At the Institution, Sister Nora was one of the people he feared the most, almost as much as the bogeyman. She was very violent. Beatings were one of the ways used to keep naughty children under control, and she relished her role as teacher of these lessons. Oscar misbehaved all the time. He had to do what the voices told him to do. They made him do the dirtiest of things. He couldn’t help but take off his clothes and run around naked. He couldn’t help but play with his willy until thrilling sparkles ran through his limbs. He couldn’t help but say bad words. He couldn’t help but wet his bed. He couldn’t help but break windows, smash furniture, fight with the other children. What else was he supposed to do? He was a sinner: the grown-ups had told him so many times.
In the second week of his stay, he was sent to the special ward where they housed all the boys as bad as he. They all seemed very quiet at first. Of course, they were sedated. Most of them had already undergone electroshock therapy, and soon he would also face this treatment. It was the last hope. His parents came to visit him twice. Mum cried every time she saw him. Dad wore a serious expression and told him to chin up. All Oscar wanted to know was how Conor was, and if he missed his big brother. Otherwise, words failed him.
The more silent he turned, the louder the voices started to become in his head. One night the bad ones told him that the next day was going to be the toughest day of his life. That he would lose his mind completely. That the treatment he was to undergo was very strong and very painful. Oscar wanted to sleep and forget about it all, except he knew that upon awakening he would be greeted by the worst, scariest day of his life. He wanted to die. He started praying that he could die. The voices laughed at him. He was the child of the devil. He opened his eyes in the hope that they would stop.
When he turned his head to the window next to his bed, he saw a face reflected in the windowpane, although no one else was with him. Perhaps the little people were now playing tricks on him. But this was the face of a little girl. She was probably a couple of years younger than him and had big, bright eyes. She put her index finger to her lips and signalled to him that he should hush. Then she nodded and smiled. Light radiated around her. Oscar’s breathing became deep and regular. A strong sense of peace pervaded his mind and his limbs.
Who was that girl? Surely she was an angel. Or perhaps a ghost, a girl who had died in the hospital, suffering at the hands of Sister Nora and her entourage. Oscar thought that now he didn’t mind dying. It was definitely a much better choice than recovering and having to go through life with the mark of the devil branded on his soul.
“Shhhhhh,” the girl said.
Sleep came to Oscar’s rescue. His thoughts melted into a pharmaceutical kaleidoscope of shapes, spiralling down to the pitch-black depths of his love-starved heart. Then there was a long interval of void-like nothingness, until he saw two green eyes that shone like fluorescent lights. They opened up in the blackness to spread Light on that dark night of his soul. They were so bright that even the charcoal shadows of his personal hell couldn’t defeat them.
The pale light of the morning came filtering through the curtains, and Oscar awoke to another wet bed. He wasn’t ashamed anymore. He expected to feel afraid at the thought of what was in store for him that morning, but the fear wasn’t forthcoming. He was calm and centred instead. That girl was his Saviour: she could sweep all bad thoughts away. He sat up in bed rubbing his fists onto his eyes. He was still sleepy. He went to the washroom and took a quick cold shower. He got dressed in his daytime clothes and went downstairs to the laundry room where he washed his bed linen. Then he returned to the bedroom and made his bed. Now he was ready. He sat and waited for Sister Nora and Doctor Morrissey. He noticed something on the chair next to his bed: a golden chain with an angel medal. The girl must have left it. He put it under his pillow. That medal would have the power to return him to her even after what was awaiting him that day.
The nun arrived. He followed her along the long, white corridor, walking on automatic pilot and breathing deeply. They entered an otherwise claustrophobic lift that took them to the vaults under the dormitory. The darkness in the huge room made his eyes squint. A bed stood in front of him, with a machine behind it. It looked like a shelf with many glass tubes on it. A number of wires spread out of the support, with pads attached to their ends. Oscar was put lying down on the bed and was injected with the medicine that had never failed to tranquilise him. He fell into a state of numbness. All he could think about was his breath. The little girl was next to him in spirit. He detected her presence and this made him feel calm. It didn’t matter that he might have died in that experiment. She would be there with him whichever way, whether he was going to be alive or dead after the electroshock. He wasn’t altogether certain that she belonged to the land of the dead already.
