4

A New Earth

 

Mother Earth Evolving, Cellular Mitosis, the Twofold Life, a Pagan Coupling Ceremony, the Emergence of God-Kings, and Dolphin-Riders

As I have previously stated, the purpose of this narrative is not to retell what is already known about the history of humanity, nor to repeat what has been recorded in the various sacred literature. No indeed! My heartfelt desire is to throw some light on what has been glossed over, or what has been hidden, or what has been distorted over the course of human history. Yet more personally important is my own modest attempt to discern the causes and meaning behind the increasingly turbulent global situation and the imminent collapse of this planet’s biosphere.

It is clear from what I observe on a daily basis and from what I experience through the sensorium of my cowriter—to whom I’ve drawn even closer during this collaborative venture—is that the state of affairs on this world is reaching a crisis pitch. I won’t bother to enumerate the current impending disasters, or the failures in leadership, or the hypocrisy and wickedness of so many of the actions of the great powers. If you’re reading my words you’ll be well aware of the inevitable problems that lurk ahead for this world.

I am, therefore, following my ward’s unexpressed request to focus my attention briefly on the current moment and answer some of his most pressing questions, as well as to comment on other intuitions he may have about the state of the world.

“Georgia, from what you’ve already written,” he asks me, “you’ve seen a few of these planetary crises before. What have you learned that would be invaluable for us to know through the coming times?”

I reply, “Let me first put the concept of a planetary crisis in perspective. I’ve witnessed the devastation wreaked by earthquakes, tsunamis, and volcanoes, and I’ve seen the results of a widespread atomic war and what can occur when a comet approaches too close to a planet, yet I’ve never seen an entire planetary biosphere so close to the verge of collapse as this one. This will carry implications unlike any of the previous crises and, if allowed to continue for much longer, may well render the planet uninhabitable for a period while the biosphere restores itself.”

If I’m brutally honest Georgia, it seems to me the vested interests most responsible for continuing to degrade the biosphere are simply too committed to business-as-usual to ever really change. I doubt if they’d be able to do it in time, even if they could. From this point of view, the future looks pretty dark, doesn’t it?”

I reply, “From that primarily materialistic point of view, the future is dark, no doubt about it. But this is not simply a material crisis; materialists are liable to find themselves frustrated in their efforts to resolve the global crisis in purely physical terms. It is as much a spiritual, emotional, and mental crisis for every individual on the planet, and it will be in everyone’s resolution of these issues that their immediate future will depend.

“Those people not in denial about the impending predicament should by now be aware that technological innovation will, at best, merely delay the inevitable, or even make it worse as the result of unintended consequences. Yet to announce such a realistic prediction publicly would be to invite accusations of defeatism—the materialists have no choice but to keep their faith in the promise of technology.

“It isn’t up to me—or any angel—to predict the future in such uncertain times, but I can broaden the context in which to understand what is currently occurring on this planet. The most important factor to appreciate is that the planet herself is shifting from a third to a fourth level of density. Mother Earth, if you like, is on the move . . .”

“Mother Earth is growing up?”

“If you’d like to think of it that way . . . but better to see it as Mother Earth moving up through her own chakras.”

“So, she’s moving her focus from the third to the fourth chakra . . . from the personal power center to the heart? Whatever could that mean, Georgia? In real terms?”

I reply, “I’ve already talked about the seven major chakras in the human body as portals to the seven primary dimensions: of mineral, plant, animal, human, angel, archangel, and the seventh—the crown chakra—the Divine. Just as each of you seek, consciously or unconsciously, to master each chakra, so Mother Earth can be thought to have gained mastery over the three lower chakras and is now in the process of rising into the heart of her matter.”

“What will that mean for human beings, Georgia?”

I reply, “It depends on each person. That’s the point, it’s about individual souls. Let me see if I can put it as simply as possible. As you will know, each human being—and angel, for that matter—contains the potential to respond to any situation with love, generosity, and trust; or, with fear, self-concern, and suspicion. It’s almost always a clear choice. The more everyone responds with love, the more they will live in the heart. When you respond with fear or hatred, you will find yourself trapped in the three base chakras. This means the people trapped in the lower chakras will refract their lives through the lens of their preoccupations and their fears.

“In contrast, those who clear their chakras by releasing the thought-forms that can lodge in the subtle energy bodies, and who learn to stay firmly in their hearts—these are the ones who’ll be lofted along with the New Earth into the fourth density.”

