell the stale air clearing -- breathe: the Grail is Liberty.
I can see the dark receding -- brothers, look: the Grail is Light.
Heed the call and hear the message -- brothers, is the Grail not here?
We have hunted it, but maybe it has been here from the start!
All (except the brethren)
The Holy Child has come to put to flight
the dark night of the soul, and the year's night;
the dayspring long awaited, in his might
brings all to Life, Love, Liberty and Light.
The Word resounds, the Wounded Land is healed,
the Will is forged and in the Heart annealed.
No longer shall your treasure be concealed
unveil the shrine, and be the Grail revealed!
Love Feast music from Parsifal Act
I. The Brethren come to the altar. Bro
E lifts up the candle; Bros C, D, A and F each take
a corner of the square (with the cloth) and lift it up together,
setting it to one side, then take out the paten of bread; Bro
B takes the Grail and elevates it.
Brethren (in unison)
Let this holy bread, flesh and soul fulfill;
let us to our task be fortified
That as we have fed, we may work our Will
with the Law of Liberty allied.
In this sacred draught, we pledge unity
and our purpose new-made as the dawn.
Harmony and craft, strength and ecstasy;
let them crown the work we now take on.
The Brethren pass out the bread and
the cup to all present. When all have partaken, the Brethren close
the ritual with a new catechism, as follows:
What is the time?
The sun has arisen.
What is the place?
It is the holy mountain of Monsalvat.
Then our labor is just beginning.
Aye, but "at the end of labour is the power of labour."
They embrace naturally, with real affection, then bow to the assembled, and exit.