DUNCAN ROBERT SUGGESTS A little break, and I nod at him gratefully, shaking out my stiff writing hand, which has been clenching my pencil tighter than usual. Miles stands up and stretches and moves to the sideboard for more tea and something to eat.
“How are you two holding up?” Duncan Robert asks.
“It's a lot to take in. I'll be grateful for the notes.” Miles looks at me.
“I have no idea what I've got,” I say honestly to Miles. “I think I've kept my head down most of the time, so maybe I got most of it.” I look up at Duncan Robert. “I just keep trying to imagine what it must have been like for you! And I can hear the questions my editor will have.”
“It was wonderful for me!” Duncan Robert says, grinning ear to ear. Of course it was, I think. How could he question it, when it was happening to him?
He turns to Miles. “What's that thing you say to your beginning writing classes? About the old Greek definition of a gift? When you're telling them what their writing can be for them?”
“Something you wanted, something you needed, something you never thought you'd get?” Miles asks.
“That's it!” says Duncan Robert. “That's exactly what I got!”
Miles and I look at him and then at each other. I've rarely seen anyone as happy as Duncan Robert is sharing this story. Maybe it's a real relief to him to finally get to share it.
“Okay,” says Miles, as we settle back into our places, he and I on either end of the couch, Duncan Robert in his wing-back chair. I've taken off my shoes, un-tucked my shirt, and pulled my hair back in a pony tail, making myself right at home. Miles has taken off his shoes, too, so that he can put his sock-clad feet on the coffee table. Duncan Robert reaches over the coffee table to pick up one of my tablets and a pencil. He hands them to Miles.
“In case you have any questions. I know it's hard to interrupt me once I get going. I don't want you to leave without your questions answered. And let's order lunch at the next break. Remind me, because I'll forget.”
Impossible to imagine interrupting him, I think. Look what we're hearing. I pick up my pencil and notebook again.
Duncan Robert starts again.
A group of three what look like regular people dressed in white walks through the opening in the back of the cave, the opening that must lead to another tunnel. They're looking at each other happily, and they let loose a gusty exhale of commonly held breath. Then they turn to look at me.
I stand up, trying to take them in, and they surround me jubilantly, greeting me, putting their arms around me, cheering me.
“I didn't know he'd actually be here!” “God, it's good to see you!”
“Look at you! A guy!” They laugh.
“A young guy, too!” They laugh some more.
I have the oddest feeling, stepping inside their ring of intimacy as a member, into an utter explosion of love. And it all feels real, absolutely authentic. And I've never felt more loved. I can feel their energy even now—their positive regard, their open state of mind, their clear intentions.
We all sit together around the fire, laughing and talking.
“You jumped! You actually jumped!”
“No one does this! You're a hero here, you know. Word spread like wildfire.”
“The fairies want you for speaking engagements,” one of the men laughs. “Autographs! Photo opps!”
“The Bird People think you must be one of them!”
“You made us proud that you're one of us,” Guy says. “But you've surpassed us. We're here to learn from you!”
“Wait!” I say, laughing, too. “I'm still trying to remember who you are!”
“Earth time will do that to you,” Guy says, “but it will come back to you.”
“Well, let's help him,” the woman says.
Then, they make a simultaneous decision that they'll introduce themselves by telling how they're each connected to me. They'll do this in the form of a story about a significant lifetime or piece of a lifetime that we shared, person-to-person or guide-to-person. In my mind they are ‘guides,’ but they refer to each other as ‘cohort,’ a more democratic term. They tell me it's natural for me to have trouble thinking of us all as equals while I'm still on Earth.
“We're gods to you!” Guy laughs.
“Or ghosts!” one of the men adds.
I look to the person sitting on my left, a woman, and she says, with a slight Australian accent, “I guess that means I'm first!” She laughs. “You can call me Lynette. That's the last name you knew me by.”
She's a short redhead, wearing a kind of gossamer white robe, as are the rest, except for Guy, who looks like he just hopped off a spaceship. She notices me looking at her robe, and she laughs again. “So that's what it looks like to you! Crikey! There's no seeing through it, though!” She laughs once more, realizing what I was unconsciously doing before I do. I blush.
“It just looks very pretty and sort of timeless to me. I forget I'm wearing it. Anyway, we've known each other through many life times, so it's hard to choose just one. Wait, I know! I can tell you of one that we all shared—we began that lifetime together and we ended it together. It was a good one that maybe you'll remember.“
The others nod.
“We were monks together, in England, in the thirteenth century. In fact, you can still see the remains of the monastery today, in north Yorkshire. It was perfect for us. We were together, doing work we cared about, in a beautiful place. We lived in community, a self-sustaining community, so we had duties indoors and out, we saw sunrises and sunsets regularly, we ate well, we laughed a lot.”
I have questions, and I know she knows it. She continues, working her answers into her telling.
“We were scribes and we created illuminated manuscripts. In other words, we worked on every phase of producing copies of existing books, from stretching and scraping the parchment from animal hides for the pages, to cutting to the proper size, to planning our layout of the text, to determining which letters and passages would be illuminated. Then we scored the parchment with our design and added the text. Illumination came last, followed by binding, with leather and wood. I had a passion for it, and so did you.
“We worked from an exemplar, an original manuscript approved by the church, but we took it to a new level, burnishing it with gold and silver, to exalt the text. We saw our illuminations as works of art praising God, giving thanks, so our days were spent in creating art that honored and gave gratitude for the creativity of others, in service to God. What could be better?