“This makes me uneasy, Georgia. It rings of a sort of Judgment Day . . . of us and them. Like we’re being judged by some standard that we’re unaware of . . .”

“This is nothing to do with any ‘judgment day,’ but judgment itself is unavoidable. You could more usefully think of it as assessment. It doesn’t carry quite the same critical weight. Yet humans are constantly assessing events and situations; you assess one another, and, if you are wise, you assess yourselves in the light of your own best intentions. Call this self-judgment, if you wish, but it is more realistically considered as a preparation for what lies ahead. And this, in short, means: Have you lived, and are your living, a loving and caring life; or are you living in a reality primarily ruled by fear and suspicion? No one has to be a yogi or a saint. Simply to have good and fair intentions, and to have let go of the negative thoughtforms that hold the attention trapped in the material world will be sufficient to loft you, along with your planet, into the fourth density.”

“So what will happen to those who aren’t lofted into the fourth density?”

I reply, “They will carry on much as before, trying to apply their mechanistic solutions to a deteriorating global situation. They will barely notice the shift and will probably congratulate themselves on a sudden reduction of opposition to their agendas.”

“And those who join Mother Earth in the fourth density? What of them?”

“Similar, but with some important inversions! Perhaps only the more sensitive will actually feel the shift as it will be extremely subtle. The shift will manifest through who the people truly are rather than through the masks used in the third-density domain. The concepts of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty will take on new meaning, while defensive or selfish thoughts and acts will become increasingly rare. Interest will turn away from the accumulation of wealth and power, turning instead to learning and personal creativity. There will be progressive projects that have struggled to find form amid third-density vested interests that will start manifesting, almost mysteriously, in the new fourth-dimensional Earth.

“Of course, there’ll be challenges, but they will be the challenges of the mind, the spirit, and the imagination. Just as the difficulties facing those remaining on third-density Earth will continue to be primarily experienced on the physical and material levels, so too will the challenges on a fourth-density world be more focused on a preparation for your Multiverse careers and helping to familiarize people with beings from other worlds who have access to the higher dimensions.”

“It’s alright, Georgia, I know you’re talking about the future. I doubt if this will happen in my lifetime. So what will people find on this fourth-density world? What’s it actually going to be like? Will there be nations? Governments? Police? Factories?”

“I’m not being evasive if I say I don’t want to spoil the surprise. But you can probably extrapolate from what I’ve said. Suffice it to say it will be a very different world . . . Well, because you appreciate architecture, they will find that what has been created and built with love and fine craftsmanship in the third density will continue to exist in the fourth. Governments, since you ask, will become far smaller, because people will be increasingly self-governing. They will see true statesmen and -women and authentically caring men and women emerging in positions of responsibility as national boundaries fade into irrelevance. A benign world government will come about, and contact with extraterrestrial intelligences will help introduce advances that will accelerate the development of practical issues.”

“But the world population would have to be vastly reduced for this New Earth to thrive!”

I reply, “Nothing gets reduced. Do you see? Let’s say the current world population is somewhat more than seven billion. The New Earth might scoop up, let’s say, two or three billion, which leaves a manageable four or five billion people on a slightly more spacious Old Earth. So both groups of humanity will gain and neither will lose, at least not in that way.”

“Won’t those who find themselves in this New World have to start all over again? If only those buildings created with love survive, that’s going to leave a lot of gaps.”

I reply, “I call it the ‘New Earth’ for convenience. It’s not really new. It’s in fact the true ‘Old Earth.’ The Earth upon which you currently live is a sub-creation, manifested at the time of the rebellion. It’s what I’ve heard others call ‘a kindergarten reality,’ manifested for Lucifer and the rebel angels to work out their salvation. The Vedas in their wisdom call this reality ‘Maya.’

“But let’s not confuse matters. The New Earth it is. There will, of course, be new creations, new buildings, more appropriate technology—but space flight will change much of that. Yet there will also be the very best of the old. And here’s something that will interest you. I’ve previously shown how the loyalist midwayers have, down through the centuries, been stocking away their secret caches of the finest, the most sacred, and the most beautiful of humankind’s artifacts, which otherwise would have been destroyed. You’ll recall I referenced it as the true ‘Treasure of Eldorado.’ Well, those will be the artifacts they will find on the fourth-density world.

