by Zoe Drake
“Yes. Erm… I was at the SIAP event today, and, er… Ayeshea invited me.”
“I see! Yes, she’s here. Come inside, please.”
Gareth was told to wait in a small antechamber with oak paneling and oil paintings of vividly colored alien landscapes hung on the walls. Some of the landscapes had figures in them; humanoid figures wearing silver jumpsuits with long, slender limbs and classically beautiful faces.
Five minutes later, the man in the suit returned, and sat down in an armchair opposite Gareth. He had a thin, slightly acned face with short spiky hair receding from his brow and temples. “Now then, Mr.…”
“Gareth Manning.”
“Now then, Gareth, what do you know about the Witnesses of the Visitation?”
“Not much, really. I was at the Convention today, and Ayeshea gave me this card, and invited me here.”
“SIAP… I see. Are you a member?”
“No, I was there because…” Gareth looked around the room, unable to meet the other man’s gaze, his cheeks starting to burn. “There’s something I need to find out.”
“Is there something troubling you, Mr. Manning?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
“SIAP are a very large and respectable organization. However, I know from personal experience they can be rather… unsympathetic.”
Gareth nodded vigorously.
“So, let me tell you about us. My name is Martin, and our group is a religious, educational, non-profit organization. We were founded in 1977 by our director, George Redfern. Have you heard of him?”
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“About twenty years ago George Redfern, our founder, was contacted by entities who later revealed themselves to him as cosmic intelligences. They entrusted him with certain esoteric secrets, mysteries of the Universe, and tasked him to establish a group whereby he could pass on these secrets to the initiated members. This he did, until he finally ascended to a higher plane of existence, departing this world in 1992.”
“Oh… I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Please don’t be! He has gone to join our glorious masters. We carry on his work of recruiting members into the group, initiating them into the Mysteries, helping them to open themselves up to communication from the celestial spheres, to integrate these cosmic messages of good will into their personalities and everyday lives.”
Martin paused, and then went on. “Of course, don’t get me wrong, we don’t live in isolation from this world. We’re firmly part of it. For example, I have a fairly successful career in real estate management, I drive a car, I watch satellite TV… I mean, I even eat meat!”
“Can you tell me more about these intelligences?” Gareth asked. “Do you mean – visitors from space?”
“It would be a little crude to say that they are from outer space,” Martin pronounced sagely. “It would be more accurate to say that they come from the abyss of inner time.”
Gareth frowned.
“Let me tell you briefly – very briefly – about George Redfern’s experiences. In 1974, he was taken aboard a craft piloted by a being named Rajoguna. This was the first of many mystical journeys, whereby George Redfern was taken to every one of the eleven spheres – or eleven planets – in this quadrant of the galaxy.”
“Only eleven?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Well… I would have thought that if the universe was full of life, with creatures traveling around, then there’s be more than eleven inhabited planets.”
Martin smiled, and regained his poise. “There are eleven inhabited planets in this quadrant of the galaxy – eleven being the holy number. George Redfern visited each of them in turn with his mentor, Rajoguna, bringing back transcendental wisdom with each visit – including his visit to the mentor’s home world, which we know in our language as the planet Venus.”
“Just a minute,” Gareth interrupted again. “There’s no life on Venus. There’ve been probes up there and everything. It’s too hot, the atmosphere’s poisonous, the water’s like acid… or something like that.”
Martin smiled patiently. “Mr. Manning, please consider the possibility that the mentors have led the Earth’s scientists to believe the planet cannot support life. They gave the probes this information and sent them back, because they currently wish their home world’s location to be a secret.”
Gareth didn’t have an answer to that one.
“The mentor’s home world is Venus, the real nature of which is kept secret from Earth’s instruments by means of a powerful force field. In fact, there are several other planets in this sector of the Milky way, hidden by force fields – as is the Invisible Sun, which warms and gives life to those planets.”
Gareth’s frown deepened.
