contact
media
About
Story
song of Shambhala
diary of a dreamer
Amazing!
When he was young Sheridan believed music could change the world, now he has to believe the power of one song can save it.
Hill of Tara
Machu Picchu
The Story
A cynical middle aged musicologist who specializes in ancient sacred music finds himself in a struggle between church and state when the unpublished book that once led to his excommunication is discovered to have insight concerning an ancient relic that could save the world - the Baton of Lucifer. The book tells of a baton, with which Lucifer led the choirs of heaven before his fall from grace, that fell from heaven and found itsâ way to the city of Shambhala. While Evan Grant, an ambition member of the United Nation's secret military, and Reynard, of the Vatican's Department of the Inquisition, race to the find the three Chintamani stones that they believe give the baton it's power, Sheridan searches for the song that only he knows the stones will reveal - a song as old as life itself, the Song of Shambhala. And so begins a race against time that takes Sheridan to sacred locations around the world, where the music of his heart and the lost music of ancient religions are discovered once again, as he risks it all to find the Song of Shambhala.
There are ancient, timeless songs Life brings to each of us and there are songs we each bring to Life, but there is one song woven throughout the fabric of life that is the most powerful and beautiful song of all - the Song of Shambhala.
If you have found this book, or if it has found you, then the Song of Shambhala has already begun to call for you, to awaken the Shambhala Warrior within. To arrive at this moment in your life is at once a blessing and a curse - a blessing to those who seek the Song of Shambhala and a curse to those who are haunted by the song and do not hearken to it's melody.
This journal tells of my search for the Song of Shambhala. In its pages I reveal many of the songs I discovered along the way, songs that when understood, hold the clues to where you may find the Song of Shambhala.
Before the Dark
I have always loved music, especially sacred music. The joyful refrain, the reverent chorus, mans humble attempt to speak of a mighty God, have never failed to move me. I gave my life to recovering lost manuscripts of sacred music in the service of the Vatican and have had the privilege of sharing many of them with the world. No moment in my life felt more complete than when conducting a great choir and grand orchestra surrounded by beautiful music penned by the hand of man, played for the ears of God. My search for the rare antiquities of sacred music took me all around the world, where I often found myself in desperate circumstances, clinging to a remnant of music or an ancient instrument. I considered no risk to great, no course to dangerous in my efforts to uncover the forgotten music of an increasingly forgotten God. Ultimately, it was this reckless abandon to discover the original source of sacred music that led to my undoing.
Nothing more had been heard of the elusive city of Shambhala nor the fabled Chintimani stones until I wrote my book entitled BATON OF SHAMBHALA: SOURCE OF THE LOST MUSIC OF HEAVEN, which was not interesting enough to become published but was apparently dangerous enough to get me fired from my music research job at the Vatican and lead to calls for my excommunication.
It has been a well established tenet of Christian theology that Lucifer was not only the greatest of the archangels but that he was also heavens chief musician. So it came as no surprise to me to discover ancient manuscripts revealing that Lucifer once possessed a music baton with which he directed the chorus of heaven. These manuscripts explained that when Lucifer was cast from heaven, his baton fell to earth, to be lost for millennia, till it found its way to...Shambhala. There the Baton of Lucifer became the Baton of Shambhala and the green stone, set within the golden prongs that formed its base, became known as the Chintamani Stone.
That discovery was the beginning of my Long Dark Night.
The Long Dark Night
I had given my life, indeed risked my life, in the pursuit of the evidence of my faith. I believed in what I thought the church represented, a true and living God, and gave myself to the pursuit of music that would bring to life the love of God. It wasn't a well paying job and required a lot of time away from my family, but it was worth it, I thought, to be a part of something greater than myself.
So when my research suggested that there was a link between the sacred music here on earth and the music that was heard in heaven, I was shocked to find myself cast aside and discredited. I discovered, much to my dismay, that the church's first goal was neither ministry to men nor service to God, but it's own self preservation and that anything that did not conform to the doctrine of the church was considered a mortal threat. My motives were irrelevant, I had stepped outside the boundaries of accepted theology, and so I was cast out of the Vatican City like a leper whose sickness threatened the spiritual health of all those with whom I might come into contact.
I felt ashamed and flawed, that I was not good enough, and probably never had been. Everything that had given me purpose was taken from me and I found myself alone with even my friends questioning my intentions.
Jobless and publicly disgraced, my beautiful wife Graciela and I found ourselves confronted with a crisis of faith when the death grip of leukemia took hold of our son. We tried to fight the good fight, but the end came quickly and I found it all too much to bear. Although Graciela had enough strength for both of us I was too angry and too bitter and finally sought escape from my pain by walking away from it all.
Having lost my job, my family, and my faith, I found myself the owner of the Ancient Books, Music and Artifacts Shop where I struggled to make a living selling books and trinkets to parents whose children were more interested in the most recent video game than the history of sacred music. At times, when the money was right, I would lead expeditions for wealthy businessmen who wanted nothing
more than a good story to go with their new rare collectible.