“And we got to be creative, too. It took much skill, and it could be exhausting work but we were proud of it. We worked closely together, often at high desks set on the edges of the monastery's courtyard, enjoying and being inspired by the sights and sounds of nature. We had all been classically educated, and spent our days praying, talking, reading, writing. We slept well at night.
“Usually, we copied the Bible and books of common prayer or religious commentary, for the monastery's own library, to sell to other monasteries, and for teaching. The illuminations made all of these books incredibly valuable. As it happened, the monastery had an extensive library of early secular works, too, some of the world's greatest works of philosophy, politics, history, and literature. We usually weren't allowed to spend our time in copying these books, but occasionally a wealthy patron, who often couldn't read, commissioned copies of one or another for his private collection, to impress his friends.
“We read and re-read those, as we believed they required a different kind of illumination than the religious books, and we wanted to do them justice. We were much taken with these works, recognizing the expansiveness of their thought and expression and their honoring of the capacities of man, and we even read aloud, trading parts, as we planned and executed their illumination.
“We knew that the church had moved closer and closer to censoring such books, to keep them from influencing public thought. We knew these works needed to do exactly that—have a public life and a chance to gain influence, for the betterment of mankind. So, in reaction, we regularly made plain, private copies of them, in case the originals were allowed to deteriorate or were even destroyed.
“This kind of independently determined activity is considered insurrection in a monastery—an attempt to replace the church's authority with ours—and is punishable by death. By the time the prior and the abbot found us out—and some were happy to report us—we had made too many copies to have a reasonable defense for this crime against the church. They had no choice but to turn it over to the district bishop, and the bishop had no choice but to invoke the highest punishment. All twelve of us—scribes and illuminators alike—were hanged. They hung us together, from the south wall of the monastery on an early spring morning, when the ground was finally soft enough to receive a shovel.” She paused, and then looked at me, reassuringly. “I see what you're thinking, but dying with others, in support of a common cause is a wonderfully exhilarating experience you yourself have had more than once. This one was particularly sweet. We had accomplished what we had set out to do.”
Even now, I feel this life on a heart level, more than I know it on a mental level. When she describes working at high desks and the sense of community, sights and sounds and smells come to me. It's as if it has always resided in the storehouse of my memory. She is studying me, to see if I have more questions. I ask why we did it, why we chose that life.
“For fun!” she says playfully, but seriously, too. “For the potential to enjoy all that life offers—food and nature and creativity and each other and work we loved. But, as importantly, for the chance to advance, by addressing a wrong and attempting to right it. Sometimes truth is not relative or situational or optional—not yours or mine, but ours. Sometimes you have to stand up for it. And we did that, through our actions. It was great to see what we could do together. It takes a lot of coordinating to have that happen. We didn't betray each other. We hung together. Literally,” she adds with a smile.
A tall man looks at me and then explains further. “It's about the forging of the self through common experience.” For what purpose, I wonder to myself, and his answer follows immediately. “All of this serves to develop and strengthen our authenticity—the ability to not just know but to act on one's own directive, thereby taking a risk. Taking the risk ensures the forging of the self. What else could we be here for except to construct ourselves in this way? Earth provides the challenges, which in turn provide the opportunities, to do this. That's all that's asked of us—to meet the challenges by taking the risk of being and expressing ourselves. Why? Because that's what makes us happy. And ‘happy’ is our prime indicator that we're doing what's right and good for all of us. This is why she told this story—it illustrates exactly this life-giving point.”
Lynette looks at me and says, “He's good at explaining, isn't he? He's still my teacher.”
“And you mine,” he says back to her warmly.
“It's because we come from good,” she says in answer to another of my questions. “It's what we know, how we feel aligned. Think what the world would look like if everyone was feeling truly happy.”
Guy says, reading my mind again, “You're wondering how all of this got started. Maybe the story of the origin of our cohort can be for another time, after you've met everyone.”
I look around and feel such an affinity to this group around the fire. I'm drawn to their sense of it all as fun, as well as work they give their lives for. I'm moved by their honesty with me and each other. I feel as if we are picking up where we left off. I'm exploding with questions but I'm not anxious or mistrustful, as I usually would be. This amazes me.
The tall man is sitting next to Lynette, and as I look to him, he smiles. It's such a warm, inviting smile that I break into a broad smile back. His features are more rugged, darker. He looks Middle Eastern, with piercing, direct eyes, hair combed back from his high forehead. His body is lean and taut, like a runner's.
“My name is Kahil. I'm going to tell a story of how we helped each other, across a long span of time. It was a place that brought us together. And we were both women!” He laughs, enlivening his stern good looks.
“It was post-Civil War, in America. You had journeyed to a teaching post in northern Maryland, near the Pennsylvania border, not twenty miles from Gettysburg. You were a tall, strong-minded woman, and you were proud of yourself for having journeyed alone, all the way from Albany, to take up a position that would make you self-sufficient.
“Your family remained a constant reminder that you were a failure as a woman and an embarrassment to them for not having married. You'd had only one real offer, from a much older man who'd been widowed with five small children, who'd insulted you when you'd refused him. You had passed thirty and found being alone much more appealing, and even satisfying, than marriage seemed. You loved teaching, as you always have, and felt it was important work. You looked forward to being on your own and making your own home. You'd arrived in Pennsylvania to find that your quarters were under repair for the next few weeks because a large leak in the roof had become apparent during the spring rains. The school board had decided that you could stay at the farm of one of the area's largest landowners, who was away on a cattle buying trip with his wife. It would serve him to have his kitchen remain functional and his house kept occupied and tidy while he was gone.
