by Lionel
There is a considerable body of evidence to suggest that Alexandra David-Neel’s reported episode with a tulpa in Tibet was a perfectly genuine and objective experience. According to mystical Tibetan wisdom, a tulpa is an entity created by an act of imagination. A parallel may be drawn with the author or scriptwriter who creates a fictional character with words. Tulpas do not have to be written down; they are creatures of the mind. The technique of tulpa creation is a protracted one that requires very powerful concentration and visualization, but Alexandra was almost too successful. Her tulpa began as an entirely benign and innocuous monk-like figure, plump and smiling. After a while other members of the party reported seeing him, too, but as time passed he became leaner and lost his benign smile. He had apparently managed to escape from Alexandra’s conscious control and was only disposed of with great effort and difficulty.
There are researchers into the various sea monster phenomena who subscribe to the idea that Nessie, Caddy, and some of their weird companions may be akin to tulpas — quasi-solid thought-forms with an objectivity that can be influenced by group contemplation of the type involved in the experiments conducted by Doc Shiels, his daughters, and their colleagues. If the tulpa-creation theory can be applied to some sea and lake monsters, it would be one possible explanation for the success St. Columba had in rescuing the man being threatened by Nessie. The very powerful, sharply focused mind of the benign but formidable saint would have shattered a quasi-real thought-form like a sledgehammer going through an egg shell.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mysterious Disappearances and Appearances
One of the strangest unsolved sea mysteries of all time occurred in 1900 and involved the disappearance of three lighthouse keepers from Eilean Mor, the largest of the seven Flannan Isles. They were probably named after St. Flannan, one-time bishop of Killaloe and Kilfenora, whose own sea miracles are worthy of inclusion. It was said, for example, that when he set out for Rome to meet Pope John he sailed there on a floating stone. Another legend credits him with attracting vast shoals of fish to the shores to feed his people.
The Flannan lighthouse is situated 58°17’ north and 07°35’ west, which puts it roughly thirty-two hundred kilometres east of Canada and twenty-seven kilometres west of the Outer Hebrides. The vast expanse of the northern Atlantic provides an awesome opportunity for waves to reach a prodigious size when wind, ocean currents, and tidal conditions are appropriate.
The sturdy lighthouse on Eilean Mor was designed in 1899 by an engineer named Alan Stevenson. George Lawson carried out the actual work, which cost almost £7,000 — a huge sum in those days. The construction work included constructing landing stages and steps leading up to them. Lawson was also commissioned to build homes for the lighthouse keepers and their families at Breasclete on the Isle of Lewis, and this cost a further £3,500. Breasclete was chosen because of its proximity to Loch Roag, where there was safe anchorage for the lighthouse boat that carried the keepers to and from Eilean Mor. What is referred to technically in lighthouse language as the “character” of the signal is that it flashes two white beams every thirty seconds. The lighthouse building itself is well over twenty metres tall and stands more than one hundred metres above sea level. Its lamp has a candlepower of one hundred thousand, and the nominal range of the light it provides is over thirty kilometres.
The Flannans are also known as the Seven Hunters, and there is one popular old tradition (similar to the tale of the Man in the Moon being sent there for gathering sticks on a Sunday!) that these seven impious men had dared to hunt on the Sabbath, and were accordingly turned into seven remote, storm-lashed islands. Eilean Mor shows a few traces of ancient habitation centuries before the erection of the lighthouse. Historians and other academic record-keepers are generally agreed that two ruins, described as the “Bothies of the Clan McPhail,” are actually an ancient dwelling and an equally ancient chapel.
Many strange, sinister legends are associated with the Flannans. Some say that evil forces lurk there still, and that those who trespass on the lonely rocks will be changed into seabirds. Fairies were said to inhabit them; they were also thought to be the abode of kelpies. In Scottish mythology, kelpies were cannibalistic water demons who ate their own kind, human beings, and even deer that had fallen into the water. Descriptions of the sinister kelpies varied. In some accounts they were webbed; in other versions they had the manes and tails of horses. They were also alleged to be shape-shifters, able to assume human form when it suited their grim purposes. There were those even in 1900 who attributed the tragedy of the missing keepers to kelpy activity.