“Perhaps a convenient model can be found in the process of cellular mitosis, in which a mother cell divides into two identical cells that both carry the original information. Each cell from then on will be subject to the environmental conditions in which it finds itself over the course of its life. So you can think of third- and fourth-density realities as starting off from the same point, allowing that those two cells start off with the same information. Then, over time, as generations of mortals pass through, everyone engaging as best they can with the impulses and challenges of the three base chakras—survival, sexual reproduction, and animal power—some will reach the heart, and for those moments of illumination they will have partaken in the fourth-density New Earth.”

“So, for all I know, I might be sitting typing in my house on the New Earth right now, yes?”

“As long as you stay in your heart, yes, of course. You built your own house with loving care, didn’t you? How is your life going? Are your relationships loving? Are publishers accepting your books? Are you having to struggle to survive?”

“I think perhaps I should leave it there, Georgia. You’ve rounded it out and left enough clues for an attentive mind to find of value. Thank you for lifting the veil.”

It was in the Lemurian Mystery schools that I first heard of what the Lemurian scholars called “the twofold life” becoming most fully developed. The twofold life quite simply means the acknowledgment that humans are spiritual beings living material lives. This understanding also accompanied them in their various diasporas and in the colonies they’d developed, forming the basis of much of their teachings.

However, as any human society develops, there is the tendency for those societies to separate, over time, into ruling elites and the various levels of underclass. Even the noble Lemurians were no exception. The demands of survival and the requirements of child rearing, as well as the exercise of power, whether as aggressor or victim, all this becomes the central focus of mortal existence.

Yet, as the ruling elite exercises its dominance, the twofold life can easily become lost in the swirl of Maya. Ruling elites may have become superseded by corporate aristocracies in modern times; the dynamic is much the same. Ruling elites invariably find it to their advantage to deny any considerations of the twofold life. They seek instead to create a single condition in which the vast majority of people have to struggle to make their way in life.

Many of those who return from a near-death experience, for example, having had a brief taste of the transcendent reality, find themselves being assured by so-called experts that the most sacred event of their lives was merely the result of their oxygen-starved brains. Not surprisingly, as my ward has observed, statements like that sound utterly ridiculous to anyone who has actually had a genuine NDE. Such experiences are certainly not chaotic or meaningless.

In fact, my ward has written of the extraordinary lucidity of his own NDE; how it was far from mere hallucination, but was exquisitely choreographed; how he encountered angels and was healed; and finally, how the NDE so completely transformed his life in a way that no hallucination or oxygen-starved brain ever could.

Almost all religions preach that these transcendent realms are only accessible after death and make exceptions solely for their eminencies such as Ezekiel or Mohammed or Jesus Christ. Saints, prophets, and seers are seldom given their due in their own lifetimes. They will often be an embarrassment to the organized religions from which they’ve emerged. Then, long after they’ve died, when it’s safe to fold them into contemporary consideration, such icons become idealized creatures of myth.

However, when people act from the heart they don’t need religions to control them or tell them who and how to worship. When someone acts from their heart, his or her life will become the act of worship.

Thus the twofold life, because it professes an attainable transcendence, has remained as a deep current running through the esoteric Mystery schools. There have always been certain individuals who have chosen to follow a spiritual path, and, dependent on their level of personal development, they will have known something of the New Earth, without perhaps knowing exactly where they were or what they were experiencing.

If I were to tell you that this experience of the New Earth, as I’ve observed it in my ward, is one of the deepest familiarity, perhaps you can identify with that particular state of consciousness. He tells me it’s like coming home; of finally feeling safe and secure; of everything, from that moment onward, reaching for perfection. Various religions identify this as a state of grace, or satori, or samadhi. Still others call it God consciousness, or cosmic consciousness. These are all variants on what it means to experience aspects of a fourth-dimensional realm.

In this model the heart becomes the link, or the bridge, between the three highest chakras and the three lowest ones. As the Old Earth is preoccupied with issues of survival, sexuality, and power, so the New Earth supports whatever is of continuing spiritual value. It’s a subtle business because it’s more a matter of accent or emphasis, of where the individual places her or his attention. The lower three dimensions continue to exist in the New Earth, just as the Old Earth maintains the top three chakras. Yet in the latter case, the top three chakras are held more as potentials, as the subtle-energy circuits or portals to be reached for by those readying themselves for their personal shift from Old to New World.

Whether this transformational shift suggested by the mitosis model will occur when predicted or prophesied is not for me to know. All I can tell you is that a collective shift will happen, and it will be sooner rather than later. I don’t believe I’m betraying any secrets if I suggest that you who are reading these words will already be experiencing some features of the fourth-dimensional reality.