When I had time, I would try my hand at composing, in an attempt to find the music that had abandoned me for so long, but no music came, until I found the first of the ancient Songs of Life - the Song of Despair. I found it churning through my tormented mind, whispering in my ears and burning in my gut. It came to me early one morning after I had been struggling to compose a cantata, a choral composition with full orchestra. The results were always the same. A cacophony of uninspired notes splattered across the page. It was no good.
After hours of grasping for musical motives, clawing my way with desperate determination, numbing the pain with ample shots of whiskey, I gathered the scores in my ink stained hands and began ripping them apart, my anger spilling out like a virulent plague for which there was no cure.
After the rage was drained from my body, reminiscent of a medieval bloodletting, I picked up the calligraphy pen again. My hand began to move, guided as if by the same mysterious force that moves the planchette of an ouija board, as lyric and melody began to appear on the page.
I could hear the chorus, a great choir singing a haunting melody, the orchestra gloomy and ominous - the cantanta had become a requiem, a mass for the dead.
Long Dark Night
Not getting over that certain pain
This empty feeling won't go away
Go through the paces from day to day
Feel like an alien in this place
It seems the world has gone and passed me by
The method and madness all a careful lie
No point in trying, yet still I try
Maybe I'm sleep walking or have lost my mind
Kyrie-eleison, Kyrie-eleison
Kyrie-eleison, Have mercy on me
Living in the land of the long dark night
It's a dream graveyard
Where our hopes finally come to die
To die
Sacred treasures lost to ancient times
For the highest bidder I will gladly find
Taking their money while they look for a sign
I want to warn them but soon enough they'll realize
We are the heirs the earth our prize
The many dreams, the many lies
The perfect love, the innocent child
Are willed to us on borrowed time
Sometimes I hear the music, riding on a gentle breeze
Rising from the shadows, of my broken dreams, they keep haunting me
Looking out the smudgy, cobweb framed window of the Ancient Books, Music and Artifacts shop, I could see the fiery orange of the sun as it began to rise over the Manhattan skyline. The lonely shop and the desperate silence of a blank score had troubled me many a night but I met this morning with my first composition in five years. The satisfaction I expected to feel never came, as in its place a scorching anxiety arose when I realized I had given birth to a musical work that mourned my own death, marking a chapter of my life I wished I could somehow escape.
I poured a little more whiskey in a dingy coffee cup while I examined the score in disgust. The desperation was unbearable, the truth the music had revealed, to painful to acknowledge. The pain began to boil up in me till it turned to uncontrollable rage. I violently swept the manuscript off the desk and began to swing my fists at anything within reach, when several boxes were knocked to the floor revealing a flyer - it was an eviction notice. In a fit of fury I grabbed the notice and began ripping it apart just as the bell on the front door clattered, snapping me out of my stupor. I pulled myself together, my hand combing through my tousled hair, as I turned to face the door.
In walked a steely-eyed bully in an impeccable three-piece suit, followed by two larger, younger bodyguards in black gear. They looked serious. While my mind raced trying to remember who I may have pissed off badly enough to send this crew after me, the big guy scanned the room, sizing up the worth of the inventory before locking his eyes onto me. I had a feeling this was not going to turn out well.
"Are you Sheridan Clark?" he asked directly.
"Yes", I answered, eyeing the three suspiciously.
He tossed a large book on the counter. The title of the custom bound book read: Baton of Shambhala: Source of the Lost Music of Heaven.
"That book was never published." I asserted, "What does it matter now?" I added, wondering where this was leading.
"Your research is of great interest to certain members of the UN Security Council."
"Sacred music that has been lost for centuries?" I questioned mockingly.
He turned the pages of the book to a glossy middle section, displaying a drawing of an ornate baton.
"No, we're interested in this."
I knew the drawing well.
"The Baton of Shambhala," I mumbled. "Once the Baton of Lucifer himself."
His eyes remained locked onto me.
"Since the beginning of time there was always music," I began. "And with this baton, the archangel Lucifer directed the chorus of heaven."
I looked him straight in the eye straining for a clue to his intentions.
"And when he was cast down from heaven?" he prodded.
I began to trace the drawing with my fingers. "His baton fell to earth, to be lost for millennia," I eased into it. "Till it found its way to..."
"Shambhala." He added knowingly.
"What gives?" I wondered to myself, waiting for the next shoe to drop.
Suddenly the stranger grabs the book and shoves it under his arm.
"I'll send a car to pick you up tomorrow," He informed me matter of factly; "Theres something you should see."
"Who are you? "
"The name is Evan Grant," He offered soberly. "And I am someone who needs your expertise, now more than ever."
A smirk spread across his face as he looked around the store. "Unless youre busy here?" he added sarcastically.
I gave him a nod, my teeth clenched tightly.