* * * *
Shambhala watching the same event, 19 December 1971
The Great White Lodge was in session. We, the Ascended Masters, were sending high frequencies to Oscar right when the anaesthetic was entering his blood flow. There were four adhesive pads applied to his forehead. We saw a nurse put a belt around his temples and fasten it tightly. Oscar was made to count backwards. When he became unconscious, the doctor put a teeth-guard in his mouth. Then the current was switched on. Oscar’s body jolted as if struck by a lightning bolt. One hundred and seventy volts ran through his tiny, fragile limbs for five whole minutes. Cassandra’s astral body – she was indeed the little girl who had comforted him the previous night - stood next to him with her hands on his heart, to protect him from certain death. Nobody in the room could see her. She was making sure that Oscar, one of the youngest patients ever to undergo electroconvulsive therapy in Ireland, would wake up after the treatment. His heart was weak, but it belonged to her. She would do everything in her power to preserve it.
In this life, Oscar had chosen a difficult way to remember his True Identity: the Path of Sorrow. Only by allowing himself to experience the depths of despair would he remember his function in the Plan. He was Cassandra’s earthly Twin Soul. She had known of him and his fate even when she was still a little girl. She hadn’t quite grasped it rationally. But she would often daydream of a beautiful little boy with almond-shaped, sad hazel eyes. Oscar was her invisible friend in her make-believe stories in which he needed her protection to escape from the Darkness. She would always shine her Light on his scared little heart. But her imaginary friend and his misadventures were more real than she could have envisaged then.
We could read the thoughts of the medical staff in the room as the procedure was being carried out. They didn’t mean to harm Oscar. They wanted the boy lying on the plinth to wake up only with the memory of good episodes and experiences from his past. Everything else would be swept away by the current, they believed. Of course, they knew that there was an inherent risk that his mental capacity would be reduced by the seizures induced by this therapy to modify his behaviour, to damage what they saw as problematic portions of his brain. If all went well, he would forget the symptoms of his badness because that brain damage would simply delete them. He might end up with some cognitive impairment, but his life would be near almost normal.
Sister Nora looked serene as she glanced over the activities around Oscar’s unconscious body. She was shrouded in a cloud of Darkness, and she was praying for ‘the mark of the devil’ to be washed away from ‘this little sinner’s soul’. She wasn’t really sure that it could be possible. We knew that the nun was evil. How could she otherwise have kept silent in the face of the Oscar’s terrible ordeal a week earlier? Just like Cassandra, we had seen what had happened to him in the Infirmary. Yet we couldn’t do anything to prevent it. Of course, the wound it would cause in his soul couldn’t be wiped away by any machine. It would take time, awareness and love to heal it. Right then, all we could do was to send high frequencies of Light to Cassandra at such a delicate junction, as her love for Oscar was helping him to stay alive.
Chapter 8
PARIS BLUES
______________
Paris, spring 1990
In a dimly lit underground chamber in the guts of Paris, a group of laboratory-suited individuals sat around an oval table. Their words were muffled by the freezing cold air of the surrounding vaults and the antiseptic masks on their faces. The soft neon light disclosed well-groomed men and women of middle age underneath the scrubs. The room was sterilised, as required by its function as a microbiology laboratory. The catacombs of Paris hide many terrible secrets: this rendezvous was one of them.
A grim centre table had the undivided attention of the symposium. Lying on it was a human-sized glass pod. A body was wrapped in muslin bandages inside this unusual incubator. It looked like a mummy with the shape of a woman. The mummy was alive. Her right hand was moving, signalling ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to questions being posed. Her vacant eyes and shaven head were the only parts of her body that had not been covered in gauze. Electroshock pads were still attached to the skin on her skull. Wires and fibre optic cables connected the pod to a machine at one end of the table.