“After getting over your initial disappointment following your long trip, you discovered it was a large house, with rooms upstairs and down, and a spacious porch in the back. He had much acreage and a large pond. The grounds were being looked after by a neighboring farmer's son, so your duties were minimal.
“You were told to stay in a small bedroom on the first floor, but something about the room made you uncomfortable, and you kept smelling something burning in it, though it was much too warm for a fire. So you slept instead on a sofa in the side sitting room, just off the main sitting room. You settled in to the comfortable and well-appointed home, enjoying the cool mornings and the quiet nights, the smell of fresh cut hay, and the sounds of nature all around.
“Now, here's where I come in. One night, a few days later, you were sitting on a sofa in the main sitting room, facing the large staircase that gracefully curved down from the upstairs, its bannisters gleaming in the firelight that you read by. You were engrossed in the teacher's manuals you'd been reading, but suddenly you felt the hair stand up on the back of your neck, and you looked up the staircase. You saw a woman coming down the stairs, looking at you.
“That was me,” he said with a proud smile. “I didn't mean to frighten you, but I did mean to get your attention. You were the first person I felt drawn to in a long time. Most people I avoided. You froze, sensed the woman must be a ghost, even though she looked so real you could see the tiny tucks going down the front of her black dress, the narrow band of lace at each cuff, and the small crystal earbobs showing beneath the dark hair drawn over her ears into a low bun in the back.
“I was well-appointed, too,” he laughed, “and my name was Lucy. I came downstairs and sat in the chair opposite you, and told you my story. And you listened, despite your initial fear. You anchored me with your listening. You can't imagine now how important that was. I had been aimlessly floating in a field of misery, unable to find my way home. Continued trauma will do that to you.
“You were afraid, but you felt drawn to me, too, so you stayed with me rather than fleeing out the door, as so many would have. I told you how my family lived in the next farm over and had arranged my marriage, at age fifteen, to the man who used to own the house you were staying in. My sisters and I expected arranged marriages but always wished for at least a livable match, if not one with romantic potential. We were young, after all, and still felt at home with hope. But this was a man without feeling who valued his hunting dogs more than he did his wife, and I begged my family to take me back, even running away a time or two. But they wouldn't do it because they were afraid of him, too, and they made me go back each time. ‘We made a deal,’ my father said. He'd gained a parcel of land and some cattle and horses, and didn't want to give them back, so he gave me back instead.
“I lived with the man a while, gritting my teeth and bearing it, giving him three children he completely disregarded, growing vegetables to feed us all, and working as a field hand for him whenever he required it. This worked, with me as slave labor, until he became abusive of the children. Then I stood against him, and we battled fiercely, until he decided I was more trouble than I was worth, and he was going to kill me.
“He never doubted he had the right to do so. I was his property, purchased just as his other farm animals had been, and most of their lives ended in slaughter. He determined to drag me down to the pond, to drown me. He hadn't so many options open to him—rifles were single shot then, a knife would have been tricky and terribly messy—you get the point.
“I saw what he had in mind, and I fought him. He battered me badly and with his greater strength, finally succeeded in drowning me. I hardly remember the details of it, I was so frantically concerned for the children.
“He rested a moment, after I was dead and he'd pulled my body up on the bank, catching his breath, and contemplated what to do with me. He knew the pond wouldn't keep his secret, and he knew enough to want to keep it secret, if only because mistrust or disdain from his neighbors might affect his standing in the community and hence, his income.
“He decided he'd do what he did with the animals—quarter and piecemeal me, and then he would feed me to the fire. Think of the man it would take to accomplish such a task—to the mother of his children! He couldn't do this outside, because it didn't afford good hiding, so he used the fireplace in the small sitting room, taking his time, being thorough about it, distributing the ashes in the garden.
“It took most of the day and night, but his rage had made the children scatter, and I'm glad they weren't there to witness any of it. When it was over, it left me lost. I was lost in it all—his rage, my helplessness, the loss of my children, my shame and demoralization at believing I was the cause of it all, feeling as in pieces as my body was. I didn't know where to turn, how to get back to anywhere, wherever anywhere was. Time passed, and I just hovered at the house, reliving it all, blinded by it, coming to believe this was my deserved fate.
“Then one day many years later you came, and I felt our bond. I was amazed at how much better I felt having you there. You changed the feeling in the house, introducing air and light, and your presence focused me, brought me to my senses. I knew myself again, and I began to see my side in the story, to believe I had a side to anchor in. But to really believe it, I desperately needed someone who could see it, too. I needed a witness. Someone who could know that I hadn't meant to abandon my children, that I hadn't caused my husband to kill me, and that he was seriously deranged.
“That night I determined to come down the stairs. There was such a peace and quiet in the house as I hadn't ever felt there. I was drawn to that peace as surely as a moth to a flame. It was the only way I could see to get home to myself. It felt safe enough to try. I couldn't have imagined the power of your listening. I would have been afraid to hope for that. My words, as I spoke them, showed me that it had all been real; your listening showed me that the telling could be borne, and that by telling them, the events could be understood, through compassion, and forgiven.
“You didn't judge, you had compassion—I could feel it. Not pity, but woman-to-woman compassion. You knew that you yourself had come close to feeling forced to enter an unwanted marriage, but you'd been able to choose for yourself, to say no. Your family had seen to your education, so you had a way to be, on your own in the world. You recognized the ways we were alike, and I was made whole by that. By your being you, you showed me how to be me—calm and compassionate with myself, forgiving, understanding.
“We do it because we love each other, now and always. I thank you. I thank you for honoring our bond, and making progress possible for both of us.”
