by Krishna Rose
The Thrones, who are a legion of angels especially gifted in archery, rained upon the evil-minded warriors of Hell, their sacred arrows. Sensing imminent defeat, the demons feverishly turned on their own kinsmen, beheading them with one strike of the sword—shouting blame for their failure. Their minds were so polluted with greed to attain the Kingdoms of Heaven for themselves, that they were unable to conceive of the lawlessness of their sin.
Losing the battle, they made one last ditch attempt to gain what they had come for. They cared not who they killed to get what they wanted. But the guardians of Heaven destroyed the evildoers just as water is poured on fire, as they sank into oblivion, defeated by the chastisers of sin. The fully armed Seraphim killed and unarmed the determined, greedy, wrathful ones, and the angels trumpeted triumphantly, as they cast the last of the reeling serpents down into the flames of Hell.
Their authoritative incantations, like a forcefield, had held their advances.
Suddenly the moon became bloody, as the last of the great swords slashed and slayed what God had created out of love. Brilliant golden shields with the seals of forty-four-thousand tribes, were held high like suns, that none could bear to look upon, thus the demons cowered and slithered from whence they came—crushed—conquered by the legions of goodly angels, who cheered, “Amein! Amein! Amein!”
The longhorns sounded, the day was theirs. The angels tended their wounded and for each heavenly being slain, a star fell, burning brightly as it spirited through the sky for all to see. It was then that I beheld such a sore spectacle which froze the current of my blood. The wounded angels were hastily carried off on stretchers. The ruin was overwhelming. Cherubim winced.
“They are injured but not defeated,” he said, eyeing me carefully. “Come Mary, we should go and tend them.”
I nodded, eager to do what I could to ease their pain. The skies closed as the armies departed and the old man was once again seated beneath his tree, satisfied with the result.
“Have you noticed the many signs, miracles and wonders in the world which are reminders for every soul?” he asked me soberly. “Without them, humanity is powerless against the subtle takeover. Therefore, the Lord created the seasons, the stars, the risen moon, as well as the beauty of birth, and the tragedy of death. These things are all blatantly displayed for our benefit.
“He sends storms followed by calm, and the sunrise which heralds sunset. He gives life, only to take it when the golden hammer of death appears. These things are the stirrings of mysterious miracles, which like magic, declare unto all, the glory of our creator as the living designer of wonders which cannot otherwise be explained,” he said eagerly.
The old man and I stared at one another, still, silent, and in awe. I was shaking inside, for this was a moment in time that could not be measured by any means.
“Before you leave, understand that there is no such thing as unhappiness in Heaven—even though in some circumstances it may seem that way,” he said, before closing his eyes to return to his meditation.
Cherubim led me through the long, brightly lit halls stacked with beds—rows upon rows of them. Wounded soldiers, beheaded leaders, politicians, preachers, crucified slaves, hung merchants, and burned servants. All were here for healing. Many patients had to be transported to the upper chambers, as the injured angels were at the end of the hall, full to capacity.
The beds were precisely ordered into neat rows, while above them were more and more of them, organized into columns which were so vast, that they faded like towers into the distant air seeming to keep the sky from falling. Some of the patients seemed fearful. Their disturbing traumas, mutilations, deformities and all manner of injurious harm, were graphic evidence of the harm that had been done to them. Here in Heaven I was seeing something ghastly, which was not something I thought possible.
“This is Heaven’s infirmary, where the wounded come to recover and rehabilitate themselves,” Cherubim explained, gliding gracefully, occasionally stopping to eye a patient, whispering something under his breath.
“Do not be alarmed. People who die on earth with difficulty—by murder, accidents, fatal wounds or ravaging disease—are brought here to heal the shock which still clings to them. They know no pain, now that death has taken from them physical flesh, it is the memory of their life’s end that has stayed with them. To continue on, they must first be cleansed of these burdens.”
“So it’s a healing sanctuary for dead people?” I inquired humorously.
“Yes, exactly!” Cherubim answered smilingly, understanding my sense of humor. “Though they are dead, they are yet living—so the element of trust is rebirthed where fear harbored power over them. If they did not come here for reparative healing, then again some fearful nightmare would be drawn to them. For what we emanate—we attract.”
“But they seem like they are in grave difficulty,” I said, stating the obvious.
Cherubim stopped before one woman’s bed who was particularly distraught. Humming a resonant tune, he held her hand, instantly calming her.
“Pure sound has the power to alter the subtle body, returning the form in which the soul is housed to its natural original state of balance,” he assured me.
She was so injuriously harmed, that light shone through her body like the daytime sun shining through trees’ branches. Transmitting a sound vibration into her, at once her wounds healed.
“Divine sound is a critical part of their healing.”
“May I?” I asked, walking over to the neighboring bed.
He nodded agreeably. The man lying there had his head in his hands. He had been decapitated, yet still he lived. His eyes were blinking and he was observing everything that was going on around him—yet he was headless. It was a most bizarre thing to see. Consciously, I intonated a sound in the same manner in which I had seem Cherubim do, holding my hands over him. Envisioning the man’s head returning to his body—it reconnected at his neck without much effort. ‘Miracles are easily come by in Heaven.’
