The Rocks of the Sun
by Savitri Devi
An extract from
Chapter 9 of Pilgrimage, edited with illustrations and captions by Irmin.
Originally published at Irminsul’s Racial Nationalist Library.
Originally published at Irminsul’s Racial Nationalist Library.
Illustration:
Die Externsteine: A reputed pagan solar temple, near Horn in northern Germany.
Die Externsteine: A reputed pagan solar temple, near Horn in northern Germany.
The Externsteine, 23rd of October 1953, in the evening.
We rolled through and past Horn,
without stopping, turned to our right as we reached the outskirts of the
town and then, after another five hundred yards, to our left, and
followed a beautiful asphalted road bordered with trees and meadows
beyond which more trees—that same, unending Teutoburg Forest in autumn
garb, that I was never tired of admiring—could be seen. I looked right
and left, and ahead, and did not speak. I was watching the approach of
evening upon the fiery red and yellow and brown of the leaves ready to
fall, and thinking of the captive eagles and of enslaved Germany, and
longing for the Day of Revenge—“der Tag der Rache”—as steadily as I had
been, as a matter of fact, for the last eight and half years.
Then, suddenly barring the road, a
row of vertical rocks about a hundred feet high—but looking much
higher, specially from a short distance—appeared, evenly grey against
the bright background of the sunset sky. I recognized them at once for
having seen pictures of them, and exclaimed in a low voice, with
ravishment: “Die Externsteine!”
We stepped out of the car. I stood,
automatically, apart from the other travellers, as though I were aware
of the fact that we belonged to two different worlds; that they, even
though they were Germans, were, here, but tourists, while I, even
though a foreigner, was already a pilgrim.
I looked up to the irregular stone
shapes that stood between me and the further forest, into which the
motorable road leads. The familiar outlines fascinated me. Not that I
was, for the first time in my life, visiting a place stamped with the
prestige of immemorial Sun-worship: it was anything but the first time! I
had seen Delphi and Delos, and the ruins of Upper and Lower Egypt:
Karnak and the Pyramids. And I had, in India, visited the celebrated
“Black Pagoda” built in the shape of a Sun-chariot resting upon twelve
enormous wheels, each of which corresponds to a sign of the Zodiac, and
presenting in sculpture the most splendid illustration of Life at all
its stages—in all its fullness—from the wildest erotic scenes that
adorn most of the surface of the lower walls, to the serene stillness
of lonely medication: the meditation of the Sun-god Himself, whose
seated statue dominates the whole structure. And I had visited the
extraordinary temple of Sringeri, every one of the twelve columns of
which is struck in turn by the first Sun-rays, on the day the Sun
enters a new constellation.
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But I had never yet (save once, in
Sweden) found myself upon a spot sanctified by the Worship of our
Parent Star—the old worship of Light and Life—in a Germanic country.
And these Rocks, I knew, had been the centre of Germanic solar rites in
time without beginning. I felt like a person who has walked a long way
and a long time—who has come from a very, very distant country—with a
definite purpose, and who, at last, reaches the goal. I had now
attained, if not the end (for there is no end), at least the
culminating point of my pilgrimage through Germany and through life. And
I was happy. I had reached the Source where I could replenish my
spiritual forces for the eternal Struggle in its modern form: the
Struggle of the Powers of Light against the Powers of Gloom,
experienced by me as that of the National Socialist values against
those both of Christianity and of Marxism—of the oldest and of the
latest Jewish doctrine for Aryan consumption, which I had fought and
would continue fighting untiringly.
I gazed at the irregular dark grey
Rocks; and tears filled my eyes. And as the people with whom I had
travelled bade me good-bye to follow the guide who had come to take
them round, I was glad: I wished to see the Rocks without haste and, as
far as possible, alone.
Right
before me stood the highest rock; a long, rough cylinder—or rather, a
prism—of stone, very slightly inclined to the left like the trunk of an
enormous tree that time had worn and human beings mutilated, without
being able to destroy it. I knew that, at the top of that rock is the
sanctuary from which the wise ones of old used to greet the Earliest
Sunrise, on the morning of the Summer Solstice Day. From below, I could
see the bridge by which one accedes to it today—the bridge that now
joins the highest rock, commonly called “the second,” to the next one
on the left, commonly called the “third” (called so, at least, in the
one detailed archaeological study which I had, up till then, read,
concerning the Externsteine). 