Kahil looks at me. I have tears in my eyes, and he does, too. “Did you see me the next morning in the mirror upstairs, when I came to say good bye?” he asks.
“I think I did,” I say, surprised at the surging memory of another lifetime. “I remember seeing a face, surrounded by stars, with such a feeling of joy emanating from it that I was overcome.”
“That was me!” he laughs. “You reintroduced me to my joy. I thought it was lost to me forever.”
Miles stops us as this point, overcome by the last story. He pauses to pull out his handkerchief and noisily blow his nose.
“Of course, I've heard about stories like that from that time—arranged marriages, cruel or indifferent husbands, the feelings of women disregarded—but never from someone who was there. Wow.”
It feels very real to me, too. I have to get up and move around. I go to the window and open it, in search of fresh air to blow away the lingering effects of that story. I'm beginning to get a clue about the bond Duncan Robert shares with his cohort, though it's unlike anything I've ever heard of.
I look at Duncan Robert and think about how he has all the indicators needed for a psychiatric explanation of what he's experienced—the missing father, the sometimes tense family life as a result, all begetting a childhood quest to be seen, heard, valued. As an only child, he'd probably have a strong imagination and be good at dissociation. I knew from my own research that his experiences would be labeled ‘anomalous,’ the equivalent of ‘crazy’ for us laypeople. His stories would be cataloged with alien abductions, extraterrestrial visitations, ghosts, spirits, and all the other trivialized other-worldly stories. Why was I finding value in it? Maybe I just saw it as a legitimate part of reporting, especially since these kinds of stories were increasing, across the world. In the past no legitimate newspaper would have even considered them. I liked to think I bowed to a higher god than sensationalism, but this is pretty sensational. How far could we go with this and still believe?
“Let's order some lunch,” Duncan Robert says into our silence, calling us back to ourselves. “I've got some menus here. Take a look. I think I'm actually hungry.” He laughs.
I realize I'm starving. Miles decides he's going to have a club sandwich, with fries, so I know he's hungry, too. I feel like breakfast, so I order scrambled eggs and toast, with a side of fruit. Duncan Robert orders a large bowl of vegetable soup and a side salad, which seems like a lot for him, too. While we wait for the food, we settle back into our places, except for Miles, who lies on the floor, to stretch his spine, he says. I stretch out on the couch.
I ask Duncan Robert what it was like, to hear his life told to him in that larger way.
“I don't know if I can explain it. First, I could feel myself expand,” he says. “I began to see myself as so much larger than I'd ever thought, spreading out across the Universe, touching time in various places, interacting with it in a way that fed my spirit. Then, I could see how the members of my cohort were spreading with me, and we were like a river through time and space. The fact that we weren't separate made us much more helpful to each other and to all those we came in contact with—even if they were killing us!” He laughs.
“It isn't easy to play all the parts we do. Think about it. Earth is a pretty violent place, and we don't seem to get the lessons very quickly!” He pauses to think a minute. “To answer your question, those stories are life-changing information, and my life has been changed by them.”
I feel pretty sure Miles's life and my life have been changed, too, and we've only heard the stories second hand. That's how much power they have.
There's a knock at the door, and lunch is served. I don't think we spend more than twenty minutes consuming it, without much talk. We put the trays outside the door, so we won't be disturbed, and get ourselves our hot tea. We settle back into our places, and I take a minute to sharpen a few pencils and turn to a fresh page in my notebook. Miles makes a couple of brief notes in his notebook, and puts it back on the coffee table. Duncan Robert, who has been sitting quietly, begins again:
The group on the ledge agreed to a small break after Kahil's story, and Guy and I talked while he fixed me another cup of tea and made some toast over the fire. I get the sense the others don't need to eat, but I'm grateful for the warmth and sustenance of it.
I'm still spinning after that deeply moving story and feel I have to get back in balance. I ask Guy about this place where we are. He tells me that the tunnel system runs underneath most of the world, connecting its major places. It has been there tens of thousands of years, and much commerce and trade has gone on within it. People have lived in the tunnels, too, when the ash from erupting volcanoes made agriculture impossible and dropped outside temperatures uncomfortably low. People have stayed there to avoid robbers, bandits, and warring tribes. They've birthed their children there, bred their animals, ground their crops there. People have created quiet places of study, contemplation and ceremony. As much has gone on in the tunnels as above them, he assures me, if not more.
I find this incredible, but I decide to believe him.
He notes my momentary struggle with disbelief, says, “Even UFO activity!” and laughs. “After all, we all come from the stars anyway. By my reckoning, I think we're now somewhere under the Carpathian Arch.” I look at him questioningly, and he says, “I think it's Romania nowadays. Borders have been moved a lot, what with all the wars and political dealings, but don't get me started on the uselessness of borders—or wars!” He laughs again, shaking his head.
“This one,” he gestures to what I now think of as my tunnel, “connects Romania to Egypt and on to Tibet. Afghanistan is connected to it, too, and Russia. You have no idea. There's so much more that you don't know than you do, while you're on Earth. Oh, there are those who do know, but they still believe that power resides in secrets, so they're keeping them.
“Funny, when we're on Earth we don't fear these secret keepers—we trust them with our money, we elect them to high office, we allow them dominion over our children—but we do fear the extraterrestrials, even though many of them have given us nothing but help. True, some don't have such altruistic motives, but I think we're usually capable of telling the difference.”
He sees my question and says, “Oh yes, extraterrestrials showed us how to make homes underground and above, how to grow things and manage resources, such as water and minerals and energy and our own health.” He hands me my thermos cup of tea and puts the toast in my other hand.