I’ll say no more about this for a while as elements of what I’ve been writing here are occurring right now all around you. Such states of consciousness are subtle and generally extremely personal, and it’s far more valuable for you to explore these realities and gain some familiarity with them for yourself.

Finally, if I may speak personally for a moment: My ward is urging me to take stock of myself. Well, perhaps you may have noticed a welcome softening of my tone following the discussion of present-day issues and challenges. I feel I can credit this to the gradual personal transformation I feel I’ve been undergoing over the course of writing this narrative.

This whole process is allowing me a far deeper empathy and understanding of mortal consciousness. This was never something I ever anticipated when I originally conceived of this exercise, and I’m left pondering if, perhaps, it might be a sign that the time for my own mortal incarnation might be drawing closer.

So with that tentative speculation, I’ll continue with my narrative.

*  *  *

I have previously described the extensive cellars under the palazzo on Villa Julia as being damp and cold, but as the winter of 1968 set in with a renewed vigor, it became increasingly unpleasant for the Processeans huddling together for the warmth.

They had quickly accumulated—or, “retrieved,” to use Process jargon for getting stuff for free—more blankets and sleeping bags, yet there were never quite enough to keep them comfortable as they shivered through the freezing nights. And the days too, given the watery Roman sun never reached into the cellar’s frigid depths, the thick stone walls growing colder and colder. While at night, the Processeans’ collective body heat created the inevitable natural cycle familiar to spelunkers who’ve spent nights in the coldest of caves. Their warm breath led to condensation settling on the stone walls, which then turned to ice as morning came. The patina of ice remained slick and shiny throughout the day while everyone was out on the streets selling magazines and Robert’s books. Then, as night fell, the cycle would repeat itself, the ice thickening as the weather turned ever colder.

Up in their sumptuous apartment, Mary Ann was brewing plans with Robert that certainly promised to warm up the community—although not in a way any of them might have expected.

I was not privy to the details of Mary Ann’s intentions at that point, because I was attending to my ward, who was now living with the others down in the palazzo’s frigid cellars. Consequently, I will need to make certain assumptions based on what I subsequently observed.

I believe it was the concept of “Absorptions”—Process jargon for their arranged couplings—that must have been the catalyst for Mary Ann’s plans. These weeklong “marriages” had been carrying on intermittently since they began in London during the previous year. These Absorptions were kept firmly under wraps while the Process continued to maintain that the members had willingly sacrificed their sexuality in their devotion to their gods. When everyone was on the move, as they’d been recently, there were no Absorptions. Now that they’d all gathered together in the Roman palazzo, it must have been deemed time to start them again. There was only one Absorption in any given week, so it had taken some time to work through the couples who’d expressed some enthusiasm for the partner chosen for them by Mary Ann. Thus when news of the proposed Absorption—the first to be held in Rome—filtered down to them from the Omega, everyone seemed mightily surprised.

Those who’ve been following this narrative will recall my various descriptions of Father Aaron. Although highly intelligent, he lived so much in his head that my ward reports he never seemed comfortable with women. My ward has even speculated that Aaron could well have been a virgin before he joined the Process. In what seemed a most unlikely match, Father Aaron was to spend his week with a much more junior member of the community—a young American woman whom I’ll call Sister Verona. She was one of those who’d joined the Process in New Orleans and quickly worked her way into the community by force of character and her considerable intelligence.

Mein Host first met Verona when he was in New Orleans, and, appreciating her considerable acumen, he’d taken her under his wing. As with many reincarnates, young Sister Verona was completely unaware of who she was, knowing only that she didn’t fit in with anybody in her home city. Although alarmingly bright, she’d given herself over to heroin as a way of killing the pain of feeling so out of place. My ward had been firm with her, at one point throwing away her outfit, a neat metal box made for a glass hypodermic syringe, additional needles, a vial of white powder, a small spirit heater, and a blackened spoon.

Verona, like many of the community, was not a natural joiner. Becoming a member of a cult wasn’t a career move that would have entered her thoughts up to the time she met my ward and the other Processeans. Although a few people might have joined the Process because they were attracted to its religious philosophy and its psychological insights, those people generally didn’t last very long. Others may have erroneously believed that community life was an easy one, a way of avoiding their responsibilities. These individuals got a rude awakening when they were required to show their commitment by working all hours for the Process for up to two years before actually becoming officially an IP (Internal Procession), a true member of the community. There were some, like Verona, who recognized a particular Processean with whom they could identify—often without quite knowing why. If pushed, Verona, for example, might have called the community her “true family” or simply said that she felt she was exactly where she was meant to be.

