Enoch’s son Mathusala took a wife for his son Lamach. The text reads:
“She became pregnant by him and brought forth a child, the flesh of which was white as snow, and red as a rose; the hair of whose
head was white as wool, and long; and whose eyes were beautiful. When he opened them, he illuminated all the house, like the sun; the whole house abounded with light.” Fearing something was seriously amiss, Lamach went to Mathusala, and told him: “I have begotten a son unlike to other children. He is not human, but resembling the offspring of Heaven, is of a different nature, being altogether unlike us. His eyes are bright as the rays of the sun; his countenance glorious, and he looks not as if he belongs to me, but to the angels.”
Lamach entreated Mathusala to go to Enoch, who was “with the angels,” and find out the truth about his unusual child. At length, Enoch was located “at the extremities of the Earth,” and apprised of the situation. Enoch reassured him that, “the child which is born is [Lamach’s] child in truth; and there is no deception.” But strangely, he hastened to add that, “his posterity shall beget on the earth giants.” Then he foretold of a great flood that would bring destruction to all the Earth—except for Lamach’s son.
“This child which is born to you shall survive on the Earth, and his sons shall be saved with him. When all mankind who are on the earth die, he shall be safe. And his posterity shall beget on the earth giants, not spiritual, but carnal. Now therefore inform thy son Lamach that he who is born is his child in truth; and he shall call his name Noah, for he shall be to you a survivor.”
What are we to make of this bizarre addendum? Its chief elements are highly contradictory, and simply don’t add up in the context of the rest of the Watcher’s saga. Are we to conclude that the child, although in no way similar-seeming to Lamach, is indeed his? Or that the fact that his child is foretold to sire a race of giants has no particular significance? Or are we to infer that Noah was in fact a descendant of the seed of the Watchers—that indeed Enoch himself was one of the Watchers? Enoch, after all, is said to be the inventor of math, writing and astronomy, the very bits of knowledge the Watchers had been guilty of sharing with humans. Enoch himself stated, “I am acquainted with the holy mysteries, which the Lord himself has discovered and explained to me; and which I have read in the tablets of heaven.” If the sharing of such “powerful secrets” was a sin for the Watchers and their progeny, why could Enoch engage in the same pursuit with impunity? Though the true nature of Enoch’s relation to the Watchers is
deliberately left out of the Book of Enoch, it becomes self-evident when we examine the Hebrew word for those descended from the Nephilim: the Anakim. Just as “Elohim” implies the descendants of God, so “Anakim” implies the descendants of Anak—that is to say, the descendants of Enoch. So The Book of Enoch, while outwardly masquerading as an indictment of the Watchers, was really intended as a vehicle in which to encode their great secret: that Enoch himself was a descendant of fallen angels, and that his progeny would constitute what he referred to as “the elect.” Like many books of the Bible, The Book of Enoch is laced with contradictions. Indeed, all of myth contains an element of contradiction, ambiguity and paradox. Perhaps that is central to the mechanism of how myth functions. If we understood its component details in a more straightforward way, we would no doubt be denied the experience of its essence at a more primal level. The fundamental truth that we take away from the myths of the Nephilim and the Watchers is that they seem to be very much in accord with certain basic stories related in myths pertaining to the Merovingians. Though differing in detail, the elemental similarities far overshadow the more superficial dissimilarities. And despite the differences apparent in their outward form, they would essentially appear to constitute an identical tradition, albeit clothed in the symbolism of another time and culture.
Like many books of the Bible, The Book of Enoch is laced with contradictions.
