Metamorphosis

by Sesh Heri

The scene dissolved again. Before us was a forest and in the distance high mountains covered in snow. Then, over a ridge, we saw a man crawling. His ragged coat was covered in blood. He tried to stand, to rise up, but then he dropped back to his knees. His head bowed, and I could see that he was wearing a yarmulke.

  “This man,” I asked, “is Jewish?”

  “Yes,” Djudhi said. “He is the last rabbi on earth. He was the High Priest of the rebuilt Temple in Jerusalem. He now flees to Europe over the Alps of Italy.”

  Again the scene dissolved to another. An old man in a long robe crawled through a desert. We could see nothing but sand dunes to the horizon. The old man stopped crawling. He opened a canteen, drank from it, draining it dry.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “The last of the leaders of Islam,” Djudhi said. “All of his fellows have been murdered.”

  The desert scene melted away. Suddenly Djudhi and I were transported into a small, enclosed space. Directly in front of us by inches sat an old man crouched on the floor. He wore a faded flannel shirt, denim jean trousers, and heavy leather hiking boots. He had a long, white beard, and a fringe of white hair around a prominent bald head. His features were sharp, creased, and lean. His eyes were brooding dark brown, pools of despair. His face was covered in beads of perspiration and he shook constantly in a persistent tremor. He picked up a worn Bible and opened it, his hands shaking, tears rolling from his eyes down his gaunt cheeks. He began reading in a shaking voice:

  “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want….”

  “Who is this?” I asked.

  “The last Pope of the Roman Catholic Church,” Djudhi said. “His name is Peter the Second. He tried to mend all the schisms in the Christian religion. Among his followers he was called ‘The Second Rock,’ but his enemies called him ‘The Rock Cutter’ and ‘The Rock Divided’. They claimed he crushed the Church into pieces.”

  “Why does he cry?” I asked.

  “Because he knows he has failed,” Djudhi said. “He is in what will be called a ‘safe room’. He is hiding from those who are trying kill him.”

  “Where are his killers?” I asked.

  “In a courtyard below,” Djudhi said. “Listen.”

  The rapid explosion of machine guns sounded faintly through the walls of the room. The old man shut his eyes, his mouth opened, his whole face twisted in agony.

  “My God! My God! My God!” the old man screamed out. “Forgive my cowardice!”

  “He speaks English with an American accent,” I said.

  “Yes,” Djudhi said. “The last Pope of the Catholic Church will be born in America.”

  The scene dissolved to a view of a large square at night. Soldiers marched out of the square. A distant skyline revealed the City of Rome on fire. Below, Peter the Second emerged into the square. He began to walk forward, now as only an old man dressed in the garb of a beggar. He stumbled and fell over a dead body covered in blood, the body of a man wearing a robe.

  “Who has been killed there?” I asked.

  “The priests of the Church,” Djudhi said. “The priests called the Cardinals.”

  “How many killed?” I asked.

  “All that exist on earth,” Djudhi said.

  Peter the Second, crawled over the bodies of the dead men and then stumbled to his feet and ran out of the silent square.

  The scene dissolved, and was replaced with the view of another square, a small park in the middle of a large city that may have been New York or Chicago in the future. A great crowd of people milled about in the park and a manic sound of drum beats and voices chanting obscene rhymes split the air like thunder. Many of the men and women were naked and their bodies were heavily tattooed and their nostrils and ears pierced with rings. These people either had the hair on their heads shaved bald or grown long and greased so that it stood in long, pointed spikes atop their heads. Fistfights broke out, and the whole crowd became an angry sea of heads and arms. A group of soldiers dressed in black pushed their way through the crowd and up to a platform. Out of their midst they pushed forward a man dressed only in a white shirt and gray pants. His hands were chained and locked behind his back.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “The last philosopher on earth,” Djudhi said. “He taught the value of individual conscience and refused to submit his blood to the analysis of the machines. Now he is about to be executed for his crime— beheaded.”

  Three giant metal arms pivoted up over the platform, and at the end of each arm sat a man in a chair controlling a movie camera.