“They've offered us service, and were often our first examples of that.”
I'm drinking my tea, eating my toast and feeling better for it, mentally zoning out for the moment, as I do when I'm overwhelmed by incoming information. I look up to ask Guy another question and notice, seemingly out of nowhere, a great horned owl sitting opposite me, near Lynette. It startles me, and I start to scoot back, away from the fire. Lynette laughs and says, “He's here for you, you know.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, thinking of all the old Native American stories connecting owls with death.
“A little too Harry-Potterish for you?” she asks playfully. “He's got a bond with you, too. He's your totem. He's why you have an owl calendar in your kitchen and why Reggie gave you that little owl fetish you still carry. He comes to help you in that way animals do, showing you your connection to the natural forces as your guides. He keeps you close to the outdoors, where you find renewal. He's part of why you haven't given up. His name is Anai, but he can tell you that himself.”
I'm not surprised there are animals down here. I just didn't know any of them might be for me. I give a little bow to the owl, who gives a friendly bow of his head back. His eyes, with their nictitating membrane moving up and down, seem to have a life of their own, so I can't be sure where he's looking, and he swivels his head around in a way that seems impossible. But he's incredibly beautiful, feathers gleaming in the firelight, eyes an intense highlighter yellow, completely self-possessed as he fluffs his feathers and settles into his spot. He makes contented little chirps. He's come to listen, too.
“This is a good time for me to tell my story,” says the other man, who is medium height and build, his features suggesting Southeast Asia. He looks at me across the fire, his beautiful black eyes and hair gleaming in its light, as I sip my tea. “My name is Uche,” he says with a kind smile, “and you and I have been together in many lives, too—husband and wife, mother and child, and so forth.” He smiles again as he feels my question about our apparent outward differences.
“Sometimes this color, sometimes another—colors have their own lessons but are ultimately meaningless,” he answers. “We all have ‘a bond stronger than life,’ as we like to say. My story involves you and me and a few others, who aren't with us tonight, it's one of my favorites.
“We were together on Atlantis. We lived in one of its larger cities and were considered fairly prosperous. We were friends and co-workers, and raised our children together. We were engaged in what we liked to call the ‘health and hygiene’ of the government-regulated work force who made up the industrial and technical workers of Atlantis. We were responsible for those who provided essential maintenance of the giant crystals that provided our energy, as well as the workers assigned to the production of food and necessary other goods. We determined and managed their births, their work, their family planning, their disputes, their deaths. Nothing happened to them that we didn't know about, and many of their children shared our birthdays and carried our names. We knew they were not as us and never would be, because we had controlled their genetic development. No more than one-sixth of our genetic materials had been introduced into their own original animal materials, to create useful intelligence without enabling a move to dominance. This was part of a huge intergalactic experiment to create a super slave race that would ensure the protection of necessary resources for the continuation of the intergalactic races. We believed the project was a success and we had created the most productive, efficient, cooperative slaves possible.
“This is why Atlantis accomplished much in the areas of transportation, energy transference, transmutation of metals, and so forth. At its peak, it had millions of citizens, and we needed a trained and focused population of workers we could depend on to keep it all going and progressing. We did our jobs and did them well, and expected these workers to do the same.
“Yes, you might call them ‘slaves,’ but we didn't. We thought of them as a vital working population in partnership with us for shared progress. We treated them well—they didn't want for food or shelter or medical attention; they weren't over-worked, in fact they even got holidays. We took care of them. We thought of ourselves as good people, by the standards of our time. We did not think of ourselves as ‘bad’ people. But of course we were. By any proper definition that included depriving someone else of their right to freedom and the pursuit of happiness, we were ‘bad’ indeed.
“Oh, our job had some concern with ‘health and hygiene,’ but it was mainly involved with suppressing and sterilizing the workers, so we could control and limit their activities and reproduction for our own purposes. Their existence made ours possible.
“We couldn't have them producing either too many or not enough children, or getting too many other ideas of their own. Sterilization and genetic work allowed us to control and maintain sex, size, and docility, along with their reproductive capacity. We were trying to clean up some genetic damage, too, from earlier extraterrestrial races that had engaged in experimentation to create the slaves on Earth to begin with. Of course we had to engage in some experimentation as well, in the beginning, though we felt we handled that pretty responsibly, disposing of the less successful results discreetly.
One night—you may remember this—we had gone together to a closed session called by our highest government officials for those of us who oversee the slaves. This was unusual and quite hush-hush. We knew something serious must have happened and we were curious. We went to the Auditorium of the Crystals and watched as the ruling council filed in from a side door onto the stage. All twelve members of our ruling council were present and sat at a raised table in front of us. They took turns speaking, beginning with the most senior member.
What we heard stunned us. Not only did our leaders think the experiment had not been a success, they believed it should be terminated, the current generation of slaves liquidated, including their children. Measures were already being taken to ensure future generations were without the fatal flaw that doomed the current slaves.
They said our earlier efforts were to be commended but now our cooperation was needed—it would require the best efforts of all of us—to begin to remove the slave populations from each of the major cities. Step one would be their emigration to the uninhabited territory in the east, avoiding any resistance or insurrection.
“What has happened?” one of our co-workers asked in alarm. “We're stunned by this news!”
“In our zeal to make sure they were educable, for the more complex technical tasks, we unknowingly encouraged chemical reactions within the endocrine system that led to a greater freedom of thought than we had intended.” They paused, looking at each other as if deciding how much to say. “They've discovered joy.”
