Ancient traditions tell us that Aeneas the Trojan, while in exile with his people, was sheltered for a time in the mountain range of Ida until the Greeks had to abandon ancient Troy.
When the Hellenes abandoned the heroic ruins of proud Ilium, Aeneas built a fleet. Weeping, he left the shores of his native land, its harbors and the plains where the ancient citadel of Troy had once stood. Now it lay smoking on the ground, transformed into black ruins.
The wind blew and the sweet sail swelled under the light of the full moon, while the oar, struggling with the smooth marble, carried the hero, with his fleet and his people, to the shores of Thrace. It was a savage country, yet he hoped to find a welcoming land, since the Thracians had ancient ties with the elder Priam.
The history of the centuries tells us that in the savage land of the Thracians, Aeneas laid out a city that he named Aeneadae.
When the Trojans performed the sacrifice to Jupiter the Cosmic Christ, precisely in the moments in which they were preparing to light the fire and sacrifice a gleaming white bull, an extraordinary prodigy happened: the branches that they had cut from a tree for the fire dripped dark gouts of blood which stained the earth with gore.
Aeneas was chilled with horror and began to pray to the ineffable Gods, begging them to turn what he was seeing into good and to make the omen blessed.
The hero tells us that he tore some other branches off from the same tree, but the dark blood flowed from the bark of all of them, until he heard a heart-rending groan emerge from deep in the mound, and a voice rose in the air telling him:
Why do you tear my poor flesh, Aeneas? Take pity now on the man who is buried here and do not pollute your righteous hands. I am not stranger to you. It was Troy that bore me and this is not a tree that is oozing blood. Escape, I beg you, from these cruel shores, from this land of greed. It is Polydorus that speaks. This is where I was struck down and an iron crop of weapons covered my body. Their sharp points have rooted and grown in my flesh.
The legend states that upon the mound of soil in which the roots of that tree were inserted, Aeneas consecrated an altar, dark with funeral wreaths and offerings of foaming cups of warm milk and bowls of wine.
Thus, this is how the funeral of Polydorus the dead warrior, who was killed in hard battle, was celebrated.
Since the ancient times of Arcadia, when worship to the Gods of the four elements of the universe and to the Deities of the tender corn was still performed, the old hierophants, with their hair growing white with wisdom, never ignored the multiplicity of the “I.”
Is it then rare, perchance, for any one of these many entities that constitute the ego to seize itself to life with much obsession and to be re-born in a tree?
Another case comes into my memory, that of Pythagoras and his friend who was reincorporated into a poor dog.
But, is it not perhaps true that the Centaurs are assisted? What are the legends of the centuries telling us?
These epic warriors (Centaurs) who fell bleeding among the helmets and bucklers of those who gloriously died for the love of their people and their country, receive a well-deserved extra help when they return into this world.
It is written with tremendous words that the Centaurs, before returning into this valley of tears, eliminate part of themselves, part of their beloved ego.
The law for Centaurs is as follows: What is decisively criminal in them must enter the crematorium of the Infernal Worlds, and what is less perverse must be reincorporated into a human body.
The old laurel-crowned Florentine Dante found many Centaurs in the abyss. Let us remember Chiron the old tutor of Achilles and Pholus, who was so frenzied.
It is said with frightening and complete clarity in the great book of Nature, written with flaming embers, that before returning into this world, many parts of the ego are lost. Many psychic aggregates of the “Itself” reincorporate into organisms of beasts, others are desperately seized (as the case of Polidorus) into the branches of trees, and finally, certain subjective elements of the “I” continue their devolution into the submerged mineral kingdom.
Transmigration is beyond a doubt something very similar to all of this, although with great differences and more profound roots.
There exist people within the tremendous flames of life so bestial, that if by chance all of the coarseness that they possess was extracted from them, nothing would remain. So, it is necessary to reduce such creatures into dust within the interior of the earth in order for their Essence, their soul, to be liberated.
Legend tells us that Capaneus, one of the seven Kings who besieged Thebes, arrogantly cried within the abyss:
That which I was in life, I am in death. Though Jove wear out the smith from whom he took, in wrath, the keen-edged thunderbolt with which on my last day I was to be transfixed; or if he tire the others, one by one, in Mongibello, at the sooty forge, while bellowing: ‘O help, good Vulcan help!’ -just as he did when there was war at Phlegra - and cast his shafts at me with all his force, not even then would he have happy vengeance.
Frightful devolutions exist within the interior of this afflicted world upon which we live. Precisely there is where Divine Justice has cast Attila who flogged Divinity on earth, there also is cast Pirroh, as well as Sexto whose boiling blood eternally throws out his tears.
If you fall there, you must suffer unbearable punishments, and there will certainly be no time for escape.
It is better to be a beggar upon the earth than a king in the kingdom of darkness.
Therefore, the descent into the tenebrous worlds is a backward trip through the devolving path. It is a downfall into an always increasing density, within obscurity and rigidity. It is a return, a repetition of the animal, plant, and mineral states, in short, a return into the primitive Chaos.
The souls of the abyss are liberated with the Second Death. These souls receive the token for their freedom when the ego and the lunar bodies are reduced to dust.
The souls who are coming from the interior of the earth, who are marked by the frightful subterranean trip and covered with dust, convert themselves into gnomes of the mineral kingdom, then later into elementals of the plant kingdom, further into animals, and finally they reconquer the lost human state.
This is the wise doctrine of Transmigration taught in foregone times by Krishna, the Hindustani Master.
Millions of souls who died within the inferno are now playing as gnomes upon the rocks. Other souls are now delectable plants, or are living within animal creatures and longing to return to the human state.
This chapter is from The Gnostic Magic of the Runes (1969) by Samael Aun Weor. The print and ebook editions by Glorian Publishing (a non-profit organization) are illustrated to aid your understanding, and include features like a glossary and index. Buy the book, and you benefit yourself and others.