“Can you hear me?”
The mummy raised her left forefinger slightly.
“She’s come round, Monsieur Harker, she’s come round! We’ve made it! The electroshock didn’t kill this one! We’ve made it!”
The man with glasses spoke with a strong French accent. His eyes were beaming. He stopped the flow of current that was still directed at the woman. The tall man next to him, with chin-length wavy hair tucked under the protective clothing, was Robert Harker. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and was known around the world for many reasons, most particularly for being one of the most handsome men ever to grace the planet. He raised his hands and pushed them forward. Silence fell on the room at his gesture.
“Hush, Francois,” he said, “we’re not there yet. She needs to survive the first 24 hours before we can sing our victory song. Marion, what is her temperature?”
“42 degrees, Robert. It’s been decreasing slowly and steadily. Her brain activity is within normal parameters. No damage has resulted from the procedures. The lobotomy was successful. Likely, she has retained a comprehension of the basic rudiments of language, but hopefully she has no notion of her identity anymore.”
“Let’s see...,” Harker said turning to the mummy. “Who are you?”
Silence was unbearable and still unbridgeable for the mummy-like girl: it sucked her in like water down the drain, vacuumed into a void. She lied still. Far too much space was in her head. A big blank descended when the question was asked. She didn’t have a clue as to who she was. She understood sound and nothing else. The voice that was talking to her was soothing. It could take her home. She was pure matter ready to be forged by the whims of her onlookers, by the sound of that voice. All she could understand were the sensations she was experiencing. She enjoyed breathing, shallowly at first, and then more deeply. Yes was yes and no was no. They had told her so repeatedly when all she could see was that big bright light. Now she wanted to sleep again. Rest. Forget even more. No need to hold on to any memory. She was new, she was the Chosen One. Her body hurt. Her limbs were heavy. Her eyes couldn’t focus on any shape in particular. She had only definitions but nothing to attach them to yet. She wondered if she was a larva, a parasite. No: she was a girl, almost a woman, the Chosen One. Their voices had told her, their words had programmed her. All was dark now and she needed to rest.
Marion Le Blanc started fiddling with the machinery. A red button came on. All faces turned to look at what she was doing. She addressed the man wearing glasses.
“We’re losing her, Francois. Brain activity is deteriorating. She has a regular pulse though. No panic, the situation is under control. Pump more morphine and give her more anaesthetic. That’s it. There should be no major brain damage and she’s likely to have retained all of her organ functions perfectly. Let’s wait and see... my God... I can’t believe we’ve made it... I’ll believe it when she’ll be walking and talking... my God, my good God... we’ve made it, it’s a miracle!”
This was the most secretive and confidential clinical trial that Three-D Pharmaceuticals had ever run. Indeed, it wasn’t really a clinical trial although that was how they had labelled it from the beginning, in case any information leaked. So far so good; twenty years of ground breaking research and preparation had gone into perfecting the study. Many ‘guinea pigs’ had succumbed to the perils of this adventurous experiment. The world needed it now more than ever. Cassandra Morgante had to be stopped before she could develop her self-healing powers and grow ever-lasting cells in her body. No pharmaceutical company could survive if the element of immortality and viral invulnerability were introduced into the minds and bodies of the human species. Everything would blend into oneness. The very foundation upon which the industry was based would be shaken irrevocably. The course of history would be changed forever. Fear and death would disappear over time, and Time itself would eventually come to an end. No one, but a fool, would want this.
Duality was much better than oneness, and Harker knew this. Human evolution was based upon struggle and making the right self-preserving choices. Some may maintain that love is nature’s preference. In the third dimension, however, a species’ endurance doesn’t result from love. It depends on fear, which had so far driven the Survival of the Fittest of the Earth. Cassandra had to be wiped out, or at least counteracted. That’s why Harker had devised an antidote to her: her own personal, custom-build nemesis.