I have heard Mein Host recently raising this issue: Had it been generally understood that the Process—as well as a number of other contemporary cults and spiritual groups—was, to put it directly, a repository for incarnated rebel angels, would it have helped or hindered the growth of the group? Although by no means all members of the group were rebel angel incarnates, many of the original group, as well as some of those who joined the community later, were drawn together because they unwittingly shared this common spiritual heritage.

As my ward now understands, his thirteen years with the Process served this particular aspect of his nature. He says that from his early twenties he intuitively knew this was his last incarnation on this level. Not knowing quite what that meant—he wasn’t religious at the time and had barely given any thought to reincarnation—he must have pushed the insight aside. (It was in discovering that others in the Process had much the same intuitive awareness that my ward must have felt he’d stumbled on people like himself who were also exploring the deeper truth of their natures. This deeper truth, of course, although undiscovered by the group, was that Mein Host and many of his fellow Processeans were, in fact, rebel angels in mortal bodies. However, the very concept of angels as real beings would have been utterly foreign to him and would continue to remain so until a rainy afternoon in 1973, after which angels would become very real indeed.)

Yet despite being consciously unaware of his angelic heritage, and without really knowing what was meant by this being his last incarnation, there was a consequence to his insight that proved invaluable in accelerating his own process. It created in him a long-standing desire for as many different experiences as possible if he wasn’t going to be coming back. Whether or not he gave any serious thought as to how intense and extreme these experiences might turn out to be, I can’t say. I had no access to my ward’s mind at that time.

Yet I’ve come to understand, largely over the course of writing this narrative, that there was some wisdom to his choice. Life in the Process was indeed providing him, and the others like him, precisely the wide variety of intense experiences from which they could draw their own conclusions about themselves.

It was this sense of unaccountable kinship that, in turn, drew others like Sister Verona and allowed them to settle easily and naturally into Process life, working hard at the chores given to them as the most junior members of the community.

Mary Ann, as was her way when she spotted someone she could use to her advantage, had been keeping a close eye on young Sister Verona through her various matriarchal proxies. So by the time the Omega arrived in Rome, Sister Verona had become something of a favorite of Mary Ann and had frequently spent personal time with the Omega in a way no other junior members were privileged to do. This rare honor, together with Sister Verona’s forceful personality, had not endeared her to her peers, although senior Processeans, knowing all too well how quickly word would get to Mary Ann, made sure to treat the ambitious young woman attentively, while keeping her at a respectful distance.

I mention these details because the union of Father Aaron and Sister Verona seemed such an unlikely coupling. In retrospect, because there’s no doubt it was Mary Ann who had orchestrated the Absorption, it’s easier to see what she was up to.

This was not going to be a regular Absorption!

Unlike other such unions, from what I could observe of this pair’s emotional bodies there seemed to be little natural attraction between them. Father Aaron was so uncomfortable in his physical body that he was almost entirely out of contact with his second chakra; most people took him to be asexual. Sister Verona, in her turn, was a highly sexually charged young woman under her surface gloss of cool indifference. In appearance she was small and compact, with short, dark hair cut to frame her face, which was broad and constantly animated. Without being a classic beauty, she had a vitality and a genuine interest in whomever she was interacting with. This lent her an air of sexual magnetism. Her greenish brown eyes glinted with intelligence, and, in spite of a manner that could be brassy and bossy, Sister Verona appeared a genuinely kind and caring person.

But as would be confirmed in time, Sister Verona was also a cunningly ambitious woman who will come to play a central role in the drama that hurried along the inevitable demise of the community as an authentic, contemporary, Mystery school.

*  *  *

I know Mein Host will be amused to hear more about when I encountered him for the very first time. I have already dropped a hint earlier in my narrative, so it won’t come as a complete surprise. My ward is unlikely to have any cellular memory, and certainly no conscious recollection, of the event that, in itself, was entirely uneventful.

It happened in this way.

When I sensed the growing imminence of the first of the unfortunate tragedies to strike Atlantis, I’d moved back there from my stint of observing what was happening in the Nile Valley.

I was struck first by how the people of the Atlantean islands had become even further polarized than when I was last there. The wave of shamanism I’d seen moving west from Asia never had a chance to reach Atlantis, so the common people and the slaves of the islands had no access to the shamanic reality. This had rendered the people to become ever more firmly under the control of the priests and kings, who now held absolute dominion over all aspects of Atlantean life. There had been a time when the Atlantean kings and their ruling clans had overseen the kingdom with justice and genuine authority. Yet their long history of piracy and power-mongering carried the seeds of corruption that ate away at their souls, finally atrophying their moral compass.