  “The execution will be broadcast around the world for all to see,” Djudhi said.

  The philosopher was shoved down upon his knees and his head thrust upon a chopping block. A soldier dressed in black raised a scimitar into the air and brought it down upon the neck of the philosopher and the philosopher’s head was severed and rolled down upon the platform in a pool of blood. The crowd became frenzied, and the noise of the drumbeats and obscene chanting became deafening.

  The view melted away. Now a succession of images filled the air before us: cities raging in flames, people running, open fields strewn with bodies of the dead, starving infants covered with open sores and bloated bellies crying among the dead, masses of people standing in long lines.

  “This is the work of NYMZA,” Djudhi said.

  Faces of starving children gazed at me with a dull hopelessness.

  “For, even from the astral plane, NYMZA march,” Djudhi said. “The deaths of millions condition the ether and fertilize the astral planes, fully opening the channel for the passage of the karmic frequencies of mankind into the mind of NYMZA.”

  More cadaverous young faces stared at me.

  “And so NYMZA march,” Djuudhi said.

  The faces dissolved into a view of open fields covered with the dead, acres of the dead, unmoving, miles of dead, unmoving.

  “NYMZA march,” Djudhi said, “and savor the karmic frequencies of the dying, a whole world dying, for the machines who humanity has served— no longer need humanity.”

  The landscape of death was replaced by a view of gigantic machines, great metal arms and legs constantly moving, moving, moving without life or spirit.

  “But NYMZA will be defeated,” Djudhi said. “NYMZA will not be able to complete its absorption of the karmic frequencies of man. A greater cycle comes to a close before NYMZA completes its plan. NYMZA will remain imprisoned.”

  Again the view of the scene melted and faded, to be replaced by a view of the ocean, its waves stirring and boiling, like the boiling water in a cooking pot. Then above in the pure, blue sky, a great light flashed; it was an explosion of searing heat, and the boiling waves rose up into a wall that must have been a thousand feet in height and moved aside to reveal the black bottom of the ocean floor.

  “It is the energy arriving from the center of the galaxy,” Djudhi said, “the force that creates the precession of our planet’s rotation, the Fire of the Black Sun. It comes into the solar system and funnels through the earth’s magnetic North Pole, creating a world-wide firestorm moving from north to south.”

  A scene of a mountain range flashed before us. The sky was on fire, a brilliant red. The mountains and earth were black.

  “The energy is so great,” Djudhi said, “that the magnetic field of the earth is reversed, and, on the astral plane, the karmic frequencies of the dying are erased and pass on into higher dimensions out of reach of NYMZA.”

  The scene dissolved to show a crowd of people walking across an open field of grass under a brilliant red sky. At the front of this crowd was Peter the Second, the Jewish High Priest, the Dalai Lama, and the last leader of Islam. With them were a number of other people of many races, wearing many different kinds of clothing and costumes.

  “These are the last humans on earth that have not become slaves of the machine,” Djudhi said. “They were all given a psychic vision of the coming firestorm and have met here at the tip of Africa. They are going to th
e secret entrance of a cave system where they will take shelter until the storm passes. Now all forms of organization have ended. There are no more religions or governments on earth. The Age of Iron concludes.”

  The fiery red sky above us dissolved, faded, and then Djudhi and I were engulfed in blackness. Then a faint swirling light came upon us. I could see the ceiling of the cavern again and those red metallic cylinders embedded in it.

  “It stops there,” I said, trembling, tears blurring my vision.

  “Time is veiled beyond that point for human eyes,” Djudhi said.

  “What am I to make of these visions?” I asked.

  “These are fixed points in Time,” Djudhi said. “No one can change them.”

  “What can we change?” I asked.

  “Many things,” Djudhi said. “NYMZA would bring these terrible events forward much more rapidly, and utterly destroy the human race with no seed remaining on earth. The human race would cease to exist on the material plane, and the destiny of man would never be fulfilled. It is in our power to stop this. It is more. It is in our destiny to stop NYMZA. We cannot destroy NYMZA. That power is not ours, but we can stop NYMZA, now, here. You cannot do it alone. I cannot do it alone. But together, you and I, we can do it. We must do it. Once more, in order to live the physical life, we must wage war. We are in the trap of NYMZA even as we keep NYMZA contained in its own imprisonment.”

