Come closer.

Closer.

Behind the veil writhes a thing you dare not look upon. A thing who’s countenance would burn and blind you. Its eyes are mirrors of ego that can drive a mortal mind mad. In its belly rages the venom of ages, more potent than withering itself. Its mind is full of wisdom and its belly full of poison. It coils and spits and swallows.

Do not touch the veil! You cannot see what lies beyond. Be glad the veil protects us, shields us from his gaze. Be glad for small mercies. But come a little closer. Listen to its hiss. It uncoils. Welcomes us. But we are safe… for now.

It has many names. The men of the North called it Jormungandr, and it curled about the world, chewing at Ygg’s roots, squeezing the years from it. Even their greatest, most powerful warrior would fall to its poison. Far to the south, under another World Tree, it spread its hood to shade the Buddha. Thousands of years before, it coiled about that same tree to stir the milk of life, brewing the elixir of immortality. And, at the roots of another tree, it tempted a young woman with a most dangerous fruit salad.

In Fiji, it is known as Degei, a creature who gave name and shape to the islands of its people and bore man and woman from two eggs, teaching them the secret name of fire. Far to the South, the Greeks called him Okeanos, and he is the father of oceans. This is the creature who tortures Loki, spitting its venom into his eyes until the end of the world. The Egyptians called him Nehebkau, one of the oldest Gods in the Egyptian pantheon; the one who brought the divided universe together and holds it together still in its scaly coils, and as he holds the universe together, so does he hold our souls together – our ba and our ka. His name means “unite.” Later, the Egyptians would forsake him for another snake god… one who sent Osiris to his grave and caused Isis to steal Ra’s power with subtelty and sex.

The Celts associated him with Cernunnos, the Horned God, Lord of the Underworld, the one who is hunted and destroyed by his own dogs. Serpents follow Cernunnos’ footsteps, and when he is destroyed, they swallow his bones, carrying them down to his dark lands deep within the earth, where they vomit him back up so he may take form and be born again in the spring. When the Christians came to England bringing the good news of the newly christened messiah, the Celts gave him the snake… the god who dies and is born again… Look closer in the Book of Kells and you will see him there, clad in his usual arraignments, but holding a serpent close to his heart.

In India, he wears three masks: the masks of the three Naga Kings. The first and greatest is Sheshnaga, born of the residue left over after creation, with 1,000 heads formed into a giant hood. Earth is said to rest on his hood, and his venom ends all of creation at the end of each great cycle of life. Vishnu rests his weary head on his spiraling body.

When the Gods warred with the Devils, the Gods came to the second Naga King, Vasuki, begging him to churn the cosmic sea of milk, so they could dredge up the elixir of immortality from the bottom. They wished to overthrow the demons of the world, but to do so, they needed the elixir. Vasuki agreed, but requested that he be the first to drink. The Gods tied Vasuki around the Mount Mandara, the center of the world, and the Snake King begins stirring, but it proves too much for him, round and round and round for days and days and days. Eventually, the motion sickens him and he vomits a great cloud of poison, threatening to kill gods, demons, everything. It is Shiva who has the strength to withstand Vasuki’s poison. He swallows all of it, marking his throat blue for all eternity. The Gods get their elixir, provided by the sweat of the Snake King.

The Third Naga King is Taksaka, the Snake of the Earth. His most famous exploit involved apowerful king, out hunting, who meets an ascetic in the woods. He speaks to the wise man but the ascetic makes no response. Angered, the King kills a snake and drapes it over the yogi’s neck, who remains unmoved. When the ascetic’s son sees what has happened, he curses the King to die, and calls upon Taksaka, the Naga King, to take revenge. Taksaka sends some Nagas, disguised as hermits, to the King, and they offer him fruit. The King takes the fruit, from which Taksaka, disguised as an insect, emerges. He stings the King, who dies instantly.

And so, it is his son’s turn to take revenge. He vows vengeance on Taksaka. He uses a powerful spell, a sacred fire to consume all the world’s snakes, one by one. Just as Taksaka himself is about to be consumed by fire, a great sage intervenes and spares his life. After this, the Nagas retreat to the underworld, promising to bite only the truly evil, or those destined to die prematurely anyway.

It’s 2001 and I’m in Trinity College, looking at the Book of Kells. It’s opened to the Gospel of John that day, and the coincidence does not escape me. There, on an illuminated page, is a picture of Yeshuah, a snake in his hand. I turn to my guide and remark on the strangeness of the symbol.

“It makes sense,” he tells me, “when you remember that the Celtic God of Death is Cernunnos.”

Death. Dead and destroyed, obliterated on the cross so only his bones remain. He is put underground, and three days later rises again. Yeshuah and Cernunnos.

Suddenly, snake in the garden takes a new meaning for me. I understand the symbol of it all now. Snake isn’t a villain; he’s a Promethean hero, bringing wisdom to man and woman, and the Lord punishes him, just as Zeus punished the Fire-Bringer, just as the Gray Wanderer punished Loki. Put upon his belly, he slithers out of Eden, but the deed has been done. Man and woman have the fire in their skulls the Lord never wished them to have. And here they are, punished for all Eternity, punished for their ignorance and their new-found wisdom.

Little snake did that.

And so, looking at Yeshuah on the page, the snake in his hand, the crucifixion takes new meaning as well. I was always taught he died on the cross for our sins. But why would God ever punish himself for our sins? Unless he was punishing himself for…

… for his own.

There is Snake, in the Garden. Bringing Fire.

There is Yeshuah, on the Cross. Begging forgiveness.

Let them beat and brand me. Let them destroy me. I deserve it. I understand now. I understand…

And the revelation hits me. The meaning of it all sweeps over me, and I am drunk on the wisdom.

And there on the page, little Snake smiles. Fire-bringer. He who brings wisdom in his venom. The kind of wisdom that is painful to suffer.

Little Snake.

This is my first Totem. With wisdom in his mind and poison in his belly, he coils around me, as he coils around the dancer on Crowley’s card of the Universe. My body is warm, and he holds me tight. And when I am ready, I beg him for his poison. For his Fire.

He is only too happy to give it.