An audible gasp went through the audience. The worst case scenario.
“We asked ourselves, what should be the solution to this terrible problem? There will be no containing it. They are intoxicated by it and want to experience it every day. They will want it for their children and grandchildren. We must put an end to it or it will put an end to us. It will inspire them to want to manage their own joy and we will be in their way.
“We are not monsters. We know many of you have come to depend on your slaves, have even grown fond of them, as of your own children. But we ask that you don't waste your sympathy on them. Save it for our own blood. That will keep us strong. Don't ever waste it on anyone else in the world.”
“What will happen to them?” someone called out.
“Do you imagine there can be settlement villages for them? Where they could plan and make trouble for us? There is nothing we can do with them. Maybe the strongest can live on in the east, helping to cultivate the swamps, if we keep them isolated from each other. The majority must be eliminated.”
“Eliminated?” a man called out. “Do you mean killed?”
Another gasp.
“Women and children, too?” There is a general unrest in the audience, a rumbling.
“We are letting you know our thinking! It is not an easy solution, but we can retain our decency as we toughen our resolve. We have the moral right, the duty to future generations, to eliminate those who would eliminate us.”
“But they've done nothing!” another woman cries out.
“Might the discovery of joy not be a problem?” shouts a man.
“The scientific evidence is clear. There is no doubt where this leads. We have seen it develop on other planets, leading to revolutions and coups. We must be proactive so we are not doomed to reaction, which is much bloodier and much harder to recover from. We will look back on this as a page of glory in our history of genetic progression. It is to be celebrated that we discovered this flaw that could have been fatal.”
“But why women and children? They could be sterilized!”
The leaders look at each other, and I thought this would not bode well for the woman who keeps asking this question.
“First, we have to wipe out all trace of the defective genes. Second, our first loyalty must be to our own blood. That is what interests us. We cannot allow any possibility of plotting, rebellion, or sabotage, which they are knowledgeable enough to commit. The slaves interest us only in so far as we can use them. That is what they are for. Otherwise, they are of no interest. There is no place for sentiment. This is a natural necessity, of the highest order.”
Those of us in the audience began talking to each other, mentioning specific slaves who have become essential to us, who should be exceptions. Some people are crying. Their slaves have become surrogate families and children to them. We know that some have had children with slaves, though it's against the law. We feel we do not have a concept of decency to encompass what is being asked of us. We are not machines. Just as I was wondering if the leaders had an insurrection on their hands with us that night, one of them spoke quite severely to us.
“We are the ruling class! We cannot be weak on this. Our responsibility follows us through history into the future. We would be judged weaklings and criminals to our children if we allowed their children to grow up. There is no retreat from this. It is important we resolve it in our time. Future generations might not have the courage.”
We are quiet for a moment, having interpreted correctly that more resistance should not be expressed there, that night, or we would be seen as siding with the slaves and perhaps suffer their fate.
The most senior leader speaks again. “Humane methods of elimination are under discussion. We will convene another session to finalize these with you. The solution will occur in stages and will require your complete cooperation. Know that this solution is the final solution. There will be no further questions on it. There will be no further discussion on it, either here or amongst yourselves.”
They leave the stage, our cue to leave the auditorium as well. We file out quietly, not looking at each other. We believe we have no option but to do as they say.
We complied with their directives, right down to being part of the extermination teams in the east. You and I both heard of other's resistance, of people who hid their favored slaves until they could move them out to the far wilderness areas, of people who attempted to marry or adopt them, of people who set up underground settlements. Many of these people were caught and disappeared. We dared not ask about them.
We left that life knowing two things, even before death. You cannot live without speaking out, even upon pain of death. You cannot live following someone else's directives for your life, even upon pain of death. Our lives lost meaning and purpose, and we lived without interest or joy. Those lessons are of utmost importance for all. Perhaps you can see why?”
He looks at me, one eyebrow raised. I look back at him as something slowly climbs out of the murky depths of memory and a chill creeps like a snake up my body.
“Hitler.”
“You hear his language in the council's words. Many of those words appeared verbatim in Hitler's and Himmler's speeches, though they thought they were their own. Those words were the heritage of Atlantis, caught forever in the collective unconscious. Hitler attracted them like a magnet because he had the same intent—to remove an entire people by murder.
“Atlantis' leadership council had as heritage the warmongering of their parent planet Mars, and their laws reflect that. The concept of slaves began with the garnering of many captives as the spoils of war. Atlantis profited from the large number of captives by engaging in medical experimentation to make them less trouble and more useful—a master slave race—enabling the Atlantean ruling class to create industries of slave labor. Then, when the slaves betrayed their masters by growing and developing abilities of their own, they were annihilated. Atlantis provided the universal model for successive tribes to initiate the same kind of genocide or ethnic cleansing. As even Hitler noted, it's a monumental task to eradicate a whole people. It takes the complicit cooperation of everyone to succeed. Support has to be handed over. And we handed it over.
“We didn't question anything, and we didn't step up in aid of anything. We let it all happen. And that was our lesson. We didn't do there what we all had done as monks. It led to the downfall of Atlantis, and we were there when Atlantis sank. Many people died, much was lost, and all unnecessarily. I've never forgotten it. Maybe you haven't either.
“Maybe we couldn't have done much on our own to change the situation. But anything we had done would have changed us, for the better. And that's our first responsibility, while on Earth. Stepping up is where inspiration begins, for all. We, and others, paid the price for not having done so.” He looks at me for a moment, and I look back, grateful for his telling of this story. I've always felt I had a connection to Atlantis.
