Earth Sentinels Collection

by Elizabeth M Herrera

  The president interjected, “So we’re not dealing with a half-ass job.”

  “No, sir, it appears that someone with means has taken the time to create a rather expensive message. Our informants have spoken with the other leaders, and it seems they’ve received the same message on the same paper, tied with ribbon cut from the same cloth. All delivered by birds. More important, the weather phenomenon mentioned in the letter—those events can’t be explained.”

  Frank removed several photographs from his briefcase, spreading them over the coffee table. “The oil from this location,” he pointed to a photograph of Bear Claw Lake, “ended up here.” He slid another photo closer to the president, who picked it up, examining an aerial shot of the Centre Block building in Ontario covered in oil.

  “When you consider the timing, method and recent events, we have to consider the possibility that we’re dealing with supernatural forces,” Frank stated, waiting for the commander in chief to digest the information. “You know, we have a program that deals with this sort of activity.”

  The president nodded. “I’ve heard rumors, but thought it was shut down.”

  “Nope. It’s still alive and well,” Frank responded.

  “What are you suggesting?” asked the president.

  “I’d like one of our psychics to see what he or she can pick up, but there are some drawbacks.” Frank paused, waiting for a reaction, but the president simply stared back at him, so he continued, “It’ll be difficult to hide our snooping when the ‘people’ we’re snooping on,” he used his fingers to indicate the quotes around the word ‘people,’ “are highly attuned.”

  “You mean they’ll know we’re snooping?” the president clarified.

  “Most likely, and if we’re caught, they might provide false data or worse.”

  “Hmmm. Well, why don’t you have someone give it a try. See what they come up with. But let’s keep this between us. Okay, Frank?”

  He nodded.

  Let the Storms Begin

  THIRTY DAYS HAD passed since the scrolls were delivered, and now it was time for the Earth Sentinels to discuss the world’s response. Bechard stood near the crystal ball with his blue-tipped wings folded back and hands clasped as he patiently waited for everyone to arrive.

  The original members—Billy, Zachary, the Bear Claw Tribe members, Haruto, Pahtia and Conchita—sat on stone benches in the center court while their totem animals waited nearby.

  Conchita gazed at Zachary. He felt her stare and looked at her. She smiled shyly, then lowered her eyes. He unconsciously puffed out his chest.

  Haruto lounged on a bench by herself smoking a slender pipe. The fierce-looking dragon settled behind her, resting his forepaws on the stone seat.

  Mahakanta stood on the courtyard. Behind him were hundreds of thousands of kindred spirits, spilling over the courtyard and across the valley.

  The other members appeared, one after another.Medicine men and women, shamans, Miko, Shinto, mudangs, Ngakpas, Jhakri, Noro, klong folk, Alignalghi, Sangomas, Hatałii, curanderos, and Machi from around the world entered the spirit realm through the invisible doors.

  When they all had taken their places, Bechard raised his arms, greeting them. “As you know, it has been thirty days with no response to our demands. While not surprising, it is disappointing.” The Earth Sentinels nodded their heads. “But before we go any further, I want to honor Chief Keme, who was killed by the Canadian Army.”

  Some of the members who weren’t aware that he was dead gasped while the others lowered their heads in recognition of their loss.

  They were all startled when a voice called out, “Hey! I’m not dead!” Chief Keme appeared in the center of the courtyard next to Bechard. The chief was no longer covered in blood, instead, he appeared young and strong, wearing a traditional, fringed buckskin shirt and pants embroidered with colorful beads in geometric shapes. He arched his back and raised his arms, shouting, “I might not be earthbound, but I’m alive!”

  The crowd cheered.

  Cecile ran over to tightly hug him, crying tears of joy. The other tribe members rushed to greet him.

  Zachary felt his heart expand, wondering what there was to fear, if there was no death.

  Mahakanta waited until everyone embraced the chief, then approached him, asking, “How can you be so happy? You were murdered!” A hush fell over the courtyard. Everyone waited for Chief Keme’s response.