  “How do we begin?” I asked.

  “We must start,” Djudhi said, “with the test of fire.”

  Mr. Tesla had returned to the pilot’s cabin with Lt. Nimitz. Mr. Czito and Jack still stood looking out through the windows at the Martian airship floating over the plain of the jungle.

  “They haven’t moved an inch,” Mr. Czito said.

  “Open the channel,” Mr. Tesla said to the communications officer. The officer closed a switch.

  “This is Tesla. Are you listening there?”

  “I am listening, Tesla,” TAR-A-GAL’s voice sounded on the speaker.

  “We will make the exchange of prisoners,” Mr. Tesla said.

  The voice of TAR-A-GAL sounded in the speaker:

  “A wise decision. Do you see that clearing in the jungle, where the grass grows upon the rocky slope of the volcano?”

  “I see it,” Mr. Tesla replied.

  “Land your ship there near the edge of the jungle,” TAR-A-GAL intoned over the speaker, “and I will land my ship on the other side. Then you will release Captain Wilson.”

  “And what will you do?” Mr. Tesla asked.

  “Await his arrival aboard my ship, of course,” TAR-A-GAL’s voice murmured over the speaker.

  “That is not acceptable,” Mr. Tesla replied. “We will make an exchange, not an offering. You will open the door of your ship and I will open the door of mine. Then from both doors— simultaneously— our prisoners will emerge and walk into the clearing.”

  “But of course,” TAR-A-GAL purred over the speaker. “I meant nothing more. We shall have an exchange. It will be orderly.”

  “I will see to that,” Mr. Tesla said. “For I will accompany our ‘Captain Wilson’ into the clearing and you will accompany Mrs. London and Mr. Dellshau as well.”

  “Accompany?” TAR-A-GAL’s voice snarled. “That is the work of underlings!”

  “You will accompany them or there will be no exchange,” Mr. Tesla said.

  The speaker remained silent.

  “What is your decision?” Mr. Tesla asked. “Make the exchange, or prepare to die.”

  “I am only prepared to kill!” TAR-A-GAL screamed back over the speaker.

  “If you can,” Mr. Tesla said. “I believe you can only die.”

  TAR-A-GAL’s laughter crackled over the speaker.

  “All right, Tesla,” TAR-A-GAL’s voice sneered. “I will play your game— for now. I will accompany the prisoners. You will land now.”

  Mr. Tesla turned to the pilot.

  “Take us down and land in the clearing,” Mr. Tesla said.

  “Aye, aye,” the pilot said.

  “Are you really going to go out there and make the exchange?” Lt Nimitz asked.

  “I really am,” Mr. Tesla said.

  “And you think the captain of the Martian ship will go out there too?” Lt. Nimitz asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Tesla said. “I’m counting on his vanity to rise to my challenge. He may not want to lose face among his men, to appear to them to be afraid.”

  “He may not care about that,” Lt. Nimitz said.

  “He may not,” Mr. Tesla said. “But it may be our only chance to see Mrs. London and Mr. Dellshau alive again.”

  “You can’t go out there alone,” Lt. Nimitz said.

  “I don’t intend to,” Mr. Tesla said. “Nor do I think the Martian captain will be entirely alone. We are going to have to fight one way or another, and perhaps it would be best if it was on the ground. Equip half of the crew with enviro-suits and ray guns and have them assemble at the stern of the ship in the main escape trunk. If the Martians attack while we’re in the clearing, open the door of the trunk and send out the crew.”

  “Aye, aye,” Lt. Nimitz said.

  “Sir,” the pilot said, “we’ve just made the landing.”

  “All right,” Mr. Tesla said to Lt. Nimitz. “Everyone to battle stations. Lt. Nimitz, you will lead the attack team.”

  “Who will be in command of the ship?” Lt. Nimitz asked.

  “Mr. Czito,” Mr. Tesla said. “He has had a little experience fighting Martians.”