Everyone pauses a moment, staring into the fire. “But you called it one of your favorite lives,” I say.
“Yes, I did,” Uche says, “and I meant it. I learned more about myself in that life than in several other lives combined. What I'll do to belong, to be liked, to succeed according to others' standards, to feel I have power and control; what I'll put first to achieve those things and what I'll put last. We were created from good. We go against our good nature at a great cost, to ourselves and others. We create ourselves and our lives down there through interwoven lifelines—by what we do and don't do, say and don't say. If we're not there for each other, other baser influences can take hold of us, determining our course. Atlanteans achieved what the wildest dreams of science could not have predicted, but they could not keep themselves, their communities, or their future safe and whole.”
He laughs ruefully and says, “There were lessons enough for everyone there!” “Lessons?” I ask. “Is that what it's all about?”
“Yes. It's what we want a life to do—teach us. This is about advancing—it's everyone's goal. There's no growth in maintaining the status quo, just a kind of slow death for all.” He looks at me, and I look back, intently.
“I thank you for the story,” I tell him. “The story of Atlantis has always haunted me.”
“I hope to provide you peace,” he says, smiling.
I bow to him and he bows back to me from across the fire. I mull over what he said about the cost of maintaining the status quo, thinking of my life now.
We've come full circle to Guy, on my right. I look at him, and he dips his head at me in acknowledgment.
“Are you wearing a spacesuit for any reason?” I ask him, looking at the white multi-zippered, baggy but belted jumpsuit.
“I am,” he grins. “I just stepped out of a life for a moment, as you've done with your life. I'll step back in at the moment I left it, as you will. In that life, I'm part of a group traveling from Sirius to Camelius X, an Earth-like planet in a different galaxy. We'll face some of the same challenges the extraterrestrial groups who settled Earth did. Can we partner with the beings there rather than dominate? We've been so eager with our planetary experiments that we don't like waiting for a more democratic process with beings seemingly less advanced than we are.”
“Why that life?”
“Because I've killed people who got in my way. Oh, not in a while, but I wanted to be sure. Camelius X will be a test.”
I look at the strength rippling in his hands as he stirs the fire. He seems formidable, and I'm a little afraid of him now. “And if you fail?”
“I'll start again.” He looks at me and laughs, his teeth flashing brightly. “Do you wonder if I will kill you?” He laughs again. “Already did.”
The others laugh, too.
“Me, too!” Lynette calls.
“You murdered me!” Khahil says.
“I don't have a particular story. I've been in most of your lives, in major and minor roles. Monk, yes. I was Lucy's dad in the Lucy story, not wanting to return the land I got in your marriage deal. Yeah, sorry. Good lessons there for me, too, in having a strong daughter. Helped me begin to appreciate the value of women, after a string of male lives. Let's see. We were guards in a Russian prisoner camp. Gay, too. I think that life wasn't too bad. No, we didn't torture anyone in that life, though we did in others—we were baby killers, even.”
He looks directly at me for a moment, seeing how I'm taking it, judging if he's gone too far. “You can't be a warmongering planet, as Earth is, without having lived lives in which war ran it's natural course, going from bad to worse. Many lives are spent balancing that.
“We sailed ship together more than once. Drowned together, too, though we didn't know it at the time. We started together and have always counted on each other—a bond stronger than life.
“But you've guessed we don't share many of the ‘downers’ with you, the lives in which we achieved less than success, and of course there were some. Those are for another time. These stories were for ‘getting to know you,’ as the song says, and to re-acquaint you with us. I always loved Rogers and Hammerstein,” he says in an aside, as he hums the tune. “Getting to like you, getting to hope you like me,” he sings, glancing at me.
“Songs have their purpose, too,” he remarks. “But back to business. I mean, you're the one who called us together, after all.”
This startles me. “Yeah, but I didn't know. Had no idea,” I say as I look around our little circle, seeing the owl grooming himself.
“Well, yes and no,” he says. “The veil is thinning. I mean, you jumped because you knew, or believed, in something like this. Right? You felt it enough to be able to jump. Right? At least fifty-fifty?” He goes on, not waiting for my response. “We've done some of our best work with you to help you put it all together!” He laughs. “And had fun doing it! I mean, dreams, nudges, coincidences, ah-ha moments, arranged over and over, these are the tools of our trade. But the tools are limited. For example, you always say you don't remember your dreams, do you not? So, you challenge our creativity.
“You remember you had a friend whose dreams were so amazing you wrote them down and took them to work with you, to share? Like the one where everyone in it had a flaming sword through their heads? You still remember those dreams, and they weren't even yours. But we did our best to get to you, through her. You remember that recurring dream you have? The one where you are sitting at a table at the base of beautiful tree-lined hills, watching as groups of people dressed in multi-colored robes walk down from the hills toward you? You seem to be signing people in. That dream always feels profound, and very real to you—the sights, the sounds, the smells—and you remember it. It's the closest we could get to reminding you of our work together.
“And it was you and your mom who shared another dream on the same night, as revolutionaries being chased to your deaths by the military in Central America. Do you still remember that one? That dream felt real, too, as you crouched at the base of some basement stairs, nowhere left to run, waiting for them to come and kill you. You both still remember it. Through dreams, we aim to arrest and engage you, move you, change you—to bring you to yourselves—so that whatever you're doing is informed by these stories from your larger existence.