  “I died a warrior! With my head held high, defending my tribe. Now I commune with my ancestors, and one day will be reunited with my family and friends here in the spirit realm. There is no sorrow. I am never alone!” He then posed his own question, “Why aren’t you happy?”

  Mahakanta lowered his head. Tears ran down his face. “I was a fool…” he couldn’t finish his sentence. The farmer spirits gathered around him, comforting him.

  Bechard didn’t want the meeting to drown in sorrow, so to divert the crowd’s attention, he patted the chief on the back, loudly saying, “Let’s hear it for Chief Keme!” The members cheered. “Now on to our agenda of saving Earth! As you know, the world’s leaders have ignored our demands. To get their attention, we will have to increase our display of power, and I have an idea that is fairly harmless, but a huge inconvenience to our fine world leaders.” Bechard had a devilish smile on his face.

  “I propose we create storms over governmental headquarters. To achieve this, each of you will stand next to the crystal ball and find the capitol, palace or headquarters of your country, then touch the glass while repeating this intention…‘Thirty days and nights, rain and lightning strikes.’” He added, “If you live in a country with states or provinces, do those as well—” The fallen angel suddenly stopped talking, peering to the side. A presence stood among them, but the shadowy silhouette disappeared when it realized it had been discovered. Most of the group missed seeing the murky figure and wondered what was going on. “It seems we’ve been compromised by an uninvited visitor,” Bechard informed them. “We will need to be more careful in the future. No matter…the spy has left. So back to my proposal. Does anyone object to creating the storms?” He waited a moment, but when no one disagreed, he proclaimed, “Let’s begin!”

  Zachary and Billy approached the crystal ball, easily finding the United States. The nation’s Capitol zoomed to the surface. Billy touched the glass while reciting, “Thirty days and nights, rain and lightning strikes.”

  Rain began pouring over the domed building and its circular lawn. The rain steadily increased until it was coming down in buckets. Lightning flared over the neatly groomed grounds. The tourists ran for cover as lightning struck the bronze statues of embodied heroes and zapped the light posts and flagpoles. Sparks flew everywhere. When the drenched tourists reached the street, they were surprised to be greeted by sunshine and dry pavement. They looked back in amazement realizing the storm was perfectly contained, as if held behind an invisible wall. Onlookers circled the Capitol studying the storm.

  It took a while for the Billy and Zachary to set the intentions over all of the state capitols, but when done, they stood back admiring their handiwork, then got out of the way, allowing the others to step forward.

  The President of the United States was eating breakfast with his wife and two young daughters in the private dining room at the White House, a mile-and-a-half from the nation’s Capitol. In the distance, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. His daughters stopped eating to peer out the window.

  The first lady wiped her mouth with a napkin, commenting, “Sounds like a storm’s coming.”

  The president nodded absentmindedly. The red phone on the curio rang. He answered it, listening to an urgent message, then tossed his napkin on the table, saying to his wife, “I need to check on a few things.”

  He walked down the hallway, stepping into the elevator, heading down.

  When the wood-clad doors slid open, two assistants were waiting to greet him. They walked briskly beside the president, ready to brief him on th
e day’s agenda. His executive assistant, Kristina Burns, did her best to keep up with the president, although her short legs were no match for his. “Mr. President, the first thing, and maybe the only thing, we need to address today is the storm over the Capitol.”

  “Is it headed our way?”

  Kristina realized the president was unaware of the situation. “Sir, the storm is only over the Capitol.”

  The president stopped in his tracks. He was going to ask something, but thought better of it. Instead, he walked into the Oval Office, immediately going to the window where he saw the isolated storm in the distance.

  Deeply concerned, he turned on the television, flipping through the stations until he found a live feed of Channel 9’s weekday reporter, Mark Johnson. A caption across the bottom of the screen read, “Freak Storm Over US Capitol.”