  I stood upon the cold floor or a tiny cavern room, a place no more than four feet across and six feet in height. I had removed all my damp clothes and had placed them in a heap upon a stone bench. I was now wrapping a long strip of cloth about my body, a white, linen-like cloth. I finished the wrapping and tied it off around my waist. Djudhi had told me I had to remove all my clothes and dress myself like this. My body, he said, had to be free of constricting forces in order to carry out the work that lay ahead of me.

  I stepped out through the door of the small enclosure and into another tunnel of volcanic rock. Djudhi was standing down at the end of this tunnel with a group of his fellow priests. They were waiting for me.

  “What do you say?” I asked. “Did I put this thing on right?”

  Djudhi smiled faintly and only said, “Come.”

  I followed Djudhi and the other priests around the curve in the tunnel. We emerged into the cave room where the neophytes sang and danced. We turned away from them and walked toward that large opening that blazed with orange light. We kept walking. The opening loomed over me. The shaved heads of the priests in front of me glistened with light. I followed them into the orange glow. People in white robes stepped aside, and an aisle of onlookers opened up to let Djudhi, me, and the other priests pass.

  I followed Djudhi to the four foot wall of volcanic rock which rimmed the caldera, glowing white-hot below.

  “Lie down on your back,” Djudhi said, “like this.” And he lay down on the floor of the cavern in front of me.

  He extended his hand flat on the floor.

  “Here,” Djudhi said. “Lie here. The others will lie about us in a circle.”

  I lay down on the floor of the cavern where Djudhi had placed his hand. The skin of my back and legs now suddenly felt the heat of the rock. Unlike the rest of the stone flooring of this cave system, the floor here was warm, even hot as I continued to lay there. I began to wonder how long it would take for me to lay there before my back and legs began to blister.

  “You are concerned about the heat,” Djudhi said. “Do not be. We will soon eliminate it.”

  Now the other priests that had accompanied us began lying down on the floor. I raised my head up and looked about. They were all lying down around Djudhi and me in the pattern of a circle. Djudhi and I lay at the center of that circle.

  “Lie your head back down,” Djudhi said to me, “and close your eyes.”

  I lay back down and closed
my eyes as Djudhi had told me to do.

  “We have done something like this before,” I said, “you and I.”

  “Many times before,” Djudhi said.

  “I mean in 1915,” I said, “when you are Ed Morrell.”

  “Yes,” Djudhi said. “I know. I saw that in the Window of Time.”

  “Do these other priests here know who I am?” I asked Djudhi.

  “Yes,” Djudhi said. “Two of them here were also your sons in this life— those two at your feet. They are my brothers. Now, you must remain silent, for we will now commence to turn your brow wheel. In this life you could do this by yourself, but now as a man of the Iron Age you have lost this ability. We will commence the turning of your brow wheel. Once it begins turning you will then have the power to continuing its turning. Your deeper mind will remember your training from other lives, especially your life when you were a priest here. You will continue the turning until you can raise your feet off the ground with no muscular effort. Then you will continue the turning until you can lift your whole body up off the floor. We will help you do this. We will give your ka more astral force. Then, once you have achieved full levitation, you will direct your body over the caldera that will act as a spiritual and mental focus. You must do this levitating to focus your astral energy and increase its power. Without this focus, you will not have the power to defeat NYMZA.”

  “How will I defeat NYMZA?” I asked.

  “You will meet NYMZA upon the astral plane,” Djudhi said. “Even now, as I speak to you, NYMZA is beginning to emerge upon the astral plane through the Bell floating over the Time Modulator on the surface above us. Once they escape into the astral plane of our time, they may interact with matter more directly, acquire more karmic frequencies directly, and this will make it possible for them to take on material form. To do this, they will use the karmic frequencies of all living humans and all human frequencies imprinted on the astral plane of matter. They will possess men’s souls. And then NYMZA will destroy earth, just as they destroyed the giant planet long ago— earth will become a hammered out bracelet of floating rock. And then NYMZA will move across the galaxy, searching for more worlds, more souls to consume.”