“Thank you. Thank you for your kindness and mercy,” he cried, gratefully.
“Go with God . . .” I told him, happy to have been of service.
Celestial attendants, drifted to-and-fro in flawlessly coordinated groups, tending the infirm, circling the beds one by one. With wands of light in their right hands, interdimensional frequencies streamed out of them, searching for the chain of events that had led to these patients’ demise—their lives mirrored in the torn fabric of their form.
The symphony of sound, illumined the hospital like a million moons, as the celestial beings’ heavenly voices sent esoteric frequencies to the bedridden. The warm, honeyed shades of their commitment to healing, inherently repaired what had just prior, been damaged. It was an exquisite unfurling that reminded me how refined our consciousness is. ‘Most surely we do not understand the power that is available to us,’ I thought to myself.
Many patients distinct ephemeral layers discarded easily once they understood the truth of the soul within. I wondered how the people on earth could be transformed by such practices.
The angels, who bore witness, then asked each soul to proclaim and vow their commitment to live a dedicated life of holiness. Hence, they were healed, baptized by light, in miraculous succession.
“Can we please go and help the angels?” I asked.
“Yes. We are going there now. We will both be needed,” he said hastily.
Holding my hand, he led me past many levels, each grouped into meticulous rows. Soaring past so many convalescent beds, the number of wounded shocked me. Upon reaching the angels, I caught sight of their shriveled skin, burned from the raging heat of the winds. I shook like a leaf. Their limbs and wings broken, torn asunder—radiant beauty defiled by the hands of Hell�
��s predators.
Spears of dawn light drenched the Lord’s champions, rebirthing them in grace, as spirit-renewing aromas hovered in the air with surgical precision over their wounds, salving both spirit and body. Ethereal healers moved from bed to bed easing the stain of struggle—working together cohesively. The airways were alive with many pairs of delicate wings fluttering down from above.
‘Why are men not satisfied by what lands they have? Why do they covet and invade another’s property to take it unto themselves? I simply cannot grasp this level of greed.’
We tended many wounded that night. The solemn dignity of my destiny had been sparked. This cup was not one to be set aside. A new sense of esteem stirred inside of me. Perhaps I could after all be remarkable. I would certainly endeavor with every inch of my will to the war on illusion with singular assignment—to guide souls from the rottenness of the dark agenda that the demonic classes inflict upon humankind.
I was committed from this day forth to destroying the serpents’ charge.
After a long night tending the sick, Cherubim led me down a dark passage, lit by a halo at its end. A light whirred about me like humming bees celebrating my arrival. When the mists cleared, I saw a young man seated upon a rock, one hand pressed sorrowfully to his face. He gazed into a large pool of water, the reflection of which was clear like glass. There was a strange hue about the man that lit up his face, and as we neared, I saw the waters shift and swirl. Suddenly, he looked up. Our eyes met.
“Go to him, Mary,” Cherubim encouraged.
I walked toward this man who seemed familiar to me.
“Mariam!” the man screamed. “Mariam! Oh my dear, you’re here! You have come to me . . . O merciful Lord, thank you!” he cried, reaching for me tearfully.
“Father?”
“Can it really be you child? How have you come to be here before your time? Or is this another trick of my own imaginings?” he cried, pounding his head with his fists.
I fell to my knees, hugging his legs, kissing his tender feet over and over again. “Papa!” I wept. “It is me.”
“Radiant joy and blessings be upon you, Mariam,” he said, picking me up, holding me firm in his youthful embrace.
A blanket of comfort overcame me. “I did not expect this, Papa! I am not here to stay. I came only for a short time—to visit. What is this place and why are you here alone?” I asked looking around, noticing that not one other soul was there. It seemed a sad, desolate place, like a desert, though atmospherically beautiful, for it was of course still Heaven.
“When I left you, it was as if skin had torn from flesh. Death’s finality forced me to abandon you and your siblings, leaving you orphaned,” he said sadly. “But such is the nature of death. My wish to watch over you was granted and I was henceforth brought to this Lake of Dreaming, where I celebrate your lives from Heaven. Look, it’s as if I am really with you!” he said, pointing to the miraculous loch excitedly.
“I am authorized to witness your lives through these waters. It is a marvel is it not, Mariam?” he said, excited to share his new life with me. “I celebrated with you on your wedding day and cried with you when Jesu was crucified. I prayed with you when he died, and laughed tears of joy when he was returned to you,” he said proudly.
“Where is, Mama?” I asked him, searching his eyes. Since I had never met her, now, as before, I felt a burning need to lay my eyes upon her.
“Your mother left Heaven long ago, Mariam. At first the angels and I searched for her, but the Seraphim tell me she must have given up her wings and taken another life on earth—for I feel no more pull to her spirit since she has forged new alliances in another existence that she identifies with. Things are not as they appear on earth, Mariam . . . or is it Mary now?” he said proudly.
