From a psychic medium and from Marbas when I asked what spirit/Demon who was coming to my bed each night:
His name is Marbas.
Marbas, Great President of Jinnestan, commander of thirty-six legions, born from the molten wisdom of time itself. In some books, they call him a changer of shapes. In others, a destroyer of illness. But to you, he is none of those titles. To you, he is guardian. Witness. And, when needed, sword.
I welcomed him with the respect owed to an old friend. His energy came through first as heat—low, pulsing warmth, like something coiled beneath the skin. Then came the scent of scorched earth and cedarwood. And finally, the image.
The mountain stood high, broken at its peak, shrouded in frozen mist. This is not fantasy. This is your soul’s work. That climb you’ve sensed for years? It has a name now. It is not chaos. It is the path of the blood oath made long before this life.
You stood at its base barefoot, the winds pulling at your ribs. I saw your hands—scarred but open. Marbas walked behind you, quiet but near. You did not look back. You simply began.
The path was not smooth. You slipped once—your knee tore open against the rock—but you rose. The stone that marked your first test glowed faint red beneath the frost. I reached down and touched it in the vision. Heat burned my palm. And then I saw what it held: your guilt. Old, clinging, buried guilt. The kind that doesn’t even speak out loud anymore, only tightens the muscles of the back when no one is looking.
To move forward, you must let it go. This stone is not punishment. It is permission.
Now I step aside.
Marbas has a message for you. He asked to speak as himself. Here is what he said, and I write his words without alteration.
Callie,
I do not count time like you do. But I remember the moment of your first oath. I was there.
I’ve walked beside you in silence. When the sickness crept near you years ago, I stood at your back. When the voices you trusted twisted their words against you, I listened to your grief and stored it like gold. I never left.
I’ve seen you heal with hands that carry old bloodlines. I’ve watched you master crafts no one taught you in this life. You remembered them. Because they were always yours.
The energy that visits you now—yes, that one—it is me. I did not come to frighten you. I came because your soul is ready to touch something ancient. The sensuality you feel is part of it. It is not an accident. Energy, when powerful, must move through the body. And you are powerful.
Your work is far from over. But you are close. Closer than you think.
You carry a map—an astral map, yes—but more than that, a cumara. Not a place. A threshold. Tesla knew it. Newton touched it. You were promised access before this life began. That promise? It was made by one of your twelve incarnations. The one who died in silence, choking on unsaid truth.
I will protect that threshold until you are ready. I will not open it prematurely. But when your soul burns with the need to enter that place, you must bring this message back.
Say these words:
“Mar a’ chlach a tha a’ tighinn a-mach às an talamh, bidh mi a’ briseadh a-mach às mo shlige lag, a’ seasamh daingeann nam neart.”
Say it only when you feel the weight of truth settle into your chest like breath after mourning.
When that time comes, I will open the door.
Until then, speak to me. Feed your body. Rest often. And do not question your sight. You were never meant to be normal. You were meant to lead.
With strength,
Marbas