The next day a limousine took me to where the iconic UN building stood under a menacing sky of gray, past a crowd of angry protestors carrying signs that read FREEDOM=CHAOS; PLANET WARMING OR PLANET WARRING - CHOOSE ONE; ONE NATION PLANET EARTH; ADAPT OR DIE and IS THIS THE END?
As we passed the crowd, a flock of birds crashed violently into the limo windshield.
"Even the birds have lost their bearings." Evan commented as he motioned to six television monitors arrayed behind the drivers seat. He clicked on a remote control. "It's happening everywhere."
Suddenly the Monitors displayed six video feeds showing world events streaming in from hot spots around the globe: Earthquakes leveling cities that had endured centuries of the ravages of nature; uproarious rioting in lands once known for peace; famine in countries of immense natural resource; and war, everywhere there was war.
I looked away. For years, I had intentionally averted my gaze from the misery that seemed to permeate all of life. I had my own pain and it was more than I could bear.
Once inside the UN I was led deep into its bowels, past layers of security, through increasingly sophisticated access points and finally down an austere hallway of metal walls and ceilings made of tightly woven strands of stainless steel. The hallway dead ended at an imposing barricade of seamless steel. There on the metal wall hung a touch screen and just below an open grill of metal bars for the floor. Evan noticed I was reluctant to step onto the metal grate. He cracked a wicked smile.
"It appears your years of tomb raiding have served you well." He said, glancing down to the metal bars upon which he stood. "You're right to be concerned, the floor becomes electrically charged the moment this touch screen comes in contact with unauthorized fingerprints."
He placed his right hand on the screen and the six inch thick steel door slid to one side revealing a large room where personnel sat at computer monitors tracking events around the world. In the center of the room was a large table where holographic images were displayed as if dancing over its surface.
Evan turned to his military attaché, a muscular soldier with a strong jaw and an intense gaze. Display Mount Kailash. Evan barked brusquely.
The 3-D holographic map flickered several times before displaying MOUNT KAILASH and the surrounding mountains of Tibet.
"We've done some probing inside the mountain using magnetic imaging." Evan remarked. The holographic image stuttered and an x-ray image of the mountain appeared, revealing a city hidden within.
I couldnt believe my eyes.
Evan stepped back dramatically. "Behold, the city of Shambhala!" He announced. "According to your book, the Baton of Shambhala remains in a temple on top of the King's Tower somewhere in the middle of the city. But we havent found a way in and we can't use explosives, that would be too risky in those mountains, not to mention the unwanted attention we would quickly receive from the Chinese military."
I examined the image for a moment then cocked my head toward Evan. Something was missing.
"And why is the UN looking for the Baton of Shambhala?" I asked cynically.
Evan motioned to one of the men seated at a computer monitor. Suddenly a holographic image of the Baton of Shambhala came to life. "You know the power that the stones from this baton possess." He said pointedly.
I cringed. "You mean the Chintamani stones? They were once a single stone that was so powerful it was broken into three stones and sent to the farthest corners of the earth, so that such great power could never be held in the hands of a one man."
"Yes, the Chintamani stones."
"They've been used more for bad than for good." I snapped back. "It's better they are never found."
Evan furrowed his eyebrows with sincerity. "That's the problem. We have to stop an escalation of the war in the Middle East," He motioned to the image of the baton. "And that baton is our only hope."
"Now the UN is relying on legends to solve the worlds problems?" I challenged.
"One of the stones from that baton was made into a necklace that was worn by Alexander the Great when he conquered the world." He said gravely.
"That stone has been lost for centuries." I interjected.
"You know as well as I do that Alexander the Great cast the stone into the well of Osiris in hopes that one day a great warrior worthy of the stone would come to unite the world again!" He challenged.
"Such warriors only exist in myths." I scoffed, "And relics only have value if some fat businessman thinks he can sell them. They can't save the world!"
Evan leaned across the holographic table, looking me in the eye. "A Persian descendent of Alexander the Great has surfaced." He intoned, "In just a matter of days he'll be celebrating his coming of age at the well of Osiris where, according to the prophecies, the stone will arise from the well and anoint the boy as king of the ancient lands of Persia. If the stone does appear, it will embolden the Muslim world and push us into a World War. "
He looked up at the holographic image of the Baton of Shambhala. "All I am asking is that you help us get the baton. Then well take it from there." Then added smartly: "Well also pay your six months in back rent on your shop, so that eviction notice doesnt stick. "
And that was the deal. All I had to do was find the baton and walk away.
Finding the Sacred
Astrolabe
Mount Kailash
Stargate
The Music
Everwhere I went the music
was calling out
for me!
Discovery The Mystery
âThe five colors can blind,
The five tones deafen,
The five tastes cloy,
The race, the hunt, can drive men mad
And their booty leaves them no peace.
Therefore the sensible man
Prefers the inner to the outer eye.
Tao-te Ching
Contact