Slowly
I walked up the stairs hewn into the live rock on the side of the
“third” cliff, halting now and then to admire the landscape over which,
my eyes wandered, from a little higher at every new step I took: the
small lake into the still waters of which the furthermost cliff to the
right—the “first”—plunges vertically; the thick woods beyond; the
extension of the road by which I had come, past the slope on the left
and past the lake, into further woods; and, on the other side—to the
north-east, whence I had come—the wooded hills around and beyond Horn
and Detmold. In the sunset glow, the reds in the autumn forest appeared
brighter, and the browns, redder. And the lake was a smooth surface of
shining darkness and bright orange-gold, on the opposite side of which
I could see the up-side-down reflection of the forest. I went up and
up and, having crossed the bridge without daring to throw a glance into
the void below, I found myself standing in the age-old sanctuary that I
had come to behold. And I shuddered, overwhelmed at the feeling of
being on holy ground.
It is difficult to tell what the
sanctuary once looked like. Today, nearly twelve hundred years after
its systematic destruction through Christian fanaticism, one steps onto
a stone pavement some six yards long and not quite four yards wide,
without a roof. At one end of the room, to one’s right as one now comes
in, i.e., to the North-East, one sees a huge piece of rock—a part of
the very cliff on which one is standing—carved out into a vaulted
hollow, the ground-level of which is a foot higher than the pavement.
In the midst of it, hewn out of the same one block of stone, is a
stand, with a flat, table-like top about a foot wide and two and a half
feet deep; and above this, cut out in the solid, natural,
north-eastern wall of the mysterious room, an opening, as perfectly
circular as can be, something over a foot (37 centimeters, exactly) in
diameter. At the other end of the pavement—to one’s left as one enters,
from the bridge, i.e. to the south-west—is a rectangular niche, higher
than even a very tall man, some five feet broad or so and over a foot
deep, with a pillar each side of it. And in the rock wall opposite the
bridge—to the north-west—is a window looking over the neighbouring
cliff and the lake beyond. The once existing walls between the vaulted
room and the rest of the structure, on the south-east and the
north-west, are now replaced by iron railings. The roof of the
sanctuary was the eastern portion of the top of the cliff itself. It has
been destroyed, leaving the whole place, with the exception of the
vaulted hollow, as I have said, open to the sky.
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My back to the south-western wall,
behind which the Sun was now setting, I gazed at the ruins of the
venerable high-place. Here, at the time the great Egyptian kings of the
Twelfth Dynasty were building their mighty temples and ever-lasting
tombs; at the time the mysterious sea-lords of “Middle Minoan II” ruled
Crete and the Aegean Isles; before the earliest dated Aryan conquests
in the East—four thousand years ago and more—the wise men, spiritual
leaders of the Germanic tribes, and guardians of the natural Values
that made their lives worth living, would gather, and greet the
Earliest Sun-rise, on the sacred Day, in June.
In the midst of the stand in the
vaulted chamber, one can still see a square socket. There used to be a
rod stuck into it, the summit of which was on a straight line both with
the lowest spot on the brim of the round opening in the north-eastern
wall, and a spot in the middle of the niche against which I was
standing—the Solstice-line, running North-east South-west. So that, when
the rising Sun would appear exactly at the lowest brim of the round
stone opening, and, at the same time, exactly behind the upper
extremity of the rod, to an observer standing in a rigorously
determined place in the middle of the niche, then one could say, with
certainty, that it was the Summer Solstice Day, on the correct
detection of which the whole calendar—and, subsequently, the festivals,
and the whole life of the community—was dependent.
For a few days before and a few days
after the Summer Solstice, the rising Orb would appear within a certain
radius, on the side brim of the round opening. The spot ot its
appearing would seem to travel, from a place on the side of the circle
down to the lowest section of it, and up again. The wise men used to
watch it day after day, in order to make out when, exactly, the
earliest Sunrise—the Sunrise rigorously according to the unchanging
Solstice-line—would be. And as they saw it—one spot of intensely bright
gold on the rim of the circular opening; one ray of light into the
dark chamber—they would shout from the top of this rock the spell of
victory announcing the beginning of the great Summer festivity to the
people assembled below: “Siege, Light”—“Triumph, Light.”