  The handsome reporter appeared mid-sentence, “—unnerving, isn’t it? What makes the storm so unusual is it’s only over the US Capitol building! I’ve been standing here five minutes and I’m completely dry!” True to Mark’s word, not a hair was out of place on his well-groomed head. The reporter paused, pressing his hand to his earpiece. “This just in. It seems other capitols throughout the US are experiencing the same thing! Unbelievable!” Mark began repeating the newsfeed streaming through his earpiece, “Michigan, New York, Virginia, Florida, Kentucky, Pennsylvania…Oh, my God! It appears every capitol building is having the same thing. What does this mean!? It can’t be good.”

  The president hit the remote, shutting off the TV. He picked up the phone and called the CIA director. “Hello, Frank, want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Mr. President, just got this. You remember that program I mentioned last time we spoke?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, one of our guys was able to penetrate the Earth Sentinels’ meeting this morning and overheard them planning these storms.”

  “You’re saying they created them?”

  “Yes, sir, it seems that way.”

  “Did your guy find out how long these storms will last?”

  “Thirty days.”

  “What!? How are we going to explain this to the American people? I need my advisors! Get here as soon as you can!” The president hung up, then directed his assistant, “Set up a meeting with my top chiefs ASAP!”

  Lightning crackled through the sky. An enormous boom of thunder shook the windows. The president winced.

  State Senator George Stanmond III prided himself on being the first to arrive at the Louisiana State capitol every morning, but today, his work ethic had bitten him in the butt. He had arrived before the supernatural storm started and was now stuck inside wistfully staring out the main entrance waiting for his assistant to arrive.

  The senator used his cell phone. “Donny, you close?”

  “Sir, I’m pulling up now. Be there in a sec.” Donny had worked for the senator for 14 years picking up the senator’s breakfast, dry cleaning and even buying gifts for his family, but navigating through a supernatural storm was the ultimate sacrifice he had performed to date.

  Donny stopped his SUV on the street in front of the capitol, putting the car in reverse, slowly backing over the curb, entering the storm. The rain was deafening as it pounded on the rooftop. He turned on the front and rear windshield wipers, straining to see through the rearview mirror as he carefully drove down the wide sidewalk backwards. When the back tires bumped the entrance steps, he stopped, then pushed a button. The hatch opened.

  The senator was a large man with a wide girth, who hadn’t sprinted in quite a while. George made a mental note not to rush too fast—afraid he might slip on the stairs, but on the other hand, he needed to move quickly to avoid being hit by lightning.

  The nervous driver honked, prompting the senator to hurry. George braced himself before flinging the door open, rushing over the landing and down the stone steps. He was soaked before he leaped into the back of the vehicle, which sank under his weight. George slipped on the rubber mat when he unsuccessfully tried to close the hatch. Lightning hit a streetlight, scaring Donny who stomped on the gas pedal, peeling down the sidewalk, nearly losing the senator out the back. At the edge of the courtyard, the SUV cut through the shield of rain, dropping off the curb, bouncing George in the air. Donny hit the brakes, coming to a standstill on the dry pavement. The senator slammed against the backseat. The driver sat in shock watching the rapidly moving wipers squeak across the dry windshield.

  The wet, frazzled senator wormed his way out of the cargo area, walking around the vehicle to sit in the passenger seat with water dripping down his face. His hair, which had been strategically placed over his bald spot, was now strung across his face. “Thanks, Donny. I owe you one,” he said, combing his hair with his fingers, trying to regain some of his dignity. He studied the capitol barely visible through the heavy rain. “This can’t be good.”

  Elsewhere, in Moscow, Russia, cafés served hot chocolate, tea and coffee to the patrons trying to escape the chilly night. No one dared go near the darkened Kremlin complex, which was cursed with lightning and rain.

  The Russian president sat in his den, staring at the flames in the fireplace as he downed a shot of vodka. He swallowed hard, thinking, Somehow, someway, this is America’s fault.