“Either way is fine Papa.”
I felt the old stirrings of guilt inside. I had killed my mother by my birth. This was a deep-rooted belief that I had held since the beginning of my life, for the mothers and children in the villages had stared at me, whispering “There goes the cursed child” as I passed them in the street, believing I could not hear their vicious tongues. But my conscience smote me. Incontrovertibly what they had said was true, or so my childish mind believed. Even now, these same thoughts still fed on me like parasites—arising out of my own buried misunderstanding, spurred on by old wives’ tales and nasty gossip.
I had unknowingly allowed such things to suppress me, so much so that it had become the narrative of my life story. It had defined and controlled me like a puppet on a string, for I had mistakenly supposed my very existence to be unsanctified.
Assuming responsibility for what happened to my mother, I had carried this burden since childhood—and with it came the sin of self-loathing. In that moment, I was able to see how the stigma and shame of it had been a powerful motivating force in my own self-sabotage. Suddenly exposed, naked, I sank into the floor. The mystery of self-condemnation consumed me. It had dominated every decision I ever made about myself. ‘A penitent life squandered on innocent naivete,’ I thought to myself.
Cherubim shuffled his feet, attracting my attention. “Would you like to let that go now?” he asked sympathetically.
I nodded, sniffling pitifully.
“Almighty Aeom . . . Aum . . .” he crooned.
Precise geometric symbols resembling the sacred emblems of my people, probed, catching hold of my expertly hidden thinking patterns—to seize and snatch from me the shadows on my soul. So expertly had I hid them, that even I myself was unaware of their contract and hold over me. The flock of holy hierograms impregnated me with their curative potency, and for a few still moments, I found myself cocooned inside a swarm of sacred frequencies. Enveloping me in their divine protection and sophisticated insight, these were the things which my father had believed in.
My siblings and I had often snuck in at night when he thought we were sleeping, to listen to him debate with his friends on secretive knowledge which they called Gnosis.
I heaved a heavy sigh, as a part of myself was brought out into the open. Strange words flared in the air, suffusing me in their determined restorative power. Occasionally I looked at my father’s face, who smiled admiringly at me—understanding the disease of my unsubstantiated conclusions. Perhaps this was the root of all my insecurity. Perhaps this was the beating heart of my wounds! Earnestly and with absolute conviction, I allowed the tenets of enlightenment to strip me of my false conceptions.
“Mary, your birth was fated in the stars. As was your mother’s passing,” my father said firmly. “It was foreordained that every man, woman, and child would come to know your name. Now your healing is revealed here in its inverted state, for within the third veil of Heaven, the unconscious mind is unlocked. You have been freed from that which has detained you.
“You were and are a great blessing upon our family. Have no doubt. Not once have I questioned this. Accept and recognize now, that not one soul leaves the world of the living without sanction of the Lord. Therefore, you can let this go. You have allowed the cruel words of the village gossips to stifle you. It is time to overthrow that which bridled you in your youth. From this day forth, stand tall and look people in the eye. Be glad of this kismet, for it has kept you humble and pure-hearted, when others in your position would have been proud and arrogant,” my father declared, with arms up high in the air beside Cherubim’s, in a gesture of recovering my soul from its self-imposed darkness.
I felt weightless in my chest. A new sense of freedom flowing into my veins.
“It is done,” Father said breathlessly.
I lay down on the ground, too weak to sit up. A great weight taken from me, which for years had fed upon my soul.
“You are healed, Mary,” Cherubim said
assuredly.
Like Knights in shining armor, Cherubim and my father had rescued me in a great act of chivalry. For a moment I flashed to my life with Jesu, remembering how he had healed the throngs of sick and wounded who came to him. Now it was my turn to feel a fresh marrow fill my bones, where before guilt had prevailed. I sat up, rocking to-and-fro, gasping like a fish out of water, and then it all went blank.
I woke sometime after, acutely aware of an unfamiliar, yet beatific, peaceful reassurance. It was as if I had been very sick and now was well, though I knew nothing of my illness. There was a lightness to my resolve.
“Thank you,” I said gratefully.
“You’re welcome,” they both said, voices laden with emotion.
“Souls living in this district of Heaven, contemplate the lives they once had. They choose to remain here, within their memories. Therefore the Lord, out of compassion, creates a private paradise for them, wherein they live out their days fully consumed in their past. In a state of timelessness, like a long dream, they want for nothing,” Cherubim explained pointing to my father, reaching for my hand to help me to my feet.
“Is my Papa suffering?” I asked scratching my head, slightly bewildered by the buoyancy I felt, watching as my father returned to the Lake of Dreaming. “He seems so . . . so alone.”
“No, Mary. He feels no loneliness. That is a perception reserved only for mortals.”
“Papa, why do you stay here?” I said, walking over to where he was sitting. Nostalgically, I took his hand in mine, “Please do not wait here on my account. I wish for you to enjoy the merits of your good deeds. It pains me to see you here in this lost world,” I said sadly.