The primary symbolism that recurs persistently in connection to the Merovingians is that of dragons, serpents, the sea, and sea serpents. The most well known dragon or sea serpent is undoubtedly the biblical Leviathan. It is very probably patterned after a much more ancient sea god, and although its mythology is far less cohesive than its earlier prototypes, it nonetheless holds some tantalizing clues in relation to the Merovingians. In some versions of the tale, Leviathan is described as a dragon who encircles the Earth, biting his tail, and is said to represent the “world soul.” In The Book of Enoch, Leviathan is described as a monster who resides in the ocean, and is female. The apocryphal Acts of Thomas characterizes Leviathan as a dragon who lives beyond “the waters of the Abyss,” and says that he is “king of the worms of the Earth, whose tail lies in his mouth. This is the serpent that led astray through passions the angels from on high; this is the serpent that lead astray the first Adam and expelled him from Paradise.” Elsewhere in the
Acts, one of the sons of Leviathan states that he is, “the offspring of the serpentnature and a corruptor’s son. I am the son of he who … sits on the throne and has dominion over the creation beneath the heavens… who encircles the sphere … who is around the ocean, whose tail is in his mouth.” A similar theme shows up in the Pistis Sophia, in which it is said that, “The outer darkness is a huge dragon, whose tale is in its mouth.” This seems fairly emblematic of the consensus opinion regarding the character of Leviathan, with the notable exception of The Book of Enoch, which speaks of, “a female monster, whose name is Leviathan, dwelling in the depths of the sea, above the springs of waters…” The Revelation of St. John the Divine also equates Leviathan with the sea. Why a dragon, whether dwelling in the sea or encircling the Earth, should be synonymous with the serpent of Genesis, or evolve into a generic term for the devil is somewhat perplexing; yet the connection is undeniable. And in the statement from the Acts of Thomas attributed to a son of Leviathan, he seems to be equating his father with the Demiurge (Le Roi du Monde—Lucifer.) This is intriguing, because another context in which Leviathan shows up in one of the world’s most recognizable satanic symbols. In the depiction of Baphomet as a goat’s head within a pentagram, the Hebrew characters at each of the star’s five points spell Leviathan. And the pentagram is a symbol central to the Merovingian saga. It figures prominently in the Rennes-le-Chateau mystery, it was used by the Cathars, it was encoded in the works by Poussin and Cocteau, and continues to be a key symbol for groups such as the Freemasons. Some scholars even maintain that the pentagram, and not the hexagram, is the true Star of David. Such an assertion seems imminently agreeable, since the symbol generically referred to as the Star of David is more widely known to occultists as the Seal of Solomon, and why would two different designations not infer that two different symbols in fact existed?
Further, the pentagram seems an appropriate emblem for the House of David, because it is said to be representative of the secret doctrine of the antediluvian gods who taught their wisdom to mankind. Could it not also signify the living remnant of the seed of that antediluvian race of gods, the descendants of which were the House of David, and later the Merovingians? If such a supposition were true, it’s easy to see why such a symbol (as well as the doctrine and race it represented) might have been viewed by the ancients as signifying something demonic. Consequently, the pentagram, which may well have been a straightforwardly Davidic symbol, evolved over the years
into a purely occult icon. It continued to be a symbol of central significance to the descendants of David, but their use of it was restricted ever more increasingly to more sub rosa, encoded manifestations. Even centuries later, the five-petaled rose would be a prominent monarchistic device, and this symbol was well known in occult circles as code for the pentagram.
So, key elements of the Merovingian mythos come together in the sea, the pentagram, and Leviathan. But Leviathan was only associated with the sea in some versions of the myth, while in others his place was in “the outer darkness.” Such seeming contradictions dissolve when you realize that for the ancients, the sea and the heavens were often conceptualized as one and the same. The vast reaches of the night sky, of space, were viewed as another kind of sea—an ocean in which the terrestrial realm was afloat. And more modern observers, taking this conception as a point of departure, have gone so far as to advance the theory that in ancient times, the world may in fact have been surrounded by a vast watery firmament which was held aloft via centrifugal force. Far-fetched though such assertions may seem, they constituted the thesis of a worldwide bestseller, Ignatius Donnelly’s Atlantis: The Antediluvian World. Such a circumstance, according to Donnelly, would explain why the ancients perceived the heavens to be synonymous with the sea. And, according to the theory, this could have created a vastly different climate on Earth; one which could have allowed men to live much longer than current conditions (i.e., life spans akin to those recorded in the Bible.) This, too, could account for the Deluge, recorded in countless mythologies. If some cataclysm of gargantuan proportions had occurred to disrupt the watery firmament, the resulting disturbance could have caused a global flood. Bizarre though such a theory may be, it turned Donnelly into an international celebrity in the 1800s, and his counsel was sought by both Presidents and European royals. Though by modern standards, Donnelly’s ideas would be dismissed as crackpot theories, in his day they were viewed as a scientific explanation of Biblical events.