When I arrived back on the Atlantean islands the society was well on its way to becoming what you might recognize as a mafia state. When I inquired of another Watcher as to how this decline had come about so quickly, I could feel the deep sadness in her tone.

“I fear for the islanders,” I heard her in my mind, as a torrent of terrifying images flew across my vision. “There was so much blood but I couldn’t turn away, I couldn’t stop the flow.” Then she contined, “It started at the top . . . with the ruling families . . . there was a poisoning, that set it off. Worse still, their god-king collapsed and died in front of all the families, in the middle of their most important sun ceremony of the year. And he was supposed to be immortal! That’s what destroyed the illusion.”

I knew how delicate was the balance of power between the five dominant family clans that emerged from the centuries of looting and piracy. Over time they’d found that the most effective way of keeping power was through the institution of a god-king, but it was a dangerous and ultimately self-defeating fraud from the start. The five clans agreed between themselves to choose the god-king from the clan elders of each family in turn, to take his place as the sixth member of the ruling junta. This posting was regarded among the families as a way of preventing any single clan from being overly favored. This sixth elder, although believed by the masses to be the supreme god-king of the increasingly powerful Atlantean nation, was really intended to be a brake on the system.

“No one knew who killed him,” the Watcher broke into my thoughts, “so they all suspected one another, and before long there were duels to the death, one leading to another . . . Were you around for that?”

When I’d left the islands last time there’d been an uneasy truce between the clans, because the riches were continuing to roll in . . .

“That was starting to dry up,” the Watcher murmured in my mind, and there were the images again. This time they were of boats returning empty; of coastal towns sacked so often they’d been deserted by any remaining inhabitants; fights breaking out between members of the same clans. (That I had never seen before!)

The Watcher cut in again. “Once the god-king died, all the suppressed anger and envy broke loose . . . the duels didn’t settle anything but personal animosities between individuals. It didn’t stop there. Soon, it was clan against clan . . . and yes, to answer your question, somehow they did manage to contain the fighting. Luckily, the violence never spread to the slaves, except for a few random scuffles.”

I hadn’t observed any of this fighting in my quick survey of the islands, just a thick smog of suppression. I had felt the familiar boot of the tyrant in the atmosphere and guessed something must have changed for the worse.

Gazing downward at the islands, the Watcher remained quiet for a long moment. I thought at first she was dropping her head in shame, yet there was nothing for her to be ashamed of—like me, she was only a Watcher after all. I could see the ocean far beneath us sparkling in the early morning sun. The great canals encircling the main island of Atlantis curved out of sight, obscured by the foothills of the towering central range of mountains.

The main island had long been divided into five radial sections, each slice allowing each clan approximately the same amount of territory. More importantly, it gave them all a segment of the coastline and a large area of the foothills, as well as their own area of the higher central mountains.

Atlas, the great volcano responsible for forming the main island in the first place, hadn’t erupted for more than half-a-million years. Its summit was almost permanently veiled in clouds and believed by the people to be the abode of their gods. The few occasions each year that the clouds cleared briefly and the sun shone bright on the summit were believed to be a blessing. Those fortunate enough to observe this rare event actually happening knew it was a sign that the gods were smiling on whatever they were doing, feeling, or thinking at that very moment.

I knew the land had been stable for as long as humans had been on the island. Even the elephants that had crossed over the land bridge from Africa when the oceans had shrunk during the long previous ice age—even they had no record of an eruption or a serious earthquake on Atlantis stored in their monumental memories.

Such an unthinkable disaster would never have occurred to the Atlanteans. It was their home. It had always been their home, their beautiful, majestic island. Their sacred mountain. So it was that in those rippling, weathered foothills the five ruling clans had made their elegant homes. Farther up were the mansions of the elders of the clans. Yet higher still were the monumental palace and the extensive gardens of the god-king of Atlantis.

The nature of a god-king was to demand worship and to expect absolute obedience from his subjects. He exercised his power through his priests and a system of informers that reached down into all levels of Atlantean society. He ruled through fear and violence, yet most of all, through the implicit threat of his immortality.