He turned pensive for a second as he remembered the place of his origin. He could never go back there, to that plane where love rules. Wasn’t love the force that had begun to erode his entire angel race after all? Too much love can wipe matter away, and sweep life into nothingness. It was starting to happen on Venus when he took his bet. He wouldn’t let this happen on Earth, his adoptive planet for the past number of millennia. The last two thousand years had been a greater challenge, as more and more Beings of Light had started to incarnate as Earthlings. This was raising the Planet’s frequency, and humans were starting to live longer and better lives. But it was Cassandra’s birth that was the real problem. She was equipped to succeed: she was designed to be the first immortal human.
Something needed to be done before that could happen. Harker had sided with the most money-driven, mercenary pharmaceutical giant in order to counteract the Masters’ Plan. Humans had to continue to suffer and die. Their collective fear had kept him in vogue for so long, and it had given him the strength to last for all these centuries. The Lord of the Ego, the Angel of Pain, the Most Beautiful in the Legion of Angels, or Monsieur Harker as they called him now. He had invented the Game and didn’t want any new rule to be introduced.
His amber eyes were fixed on Charlotte Mechant’s body: it was half the size it had been a year before, on the night he had enticed her to the lab. She was an easy prey. A spotty seventeen year-old girl, a problem teenager who’d run away from her family in the countryside of Bourgogne to the French capital in search of work, love and a new body. She was overweight then, verging on obese. Depression and an extreme need for attention were her constant companions. She thought she had found the help she badly needed at Monsieur Harker’s Hypnosis Centre on the Boulevard du Mont Parnasse. The clinic was expensive and lavishly decorated, with marble floors and antique tapestries on the walls. Charlotte fell in love with Bob Harker the second she saw him. All women did; and he knew that she would also follow suit.
Now she was lying on the table, covered in bandages and shaved head to toe, having undergone ninety seven different surgeries and hours of electroshock at various degree of intensity. She definitely had the body she had always wanted at last. It would be revealed once she had healed. He knew that she would succeed: he had created his own personal ‘anti-Cassandra’. From this point onwards, the efforts of the Luciferian Tribe he led could concentrate on making Charlotte believe she was like Cassandra so they could swap places, and Cassandra would forget who she was. The former would be di
fficult. The latter would be borderline impossible.
There was a lot of cunning in Harker’s plan, but they had to entrap Cassandra before her powers could grow any stronger. It would take some hard work to defy her mighty helpers. The Tribe had always enjoyed a challenge anyway. Harker wanted Cassandra for himself. He could seduce her. He needed to de-activate her to fulfil his own personal prophecy and create the world he wanted.
She was becoming a real problem. Her energy was rising and reaching towards the Core Signature, the harmonious frequency of creation. She could raise the consciousness of those she interacted with by her mere presence. This kind of shift in perception could bring about a change in the cellular make-up of those who experienced it. In due course she would end up tuning into her Core Signature, bringing her chakras into alignment and prompting to the kundalini to rise and dance. When the 12-strand DNA replaced her normal 2-strand one, she would become an angel. This could be contagious, too. That’s why the Tribe was keeping close watch. So far, her escapades into her angelic essence had been short-lived and inadvertent. She didn’t realise they were coming from her and thought of them as external experiences generated by the environment, or as messages from the natural world. Harker didn’t want this to happen, and certainly not while she was in Paris.
* * * *
When Cassandra, who was then still an undergraduate at Edinburgh University, arrived in Paris, the atmosphere changed. She brought Light and good energy, and the city hated this. As usual, we followed her to shelter her from the snares of the Dark Forces. After all, the place she was visiting was the hub of all Luciferian activities, the capital of the Dark Angel, the environment in which the deepest wound of the Earth was kept permanently bleeding. Evil lurked freely everywhere, in the lushest of disguises. However, Cassandra hadn’t noticed. Her focus, as usual, was on love, which she was seeking actively once again. This time she was hoping to find it in the romantic surroundings of the French capital, sitting in a café or strolling along the Seine. Letizia was her travelling companion. They had grown up together in Northern Italy.
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