I thought of this, which I had read,
and which I had been told by modern Germans faithful to the old solar
Wisdom; Germans who had gone back to it, in an unexpected way, through
that modern Faith in Blood and Soil—that Aryan Faith: National
Socialism—that binds me to them. I thought of this, and imagined, or
tried to imagine, the solemn scenes that have taken place, year after
year, upon this rock, for centuries, nay, millenniums; scenes of which
the regularity had seemed eternal like that of the reappearing of the
sacred Days. And I thought of the abrupt end of the Cult of Light; of
the destruction of this most holy place of ancient Germany by
Charlemagne and his fanatical Frankish Christians. I pictured myself
half the top of the Rock—which had once been the root of this
sanctuary—violently split from the rest of it and thrown down there,
where its fragments can still be seen: the desecrated holy room; the
persecuted holy Land, on whose people the foreign creed of false
meekness, of which they are, even today, not yet free, was forced by
fire and sword. I pictured myself the Frankish soldiery—men of Germanic
blood, “crusaders to Germany” in the name of a foreign prophet and of a
foreign earthly power—storming these hallowed Rocks; killing whomever
they found; setting fire to whatever would burn; through terror,
preparing the way for the new teachers: the monks, true “re-educators
of Germany” in the worst sense of that much-detested word, who would
(if they could) stamp out every spark of the old solar Wisdom—of Aryan
wisdom—in its main European Stronghold.
This had happened in the year 772 of
the Christian era—one thousand one hundred and eighty-one years before.
But how tragically modern it all looked! These very first “crusaders
to Germany” appeared to me, more vividly than ever, as the forerunners
of Eisenhower’s sinister “crusaders to Europe.” They had fought in the
name of the self-same hated Christian values, ultimately for the
triumph of the self-same international power, both temporal and
spiritual—the Church—which was, and still is, the power of Jewry in
disguise. They had fought against the self-same everlasting values of
Germanic Heathendom—the natural, heroic religion of the noblest people
of the West, in which, both then and now, the Aryan Soul has found its
most accurate expression on this continent. And they had persecuted
them with similar savagery, and still greater efficiency, perhaps; with
similar, and even greater, Germanic thoroughness. And I remembered
that Eisenhower (a curse upon him!) is also of German descent. And once
more I hated the madness that has, so many times in the course of
history, thrown people of the same good Nordic blood into fratricidal
wars for the sake the childish superstitions which the Jews—and their
willing or unwilling agents—have put into their heads without them even
suspecting it.
And as the picture of the destruction
of the old religion and of the Christianization of Germany, not merely
in all its cruelty, but in all its thoroughness imposed itself more
tragically upon me, I realized—not for the first time, but yet, perhaps
more intensely than ever before—that the main dates of Charlemagne’s
war against the Saxons, 772 and 787, are, from the German and, which is
more, from the broader Aryan standpoint, even worse than 1945. For the
stamp of the foreign creed, and especially of the foreign,
anti-natural, anti-racial scale of values, is visible to this day in
all but a minority of Germans; in all but an even smaller minority of
Europeans. The spirit of the healthy Aryan warrior and sage—the spirit
of detached violence for the sake of duty alone; our spirit—took over a
thousand years to re-assert itself through a proper doctrine of German
inspiration, in a German élite, after the disaster inflicted, then,
upon those who expressed it. While in spite of enormous losses and no
end of suffering we—the National Socialist minority; the modern Aryan
Heathen—have survived this disaster; survived it, with our burning
faith and our will to begin again. And we shall not need a thousand
years, nor even a hundred, nor even ten (if circumstances be
favourable) to rise once more to power. It may be that the new world we
were building lies—for the time being—in ruins, at our victors’ feet.
But our Weltanschauung is intact within our hearts. And there
are younger ones ready to carry on our work, when we shall be dead;
younger ones who shall, one day, defy Germany’s “re-educators” and
their programme, and their teaching and their spirit, even if an angry
time denies them the pleasure of killing their persons.
At the thought of this, I felt
elated. I looked round me, at the lonely, desecrated sanctuary; above
me, at the overhanging, slanting rock, from which the massive
monolithic root had been violently rent, nearly twelve hundred years
before—the permanent scar left by the first “crusaders to Germany” upon
this high altar of the national cult of Light. And in a flash I
recalled my own life-long struggle against the Christian plague—in
Greece, in the name of destroyed Hellenism; in India, in the name of
unbroken Hindu Tradition; everywhere in the name of Aryan pride and
Nature’s truth. And I imagined the similar part I would like to play,
here, among my Führer’s people, after the re-installation of the
National Socialist New Order, one day, never mind when. “Yes, we are
alive,” thought I, full of self-confidence and full of confidence in
the German minority that thinks and feels as I do. “Defeat has not
killed us; it has only made us a little bitterer and still a little
more ruthless. One day we will avenge you, wounded Rocks that have been
calling us for so long, and you, our elder brothers, warriors who died
defending the approaches of this high-place! Wherever I be when our
Day dawns, may the heavenly Powers grant me to come back, and take an
active part in the revenge!”
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