“However, I don’t wish to confuse you at this point. The meeting is about to start, and I have to be present. Please join us for the meeting! I would be happy to answer any of your questions afterwards.”
Martin stood up, and Gareth followed likewise. “Oh by the way, we don’t charge entrance for our open meetings, but we would be grateful for any donation you would like to make. Let’s talk again at the end of the meeting, about ten thirty.”
Martin walked to the door of the antechamber, gesturing for Gareth to follow.
Gareth entered the building’s main hall. It was decorated in ornate style, with a high ceiling, and walls lined with more paintings of alien landscapes populated with slender, ethereal figures. It held about twenty men and women, some wearing business suits, some in denim or leather, seated on folding wooden chairs. They all turned their heads toward Gareth as he entered.
“Hello again!”
It was Ayeshea, running up to Gareth as if he were a long-lost brother. Or long-lost lover. She grasped his arm, leading him toward a chair.
“I knew I would see you again,” she gushed happily. “I felt it!”
“Yes, I thought I might as well turn up,” Gareth babbled. “Seeing as I was already in the area, and, Earl’s Court isn’t far from the, er…”
She more or less pushed him into a seat and sat down in the next chair, holding her index finger up in front of his face, as if she were going to hypnotize him. “The meeting’s about to start, so I’ll explain more about our group afterward.” She gave his arm another squeeze. “But I’m so glad you could come!”
There came the tinkling sound of a small bell, and the conversation in the room suddenly died out. The lights dimmed, and Ayeshea turned to look straight ahead.
From a doorway to the left of the stage that filled one wall, two men emerged, wearing what looked like priest’s cassocks in rich magenta. One of them Gareth recognized as Martin, and the other was an older man with an immaculately trimmed white beard, holding a large flat object wrapped in cloth under his arm. Martin’s face was completely impassive. The two men took the stage, and faced their audience.
“Brothers, sisters and fellow Witnesses,” intoned the older man, in a melodious baritone voice, “let us join in holy mantra.”
Everyone around Gareth began repeating the word “Aum”, drawing it out into a long, resonating syllable. At an unsubtle nudge from Ayeshea, Gareth began to do the same, his sinuses buzzing with the unfamiliar sound.
After several minutes the elder man held up his right hand, and the chanting ceased. “As we come together this evening, let us send out a light,” he declared. “Let us send out a healing light, across the world. Let this light flow through human hearts, let the human race look to the light within, and find harmony, and peace.”
“Harmony and peace,” the audience echoed. Gareth mumbled the same response a couple of seconds late, his head held down in embarrassment.
The elderly man placed the object on an artist’s easel at the back of the stage, and lifted away the cloth. Looking up, Gareth saw another oil painting of the same tall, silver-suited, blond-haired male from the picture in the antechamber.
“Me
ntor Rajoguna, the messenger of intuitive light and wisdom, guardian of the cosmos, come to us on your star of flaming vermilion. Guide us, as we meditate at second level.”
The chanting began once more, and Gareth noticed that most people in the hall now had their eyes closed. Ayeshea was swaying from side to side next to him, her brow furrowed as she chanted “Aum”, taking in deep, gulping breaths.
“Brothers and sisters,” the elderly man continued after the chanting and swaying had gradually come to an end. “There is one among us tonight, who is a newcomer. One who has come to us, sorely troubled, and with many questions to be answered. Can he step forward now, please?”
His heart sinking, Gareth saw Martin signal to him from behind the older man’s shoulder. A further nudge from Ayeshea got him between the ribs, and Gareth turned to see her head nearly resting on his shoulder, her large green eyes looking up at him with an expression of conspiratorial joy. Just to get the message across, she nodded toward the stage.
Gareth stood up and walked forward, his hand reaching out toward the extended hand of the man on the stage. The man had a firm, callused grip, and half-pulled Gareth up the steps, toward the table and the painting. There was a general murmur of appreciation from the other attendees.