Insofar as mythical sea creatures are concerned, Leviathan is not the sole example, nor even the principal example. We look to the pantheon of sea gods due to the fact that there is scant documentation in regard to Meroveus or Merovee. We can only conclude that the name Meroveus is a Latinized variation of a more primordial incarnation of a god who embodied the same attributes; that the word Meroveus is simply a term meaning “born of the
sea.” Meroveus was said to be the spawn of a mythical creature called a Quinotaur, a god whose form was part man, part fish. None of the preeminent encyclopedias of mythology contain any mention of such a creature, nor can any specialists in the fields of the occult or mythology whom we’ve contacted remember having ever heard of this entity. And references to Meroveus prove to be very nearly non-existent. We’d often wondered why those researching the Merovingians and/or the Grail mystery had simply glossed over this aspect of the saga, one which (it seemed to us) could perhaps reveal some vital clue to the whole affair. We’d assumed that they had dismissed the Meroveus story as being pure mythology, and therefore irrelevant. But perhaps the lack of coverage given the Meroveus saga was due more to a paucity of concrete information.
Given what we’d seen at Rennes-le-Chateau, we had reason to believe that Meroveus and the story of the Quinotaur constituted some fundamental clue that was possibly central to the whole mystery. Over and over again we’d seen symbolism relating to the sea and water. There was the Mary Magdalen grotto, constructed out of coral (a material not in great abundance in a town hours from the sea by car). There were figures such as Asmodeus and John the Baptist, both bearing seashells. There was the depiction, central to the altar in the church, of the Grail chalice, being born aloft on waves of water. And there was an archway near the Calvaire, also made of coral. Such symbolism was so incongruous, and yet obviously so purposeful, that we were sure it had to signify something.
When we asked the Rennes-le-Chateau tour guide where the coral for the grotto and archway had come from, she informed us that Sauniere had excavated it himself from a riverbed in a nearby town. He’d carried it back to the domain in a sack on his back—a sack such as those used by grape pickers in local vineyards. Such an explanation seems straightforward enough at first hearing, until one considers that there aren’t any towns “nearby.” In Sauniere’s day, a trip to the nearest town, back and forth on foot, lugging rocks uphill in one direction, would surely have constituted a day’s journey, at least. And given the amount of coral used in the construction of the grotto alone, Sauniere would have had to make such a journey dozens of times.
While we know that coral cannot generally be found in freshwater riverbeds hundreds of miles from the sea, we found ample evidence to indicate that this whole region was once underwater. Just outside our mountaintop hotel we
found huge rocks such as those only seen at the seaside, and what were clearly seashells half-protruding from the mud. It seemed conceivable that there might also be ancient coral formations in the vicinity as well. The tour guide seemed fairly confident about the details of her story—the name of the town and the river, and that Sauniere had traveled there and back on foot, and so on. But whether Sauniere had gotten the materials from somewhere in the region or had journeyed all the way to the Riviera, the same conclusion was inescapable. He’d gone to an incredible amount of trouble to procure this specific building material, and it had to be in order to communicate a specific idea: that of the sea.
In ancient reliefs, Dagon is depicted as a man dressed as a fish.
The tradition of sea gods is as ancient as that of sun gods. And just as sun gods were often depicted as having the head or body of a bird, so the sea gods were represented as being part fish. The sea was a potent symbol in ancient times. Water was viewed as a substance that represented a kind of intermediary plane between the terrestrial realm and the celestial. Heaven was above the waters, Earth below. Mythical creatures associated with water or the sea were seen, then, to exist between two planes, or on two planes at once: the physical and the spiritual. Such creatures were emblematic of the divine spirit having descended into matter, the flesh. This is what Simon Magus referred to when he described the two aspects of the One. One aspect was above, in “the unbegotten power,” the other below, “in the stream of waters, begotten in the image.” Images of water and the sea recur frequently in biblical texts, apocryphal texts, and Gnostic texts. Biblical names such as Mary and Miriam both derive from the Latin word for the sea. Mary was the name both of Christ’s mother, and his consort Mary Magdalen. And of crucified Messiahs known to the ancient world, no less than seven had mothers whose names were Mary (or some derivation thereof). Are we to conclude that this fact represents a bizarre coincidence, or that the sea was in fact a powerful symbol to the ancients, one whose meaning has grown obscure through the passage of time? And too, are we to conclude that within the context of the Merovingians, the sea was purely emblematic of an existence straddling two planes, or could it also be a reference to something far more tangible as well?