When the light was established on Eilean Mor in those early days, there was no radio communication available, so Roderick MacKenzie, a gamekeeper, was paid eight pounds a year to keep a watchful eye on the Eilean Mor installation in case the keepers signalled for help or the light went out. Roderick’s observation post was Gallan Head on the Isle of Lewis, about thirty kilometers southeast of Eilean Mor.
There were four keepers who manned the Eilean Mor lighthouse: Joseph Moore (who was on leave on shore near Loch Roag when tragedy struck his companions), James Ducat, Donald McArthur, and Thomas Marshall. James Ducat was the principal keeper, and Don McArthur was the occasional keeper, replacing William Ross, the first assistant keeper, who was absent on sick leave at the time of the tragedy.
When Captain Holman of the steamer Archtor passed the Flannans on the night of December 15, he was certain that he was close enough to the islands to have seen the light had it been on. He saw nothing and duly logged that the light was not visible. This fact was incorporated into the official report of Superintendent Robert Muirhead, which was completed and filed on January 8, 1901.
Captain Harvie was in charge of the lighthouse supply tender Hesperus, which sailed out to Eilean Mor on December 26, 1900, arriving at noon. To the surprise of Harvie and his second mate, McCormack, no preparations had been made to receive the supplies the Hesperus was carrying. They sounded the siren and steam whistle of the Hesperus — but there was still no response from the keepers. Finally, a signal rocket was fired from Hesperus — but still there was no response. The Hesperus then sent a boat to the east landing stage of Eilean Mor, but nothing could be seen or heard of the three keepers. Joseph Moore, now very anxious indeed about the safety of his three colleagues — who were very much his friends as well — scrambled ashore with some difficulty and went to explore. He found the entrance gate and the outside door were closed. When he got inside he observed that the clock had stopped and the fire was out. He quickly examined the bedrooms to see if his companions had been taken ill: the beds were empty. Moore then ran back to the boat for help. Second Mate McCormack and one of the sailors jumped ashore, having the same trouble in landing that Moore had experienced. All three men then made a thorough search of the lighthouse: there was no sign at all of the missing men, and no clues as to what might have happened to them. Captain Harvie asked Moore to stay on Eilean Mor to tend the vitally important light. Seamen Campbell and Lamont volunteered to stay to help him, and Buoymaster MacDonald, who was also on board the Hesperus at the time, volunteered to stay with them until proper, permanent arrangements could be made. These four got the light going again, while Captain Harvie took the Hesperus back to Breasclete and sent a report through to Lighthouse Headquarters.
Part of Harvie’s message ran: “A dreadful accident has occurred at the Flannans. The three Keepers, Ducat, Marshall and the Occasional have disappeared…”
The emergency team on Eilean Mor made another thorough exploration of the lighthouse and found the log slate that Ducat had made up for the morning of Saturday, December, 15, 1900. The emergency crew also found that the oil fountains and oil storage vessels were all properly filled. The lenses were clear and the necessary lantern mechanisms were also properly cleaned and lubricated. Everything was as it should be — except for the three missing keepers. Whichever of the three had been acting as cook on the fateful day had carefully cleaned aw
ay the pots, pans, and crockery after lunch, so everything had apparently been as normal at the start of the afternoon.
The two landing places — one at the east and one at the west — had been built so that one would always have a lee shore for men and supplies to land, no matter which way a storm might be blowing. When the search party went around to the west landing place, however, things were very far from normal. A toolbox containing ropes and other essential equipment was usually stored on a ledge thirty-five metres up the cliff. That toolbox had been smashed by the wind and waves, and some of its rope contents (still properly coiled) were found draped around a crane on its platform a dozen metres lower down. This crane platform had strong iron railings around it, for the keepers’ safety in foul weather: these sturdy iron railings were now twisted. Furthermore, a block of stone weighing at least a ton had been dislodged by something, and had fallen to the pathway below. What kind of diabolical weather must have hit the western side of Eilean Mor on that fateful day?