“Ah-ha moments are our favorites,” he laughs. “Nudges are the easiest. Remember the Chinese fortune cookie you got once that said, ‘Imagination rules the world’? Nudges can be that simple—a nudge to creativity. In a way, ah-ha moments are easier than coincidences or synchronicities, which require the coming together of people, places, animals, objects. Those can be a challenge to arrange. You know, like a book on a shelf right where you'll see it right when you need to, or even falling from the shelf in front of you?
“Or running into someone in the right moment—think about all the planning that goes into the success of that. When you have one of those, you'll often think back to the steps before that ‘chance’ meeting, amazed at all it took—bus being late, traffic just so, et cetera, et cetera—all to have your paths cross at just that moment.
“Ah-ha moments, on the other hand, can also require a lot, but they're more singular, with internal shifts and readiness on your part that defy logical analysis. No one can fully explain why that A led to that B for that person. Ah-ha moments need a little miracle. Even we, who help arrange them, can't explain it. Suddenly, a light goes on, and you have a new, enhanced understanding. You're changed, in a personally powerful way.”
He looks at me. “You know what I'm talking about. You've had them.”
I look at him with a question mark on my face. I know I must've had them, but in that moment I can't recall a single one.
“For you to meet Reggie, for example. Coincidence and ah-ha moment. You knew each other, but you formally met on a blind date, something you always said you'd never go on. You went because your boss arranged it, so it was harder to say no. It was on your birthday, too, so there was a reason for a group celebration to be organized. And hers was just a few days after yours. Harder, again, to say no. Reggie was friends with your boss' daughter—a lot went into that set of connections to make them become part of your ‘coincidence.’ There were a few false starts—then finally it was scheduled.
“This kind of wheels-moving-within-wheels process is almost always behind it when Earth people come together in decision points in your lives. It's not chance. The ah-ha moment was when you two met. You both knew when you met, before either of you had said a word to the other.”
“Knew what?” I ask, struggling to remember the details of that moment. “That something significant had happened?”
Then I remembered it. I couldn't disagree. Reggie and I had just looked at each other and known that we would be together, were meant to be together. It had felt magical. I sit back, humbled by all the time and effort that had gone into making that moment.
“Thank you,” I said, never meaning it more. I thought for a moment, then had to ask, “These ah-ha moments sound like they involve a lot of work and worry. Why are they your favorites?”
“Because we meet there. You and us,” he gestures, tapping my chest, then tapping his. “It's tangible—you feel it, we feel it. We're charged by it. These are moments of such alignment, with self, other, and All That Is. That's happiness. We've been able to do something. So these moments are a kind of success for all involved, no matter where the relationship goes. And we never judge it by Earthly standards; it has its own meaning and purpose. And that part is up to you, not us. We just try to create the opportunities, the moments. I will say there's some cheering that goes on here, when we're successful.” He smiles broadly. “It's a great job we have, honestly. None better.”
I have to laugh now, shaking my head. Who'd have thought we had all these beings, these partners focused on us and the state of our spirit? There they are, working so hard to provide the proof we're always seeking. There we are looking for it while overlooking it, confused about what we should we looking for, wanting miracles, not expecting the miracles we're getting. He's saying what to watch for, and I think it will take some practice to see it as mattering among all the other glamor and noise going on around us.
“That's where you were—caught in the middle,” Guy says, reading my mind. “So you jumped. Every such deviation from the path creates the scars, the bruises, the cuts, the breaks, the bumps that signify a life lived—not denied, endured or handed over to others for the living. Your jumping really did set you free. What will you do now?”
I stare at him, speechless yet again. He's asked me the very question I've wanted to ask him, that I desperately hoped he would answer for me. It sends me reeling, this reversal. Shouldn't he have the answer, in this all-knowing place? What will I do now?
He's enjoying himself. “All that to say, it's not often someone comes to us, especially in the way you have. If people are just existing, looking for their next distraction, they're not trying to reach us and we can't reach them. They certainly wouldn't come here, gathering their Team for a mind-altering performance, such as we're giving now. They might have one to two guides for the rare, maybe even once in a lifetime opportunity to be reachable (surgery, death of a loved one, war).
“None of us could remember another time someone did this. Why would you need an answer from us?”
I stop and think about this for a moment. I mean, it had seemed like a big deal to me—to make the jump. But if it's a big deal even to them, that's something to wrap my head around.
“Well, more people are approaching us in other ways nowadays, what with the shift and all,” Lynette comments. She had been sitting quietly, listening. “You know, like in what they call lucid dreaming, or in meditation. They come seeking us now, rather than sitting passively, waiting for something to happen.”
“Yes, but not the Void,” Uche says.
“No, not the Void,” Kahil says, looking at me with respect.
“By jumping, you've asked for your larger story. Like the Aborigines say, it's always stalking you. But now you're stalking it. You want to be part of your larger story. So, we've reminded you of some of the things you had to forget in order to be able to live a life. We've kept you spiritually anchored here while you're there, on Earth. And we've done our best to keep you spiritually guided, directed, protected. Loved.”
The veil is being lifted, the boundaries thinned, and I see what they've been doing. So much falls into place. Now it becomes my job, using my own discernment and creative powers, to see if I can do here what they've been doing over there. Help. Serve. Whoa. Of course.
Guy continues to talk, but its as though the words are silent, or in an unknown language. I can't make them out.
He sees my face and stops. Everyone does.
His voice is clear in my head, almost a whisper. “It's a point of magic moment! You're at a point, and you have a choice—not just a choice about one thing in your life. You are looking at making a choice about everything. The purpose of your life. It's all coming together and we never know what's going to happen next—this can go beyond even our wildest imaginings, lead to the most unexpected outcomes. Here we go. . . magic!”