The third volume in the series takes up where The Initiate and The Initiate in the New World leave off, providing more insights into the mysterious Adept known as Justin Moreward Haig. At first, we think that "the dark cycle" relates to the group of students left to their own devices when Justin Moreward Haid disappears for a time. The students meet with the astrologer David Anrias, and become aware of the concepts taught by Krishnamurti and the theosophists. But when Justin Moreward Haid reappears we learn that the dark cycle really indicates a period of destruction and war when Planetary Logos is throwing off and transmuting poisons that create disturbances in the collective astral or emotional body of the human race. In this volume we learn how the group develops, how they relate to their missing teacher, and how they continue their search for spiritual understanding. Cyril Scott (1879-1970) was an English composer, writer, and poet. The youngest student of his time accepted to The Hoch Conservatorium in Frankfurt, Germany, Scott was hailed at the beginning of the 20th century as the father of modern British music. He wrote several other books, including An Outline of Modern Occultism, The Great Awareness , and The Initiate trilogy. The Initiate in the Dark Cycle By Cyril Scott Samuel Weiser, Inc. Copyright © 1991 The estate of Cyril Scott All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-87728-362-1 Contents CHAPTERIntroductionI. The Deva InitiateII. SuspenseIII. The Blow FallsIV. "The Sound of a Voice that is Still"V. Krishnamurti: A ProblemVI. "A Pioneer of the New Morality"VII. David Anrias: Astrologer and OccultistVIII. The TelegramIX. A Master's HomeX. The Master DiscoursesXI. The Truth About KrishnamurtiXII. J. M. H. On Many SubjectsXIII. The Future of the British RaceXIV. A Soul in DarknessXV. Master Koot Hoomi's MessengerXVI. Two Himalayan Masters CHAPTER 1 THE DEVA INITIATE Shortly after the publication of The Initiate in the New World , I found myselfconstrained to send an S.O.S. in the shape of a letter to my Guru, JustinMoreward Haig. It was not an easy letter to write, because, needless to say, Iknew he was not omniscient; he could not raise the dead, nor, from his house inBoston thousands of miles away, make the unseen perceptible to one who had lostthe power to see. For my wife, owing, we imagine, to a series of operations, hadbeen deprived of the clairvoyance which had made psychic communication with theMaster possible. This deprivation had caused her much unhappiness, which was notalleviated till we came into contact with Chris, who, by means of her owntranscendental gifts, was able to illuminate the path Viola could no longer seefor herself. And now Chris was dead, and Viola plunged into even greater darkness thanbefore, since to her sense of loss was added the sorrow of being debarred fromusing that very faculty which alone could have bridged the gulf between herselfand her beloved friend. Chris had been no ordinary friend; she had possessed unique qualities which sether apart from the ruck of average human beings. More of the other world than ofthis, yet ever ready with her amazing insight and sympathy to lessen itssufferings, she had become the pivot round which our lives for several years hadrevolved. Her death left Viola, who had an exceptionally strong link with her,and who has followed the path of love rather than that of wisdom, inwardlyheartbroken. Emotional by temperament more than philosophical, she heroicallytried to suppress her grief as inconsistent with occult ideals, but only endedin making matters worse. And so in the hope of obtaining some advice wherewith to assuage her suffering,I resolved to send that S.O.S. to my Guru. Little did I think that theconsequences ensuing from so simple a resolve would provide sufficient materialfor a large portion of this third book. * * * As I sit writing these first few pages, my memory goes back to that apparentlyinsignificant, middle-aged little woman who, before she passed over, played soimportant a part in our occult lives, and transmitted to those few capable ofreceiving it such a wealth of knowledge from the Masters of Wisdom. I can stillpicture her with her silvery white hair and contrastingly young face, notbeautiful as regards feature, but rendered beautiful none the less by anexpression of spiritual dulcitude. I picture her in her rather dilapidatedguest-house into which drifted human wreckage of all descriptions, derelictsbroken and battered in body and mind—derelicts certain not only of welcome, butin most cases of healing for their particular ill. They clamoured for her at allhours of the day; never had she a moment to herself. I see her always in ahurry, attempting the proverbial impossibility of being everywhere at once,often exhausted and almost ceaselessly tormented by neuralgia, yet always sweet-temperedand equable, now soothing away somebody else's headache with herstrangely magnetic