When the protective clothing was examined, it was found that Ducat had been wearing his waterproof gear and sea boots when he vanished, and Marshall’s sea boots and oilskin were also missing. Presumably they had put their protective clothing on to go down to do some work on the jetties, probably to make certain that everything was safely stowed down there before the worst of the storm hit Eilean Mor.
It may be deduced from the missing oilskins that Donald McArthur, a loyal and fearless companion, risked his life — and lost it — in a valiant but vain attempt to save the other two men. If he had been the duty cook and tableman that day, he would have stayed in the lighthouse clearing up, washing the crockery and cutlery, and cleaning and putting away the pots and pans while the other two donned their protective gear and went outside to secure the tools and equipment on the western jetty. His observation point is now far higher than theirs. He sits at the table to relax for a few minutes and sees an enormous wave — enormous even by Flannan standards — bearing down on the island. He leaps up and races out after his fellow keepers. We can almost imagine him yelling at the top of his voice: “Come up! Come up! There’s a huge wave heading for us!” Over the wind and the storm and the fatal roaring of the sea, Ducat and Marshall fail to hear their friend’s warning. Determined to do everything he can, McArthur runs down the dangerously wet, storm-swept steps, shouting his warning again and again as he descends. His gallant self-sacrifice is all in vain. The wave hits the western edge of Eilean Mor, shatters the toolbox, hurls its contents down the steps, twists the strong iron railings as if they were putty, and then sweeps the three keepers to their deaths.
Superintendent Robert Muirhead went to see what extra information he could glean from Roderick Mackenzie, the official observer on Lewis. Mackenzie was away, but he had left the observations in the hands of his two responsible and intelligent teenaged sons. They showed Muirhead the records their father kept and added their own extra information. At a distance of thirty kilometres, Eilean Mor was not always visible — neither was the light visible when weather conditions were adverse. Mackenzie’s records showed that, even with the aid of a powerful telescope, the lighthouse tower had not been visible from December 7 to 29. Neither was the light seen from December 8 to 11 inclusive. It had been observed on the 12, but was not seen again until Moore and his volunteer crew renewed it on the 26.
So what really happened to the three brave keepers on Eilean Mor on December 15, 1900? Was it a huge storm, creating waves nearly sixty metres high that tore them off the granite cliffs and sent them to their deaths? Or were there sinister supernatural forces on the Flannans? Is it even possible that kelpies exist and attack human beings? Although much of the rational evidence points towards a natural marine disaster, the hint of some paranormal evil never quite vanishes — after all, the Flannans have been notoriously mysterious for many centuries.
The disappearance of Glen Miller, the famous bandleader, officially happened on December 15, 1944. He was said to have gone down in a small plane called a Norseman while flying from England to Paris. According to what may well have been only an elaborate (and badly perforated!) cover story, Miller and Flight Officer John R.S. Morgan took off at 1:40 p.m. that day in their small, propeller-driven plane, and were never seen again. It was recorded that the weather was atrocious when they left. Later investigations seemed to show that the plane had developed engine trouble while heading for Dieppe and ditched in the sea. A report from 1973 stated that a plane — possibly Morgan and Miller’s — had been located by a diver, who found that the propeller was missing. Aviation history experts are aware of a technical problem with propeller-driven aircraft of the forties — if there’s a leak, or other failure, in the hydraulics, the propeller can malfunction in a way that’s technically referred to as overspeed, which in the worst-case scenario can make it fall off. Apparently that’s what may have happened to the little Norseman allegedly carrying Miller and Flight Officer John Morgan.