  The stark-white Democratic Republic of the Congo capitol sat vacant as the metaphysical lightning storm pummeled it, forcing the prime minister to conduct business with parliament members out of his home where they exchanged heated debates regarding what to tell the city’s eight million inhabitants whose fears ran high, because they attributed the eerie storm to witchcraft.

  After everyone left, the prime minister sighed, waiting for the shaman to arrive. Deep in the heart of Africa, political leaders unofficially hired shamans to help them gain and retain their power. Here, it was unthinkable to separate the spiritual from the political.

  A butler appeared at the doorway of the dining room. The prime minister sat at the 14-foot teakwood dining table surrounded by curved-back chairs. Lion, rhino, tiger and antelope stuffed heads were mounted to the walls on each side of the glass cabinet filled with priceless artifacts. “There is someone here to see you, sir,” the servant announced.

  “Please show him in,” the prime minister requested without bothering to ask who it was. The butler nodded, leaving to retrieve the visitor.

  The shaman was heard coming down the hall, his wooden staff hitting the polished hardwood floor. He stopped at the dining room entryway, waiting for his presence to be acknowledged.

  The prime minister walked over to greet him, a courtesy usually reserved for high officials. “Please have a seat,” he requested cordially, “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Water would be excellent,” the shaman answered, taking his place on one of the comfortable chairs, adjusting his multi-colored wrap, happy to rest after his long journey.

  The men made small talk while the butler served their drinks. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you,” the prime minister answered.

  The butler closed the door on his way out.

  “Tell me what is going on,” requested the prime minister.

  The shaman brought up the confidential topic, “You received a scroll, did you not?”

  The president nodded his head.

  “And you ignored the message.”

  “Yes, because the demands were ridiculous! Our country can’t stop using oil! Plus, I’ll not have some radical group dictating this country’s future. If these Earth Sentinels have something to say, they can do it publicly.”

  The prime minister waited for the shaman to respond, but the spiritual leader kept sipping his water. Slowly, it dawned on the prime minister that he was doing the same thing—plotting behind closed doors. He half smiled, amused by his own hypocrisy, “Can you meet these Earth Sentinels? See if we can work out a reasonable deal? If they want to protect the earth…that’s a good thing. Surely, we can work together.”
r />   The shaman smiled, then took another sip of water.

  Emergency Meeting

  IN RESPONSE TO the bizarre storms, the US president ordered an emergency meeting with his top advisors and the CIA director at the White House. They sat in the darkened Press Briefing Room taking advantage of its high-tech capabilities.

  “To get things up to speed,” the president said, “why don’t you take the lead, Frank? Share what’s happened so far.”

  “Sure. Be glad to.” Frank clicked the remote in his hand. A world map appeared on the screen. “Each red dot marks the location of a paranormal storm. The storms are consistent—lightning and heavy rain over government headquarters.” He clicked the remote. A photo of the scroll appeared. “Approximately thirty days ago, world leaders received a list of demands written on scrolls exactly like this one. Same paper, ribbon and ink, all signed ‘Earth Sentinels.’” He used his red laser to point out the name at the bottom of the scroll. “Here’s where it gets really weird…each scroll was delivered by a bird.” The advisors looked at him as if he was crazy, but Frank persevered, “Believing we might be dealing with the metaphysical, we enlisted a psychic to penetrate the group, and he overheard the Earth Sentinels plotting these storms before they occurred. So, I guess what I’m saying is…we’re fairly confident we’re dealing with supernatural powers.”

  The men sat dumbfounded. No one wanted to be the first to acknowledge they believed unearthly forces existed. Various advisors crossed and uncrossed their arms while others squirmed in their seats. Several started to say something, then changed their minds, snapping their mouths closed.

  “All right, everyone, I know this isn’t easy, but we need a plan!” the president demanded.

  Frank cleared his throat. “Why don’t we bring in the psychic who infiltrated the Earth Sentinels? He’s experienced with this kind of thing.”