“The god-king was always the puppet of the ruling junta, didn’t you realize that?” It was the Watcher again. Before I could form a reply, she’d continued. “Of course he was! He’d been picked by the elders, hadn’t he? By the junta. There was a great reward too if they toed the line. There’s a section of the Grand Palace given over to the elders; only they know about it. It’s known as the abode of the god-kings. It’s where they live after they’ve served as a god-king . . . it’s to keep them quiet, of course!”

“So they weren’t immortal at all,” I thought wryly. “That must be why they use those golden masks . . .”

“They weren’t even that long-lived!” She’d picked up on my tone. “Behind the mask and covered in all that finery, who was to know?! For centuries they’d kept it up, deceiving the whole island. No one was going to rebel against an immortal god-king, that’s what the families believed. Turned out to be true too . . . until that god-king dropped dead in the ceremony . . . in front of everybody.”

I realized then that the Watcher wasn’t looking at her feet at all, but at the ocean beneath us and how the spray glinted rose and silver in the early morning sun.

Then the Watcher was smiling up at me encouragingly. She had to have been reading me while I was becoming entranced by the rippling surface of the ocean. She motioned with her head, and I followed her gaze down through the astral to where the sea was breaking against the outer ring of the island. Looking closer I could see a small indentation in the cliffs. As I moved lower, this developed into a hidden breach in the steep walls. The sea had poured in through the break, filling a small, yet from its vivid green color, an extremely polluted lake.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have thought more about this—there were many such unusual scenic wonders on the island—had I not caught sight of these flashes of mercury on the surface of the lake. But how could that be mercury? Mercury on water? I didn’t immediately grasp what I was staring at.

Looking around I saw that my interest had drawn me down lower into the astral than I’d realized, while my talkative Watcher was merely a disappearing wrinkle in the ether. Turning back and sinking closer to the lake it became more obvious it was a small crater lake, doubtless the result of a meteor strike early in the island’s geological history.

Then, another mercurial flash, and another, and then . . . there was my answer! A large dolphin arced high out of the water, curling in the air to greet the day’s first rays of sun breaking over the lip of the cliff far above. A spray of seawater followed the crescent of the dolphin’s body, throwing the rays of the sun into a diaphanous rainbow sheen that, for an evanescent instant, framed the dolphin in a bright green neon glow.

I knew somehow it was a completely deliberate ploy. I was the only one who had seen it—the dolphin was there for one brief moment and disappeared the next, striking the water on his back in a mighty splash. And, yes, for obvious reasons I could see it was a male dolphin. But how did I know the performance was intended for me? How did I know it was deliberate and calculated, for that matter?

I slipped lower still until I was ten or twelve feet under the surface of the lake and was astonished at what I saw. I’d never been in the lower astral while simultaneously venturing under the surface of the planet’s oceans, and yet here was my introduction. A double helix of rapidly moving dolphins, far more of them than I’d have expected, were spiraling down into the darkness. I could just see them turning toward the land and then seeming to vanish under the cliffside. A large male dolphin (I felt sure he was the one I’d just seen breaching the surface) was already swimming fast down the center of the spiraling dance, leaving a long curving stream of bubbles behind him.

It was an obvious invitation.

I followed him, the others in the pod appearing to swirl around me, their eyes shining with amusement as I passed them. My dolphin guide slipped ahead of me through a narrow tunnel, after which we emerged together into a cavernous, vaulted chamber. The rising and falling of the water had decorated the sheer walls of the cave with drapes of bright green seaweed. I could see that light was seeping in through cracks high in the cavern’s roof, beams slicing through the moist air and striking the water in pools of electric-green luminescence. The space was echoing with the whistles and clicks of the dolphins. It seemed to me they were enjoying their own cacophonous concerto.

Had I not been taken there by dolphins, I would never have known such a place existed—and I rather doubted whether anyone else on Atlantis was aware of it.

Well! I was wrong there! Looking behind me I could dimly make out a group of figures, human beings I assumed, grouped together on a dry ledge with a couple of tall midwayers glowing in a soft violet aura standing behind them.

It must have been then, as I was peering at the mortals through the crepuscular gloom of the cavern, that I felt a soft shift of telepathic focus.

It’s challenging to explain the subtlety of this sensation to a non-telepathic being. My ward suggests there are certain rubberized buttons found on some electrical devices that when pressed convey something of the same soft clicking sensation as when a new telepathic channel is opening up. (I’m surprised to find this remarkably accurate!)

There were no words in my mind—words as you’d know them. There didn’t even appear to be a sequence of events to what I was receiving telepathically. It was just a mass of moving images isomorphically superimposed, so that suddenly I was looking back through a lens at tens of million years of the cetacean historical experience.