There is strong evidence of some kind of cover-up over the whole account of Glen Miller’s disappearance. Using Occam’s Razor once again to strip away the most imaginative of the conspiracy theories, the question of what might have happened to the Norseman remains at the centre of the mystery. One theory suggests that allied aircraft, returning in fog or thick cloud on December 15, jettisoned their bombs over the channel, and one of those bombs took Miller’s little plane out of the sky. Other aviation disaster theories suggest that the Norseman iced up and came down in the water — it was, after all, a cold December day. So theory number one is simply that there was a perfectly normal, explicable crash into the sea, and that was the end of the brilliantly talented and gallant musician. Co-author Lionel was living in France, first in Boulogne-sur-mer and then in Paris, in 1949, and spectacular rumours of what had happened — or what might have happened — to the great Glen Miller were still buzzing, especially in Paris, five years after the tragedy. In particular, those rumours were still very much alive in Pigalle — the erogenous zone of Paris nightlife. It was said there that Miller had never been on the Norseman on December 15, but instead had flown into Paris two days earlier and had been fatally injured in a fight in a Pigalle brothel. In order to safeguard his reputation, he had been flown more dead than alive back to a hospital in the U.S. where, soon after his arrival, he succumbed to the major skull fracture acquired in the brothel brawl.
Another rumour suggested that chain-smoking Miller had died of lung cancer, and that it had been his dying wish to go out as a hero on active service rather than as a sick man in bed. Accordingly, he had been falsely entered as a passenger on the missing plane.
The wildest rumours of all maintained that one of his lady friends in Paris had been a Pigalle brothel madame, and that Miller had been so enamoured of her that he decided to stage his own death, change his identity, and set up a new business with her in Nice. The verdict on that one is “highly unlikely,” but nothing was totally impossible in the traumatized and disorganized world of post-war Europe in the late forties.
Ex-RAF officer John Edwards did everything possible to get to the bottom of the mystery of whether or not Miller was on the ill-fated Norseman. There was an official form called a 201 that should have cleared up the matter once and for all. Edwards tried to get it, was told it had probably been lost in a records office fire, and met a stone wall of stolid denial of its existence. Squadron Leader Jack Taylor also investigated — but the form he located was almost unreadable and had an illegible signature. If it had been just a tragic, straightforward crash that killed Miller, why all the difficulty with the records?
It is also rather curious that there did not seem to have been any proper search for the missing bandleader. Miller was rightly world famous; surely with the war in Europe almost over the Allies would have had time and spare capacity to instigate a proper search? Unless it was already known in high places that — wherever else he was — Miller was not dead in the wreckage under the Channel.
Wilbur Wright (not the
pioneer aviator, but a contemporary author and expert on Glen Miller) wrote two excellent books about the famous bandleader’s disappearance. He carried out painstaking investigations as recently as 1986 and met with another blank wall of evasion and subterfuge from the authorities. He became justifiably convinced that some sort of major cover-up was shrouding the truth behind Miller’s death. He wrote to President Reagan for help, but even that didn’t crack the cover-up. He finally obtained — and recorded — an admission from the appropriate records office in the U.S. that the Miller files existed but were strictly off-limits. So there almost certainly was a massive cover-up over Miller’s disappearance — but the great mystery is why. Was it a mystery of the sea, as the official records suggested — or a mysterious brawl leading to a fatal head injury in a Pigalle brothel?
Second only to the mystery of the Mary Celeste, which deserves a complete chapter to itself, is the mystery of the Waratah. Built on the Clyde by Barclay Curle and Company in 1908, she became the flagship of Lund’s Blue Anchor Line. Coal-fired and twin-screwed, the Waratah had a gross displacement of 9,339 tons. Her purpose was to serve as a combined cargo-passenger liner on what was then the very popular emigration route to New Zealand and Australia. She was named after the flower that is the emblem of New South Wales in Australia. Known botanically as telopea speciossima, the waratah’s flowers are bright red, and its wedge-shaped or oblong leaves are a very deep green and heavily veined. They are leathery and can achieve a length of twenty centimetres. The strong, upright stems are woody. The waratah bush or shrub can grow to a height of three metres, with a corresponding spread of two metres.