“What is your name, Brother?” the man asked, looking Gareth directly in the eyes.
“Gareth. Gareth Manning.”
“Fortune has indeed brought you to us, Brother Gareth! For as sure as the Mother Ship orbits above us in the heavens. I do see the spark of greatness within you. Come join us, Brother. Join us in our perseverance in throwing off the corruption of this world, and throwing off the chains of the spirit. Let us bestow upon you your true name, the name by which you were known on the home planet. As you were known above, so shall you be known below. If you truly wish to join the Witnesses of the Visitation…” the bearded man gestured grandly toward the silver giant in the painting. “Place your hand upon the hand of Rajoguna.”
From the other side of the table, Martin waggled his head at the painting, smiling encouragingly. The bearded man, frozen in his gesture, peered at Gareth from beneath bushy eyebrows.
Gareth stood stock still, and the hall settled into an uncomfortable silence.
“Put your hand upon the painting.”
The hall echoed with the smack of flesh upon canvas – followed, straight afterwards, by the crash of the painting hitting the floor. Martin and most of the audience gasped in shock. Ayeshea jumped out of her half-trance with a startled cry.
But Gareth was already off the stage, pushing through the outraged crowd, storming toward the lobby and the front door.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Thursday February 8th
“Gareth,” Bennings had said, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
With that cryptic comment, Bennings had ended the phone conversation they’d had that lunchtime, after Gareth had got up. He still couldn’t believe what had happened the night before. In a daze, he couldn’t concentrate on anything until two in the afternoon, when Bennings turned up to give him a lift.
“Doug,” Gareth asked straight away. “Did we actually see something last night, or did I have a really vivid dream?”
Bennings laughed in response. “No, Gareth, you weren’t dreaming. Or if you were dreaming, then I was there too. Now come on, we’re going round to a friend’s house.”
Gareth put his camera bag in the back and climbed in beside Bennings. “Has this friend of yours seen things, too?”
“You can ask her yourself. Brian’s going to be there as well, we’ve got to pick him up first.”
29 Henley Way, Ely, turned out to be a three-bedroom detached house with a garage extension next to the front driveway, and an immaculately trimmed hedge curving around to the street. Bennings brought the Land Rover to a stop by the curb, and the three men inspected the house and its surroundings.
“No gnomes on the front lawn,” Littlewood observed cryptically.
“Ah, but there are fairies at the bottom of the garden,” Bennings replied with a knowing smirk.
Gareth frowned at them, then shrugged.
As they walked up the driveway, the four-paneled front door was already being opened for them. There was movement, too, from the garage; a face – a male face – appeared at the dust-covered window, and then drew back.
They trooped into the hallway, pausing to wipe their boots and shoes. The woman who was obviously the resident of the house quickly took their coats, showering them with platitudes about the weather.
Bennings introduced himself, Gareth and Littlewood while they stood in the hallway. “Gentlemen,” he concluded, “this is Laura Bardini.”
The lady in question, clad in jeans and a dark blue men’s shirt, peered up at Gareth through round, owlish glasses. The off-blonde, shoulder-length hair, the gentle web of wrinkles around her eyes and the glasses marked her as the academic sort. Nevertheless her skin shone with a carefully tended softness, and an adolescent cheeky humor sparkled in her eyes.
“So glad to meet you at last, Dr. Bennings,” she said.
“The pleasure’s all mine, Dr. Bardini.”
“Laura, please. Do you mind if I ask a favor of you? Do you mind taking your shoes off before you come in? It’s one of my little eccentricities.”
Seated around the living room table in their socks, mugs of tea in their hands, the three guests chatted until Laura returned to the living room, two bulky folders in her arms.
A short, thickset man entered the room behind her and muttered a brief hello. He picked up a reel of extension cable from the corner and departed.