In that moment of illumination I perceived how the cetaceans, and in particular certain of the dolphin species, had been tasked with coming to the aid of certain mortals in times of crisis. I was shown this was a responsibility taken on by the species when the early bipeds had first stood upright in shallow water, foraging for shellfish. I saw dolphins in the Pacific Ocean leading rafts filled with human beings, entire families making their long, transoceanic voyages to the Islands of Mu; then, the swirling whirl of fandor wings landing softly on the backs of whales. And now there were more dolphins, this time guiding the native inhabitants of one of the northernmost Lemurian islands to the Chinese mainland before their island slipped beneath the waves; finally, I could see a dolphin patiently pushing a shipwrecked sailor toward an unidentifiable rocky coastline.

Suddenly the images were accelerating madly until they appeared and disappeared too rapidly for me to discern. A wave of anxiety caused by my inadequacy to absorb the images almost overcame me. I felt I should have been paying closer attention to the cetaceans, that I’d missed some essential dynamic on the planet . . . when, seemingly out of nowhere, another wave of energy spread through me. It seemed to chase out my concerns, replacing worries with a warm vibration spreading out from my heart in ripples of pure pleasure.

As I was filling with joy, the flicker of images gradually resolved into a single coherent montage so startling that I couldn’t make sense of it at first. This was not because the image wasn’t clear. It was. Perfectly so. This was no longer visual telepathy. It was really happening, here in the cavern. Yet it was so improbable and, at the same time, so humorous that my mind couldn’t seem to take it in. I’d never observed anything quite like it.

A young girl of about twelve years was being carefully lowered to the water by the same group of people I’d seen earlier on the rock ledge at the far end of the cavern. While I watched I saw a dolphin rising to the surface and the girl positioning herself comfortably straddling the broad back of a dolphin and waving happily at the group above her on the ledge.

The dolphin with the child on his back slipped without a splash beneath the surface. I followed them underwater—and from my astral perch what I experienced as water was a fine mist—fully expecting the poor child to be panicking and trying to hold her breath. The dolphin plunged deeper and deeper toward the narrow entry channel, and before I realized what I was seeing they were out and in the open ocean without having once broken the surface.

I still couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. As the dolphin was sinking below the surface he gently exhaled a breath almost imperceptibly through his blowhole. The bubble that this created was expanding slowly and steadily thanks to the obvious care taken by the dolphin in modulating his out-breath. Soon the bubble of air had swollen to encompass the girl with a circular, transparent canopy. As they passed me I was able to see the girl wrinkling her nose after taking her first breath inside her bubble of fishy air.

When I’d fully grasped what was happening, I knew it wasn’t a vision. This was really occurring! And in a third-density world!

Dolphin after dolphin was surfacing before my eyes to be straddled by the men and women I’d seen on the ledge, until one after another they disappeared into the depths, each person sealed safely within her or his bubble of air.

It was when I followed the last of the strangely symbiotic pairs out into the open ocean that I saw the original dolphin, now on the surface, with his young rider squealing with joy. Her long red hair was streaming behind her as “her” dolphin leaped and wove through the waves.

It wasn’t that the cetacean telepathic bandwidth was particularly subtle. It’s not. It needed to transmit effectively in third-density frequency domains. It was the dolphins’ method of delivery. I touched on it earlier, but now the sensation was even more overwhelming—a palpable tingling that spread throughout my body despite its higher frequency.

Once again I just knew the dolphin was hanging back and waiting for me. What was it that was so oddly familiar about him? I’d never spent any time in close contact with cetaceans before, and no dolphin had ever telepathically reached out to me. This was unknown territory for me. So, what was it I was feeling?

It was such a strange sense of familiarity that I wondered if I had slipped unknowingly into a temporal vortex—a rare anomaly that can unexpectedly spin a Watcher out of time into some far distant past or future. A Watcher’s sense of serial time, as I’ve previously described, is already unreliable; time really isn’t an issue that much concerns us. We move from event to event drawn by necessity, otherwise we would become too easily lost in eternity.

Prescient or not, I knew then beyond any doubt that my meeting with this dolphin was no casual encounter.

Now, in retrospect, it is all the clearer to me that this was the first time I experienced the personality I have come to know as Mein Host—the man who is typing these words and doing his best to digest what I’m reporting here. Perhaps memories of the long trip south that the dolphin and I shared together—the girl, of course, still ignorant of my presence—will permit this first encounter to become more real to him.