“My husband,” Laura explained. “He’s decided to stay out of our way, and there’s something in the garage that needs doing. Anyway…” she sat down, placing the bulging folders in the middle of the coffee table. “Where do we start?”
“Excuse me, but how do you two know each other?” Gareth asked.
“Through the Net,” Bennings said. “One day two years ago when I was trawling around, I found Laura’s home page. Ever since then, we’ve been sharing information on folklore and FOAFlore. Before this trip, I emailed her to say I was coming, and here we are.”
“What’s FOAFlore?” Gareth asked.
“FOAF means Friend Of A Friend,” Littlewood said. “Stories that people heard from somewhere, but nobody knows where. You know, urban legends. The kind of stuff that turns up in the National Enquirer.”
“I’ve printed out a selection of stuff that I’ve got on the subject of fairies, will-o-the-wisps and earth spirits,” Gillian said, waving a hand at the folders. “I hope it’s of some use.”
“Hang on,” Gareth announced. “How come we’ve suddenly gone from UFOs to fairies?”
“Because there are many interesting parallels,” Littlewood said, nodding sagely.
“Okay,” said Bennings. “Let’s begin by defining our terms, in the classic Socratic way. We’ve discussed balls of light before; will-o-the-wisps, corpse-candles, Lantern Men. We’ve gone over the theory that they might be a manifestation of a hitherto unknown earth energy.”
“And some of us beg to differ,” Littlewood added.
“There’s also something else that might be a manifestation of the same earth energy, Gareth. I’m referring to fairies, gnomes, pixies, and elfin spirits of the forests.”
“They are often referred to as the Gentry,” Laura added. She opened the folder and spread out a number of what looked like illustrations from children’s books. “Robert Kirk, the author of The Secret Commonwealth, described them as the middle nature between Man and Angel. They have an almost aristocratic way of life. They respect generosity, cleanliness, music, dancing, riding, and hunting. The old stories tell of how they play tricks upon humans if they feel they have been wronged, but sometimes purely out of a sense of mischief.”
“There is also a large body of evidence,” Littlewood interrupted, “that links the old
fairy stories with our ET visitors. It’s possible that before the 20th century, when individuals came across the Greys and their allies, they thought of them as spirits of nature, whereas now we consider them as not native to this planet.”
“That sounds a bit of a stretch of the imagination,” Gareth said.
“Not at all.” Littlewood sniffed loudly. “Tell Gareth about the abductions, Mrs. Bardini.”
“Ah. Well… that’s one of their little tricks, certainly. If you eat fairy food, or hear fairy music, you will be… taken away.”
“It’s the Oz Factor,” Littlewood enthused, seemingly unable to stop himself. “When the victims returned from this so-called Fairyland, a great deal of time had passed, although they had no conscious memory of time passing… like the modern alien abductees and their missing-time episodes. These things keep coming up in my own research, Mrs. Bardini. The evidence suggests that these ‘fairy’ abductions were concealed genetic experiments; namely the accounts of the ‘changelings’ and the ‘witchmarks’, the marks on the bodies of those who’d returned. And the fairy rings! Why do you think they’re circular, eh? Because that’s where their landing craft had been.”
Littlewood sat back in his armchair, his outburst suddenly coming to a halt. The other three stared back at him.
“What do you mean by ‘genetic experiments’, Brian?” Gareth asked eventually.
“He means the changelings,” Laura said with a sigh. “The fairies had a nasty habit of taking away babies, and leaving a substitute – a fairy baby – in its place.”
Gareth made a grimace.
“There are certain similarities, even if they’re not exact,” Laura conceded. “For example, I haven’t heard of any paranoia about alien babies sweeping the world today. But what does seem to be consistent is the level of confusion that both types of story generate. I don’t pretend to know much about UFOs, but I do know that evidence of their existence tends to appear, and then mysteriously disappear. Photographs don’t develop properly, abductees are given gifts that later vanish, and even implants in abductees’ bodies suddenly vanish.”