“I think I met with my father. That's my strongest impression.”
“Must have been a joyous reunion.” He flashes on a scene in the movie Contact, when Jody Foster meets her deceased father on Vega. But he won't embarrass her by asking if she saw the flick.
“It wasn't an emotional meeting as would happen between human beings long separated.”
He shakes a finger at her. “Uh-uh…you said earlier you were a human being.”
“I meant as normally occurs in the emotions of human beings. The meeting was business. Our emotional bodies were suppressed.”
“Okay, I'll buy that.” Move the story along. Skip the mush. This will be an action story. She provides the inspiration, he edits, makes it relevant and readable.
“But you don't remember what happened in the vortex? You picked up information. It's coded in those symbols. You begin to remember….” He gestures for her to continue.
“I have a sense for it. I just can't spell it out word for word yet. Each symbol represents a body of information, like a chapter in a book. I have a feeling it's information not for people now, but for after the completion of this cycle.”
He refrains from pounding a fist on his forehead. End of a cycle, end of a cycle…broken record. He's tired of hearing about it. Can we lift the needle?
“Do we want to go there?” he says. “The millennial motif is bound to crash by January, two thousand one. I don't think we'll have enough time to capitalize on that. Unless we make a story about people who can't let go of the idea.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was thinking we could use your experience as basis for a novel.”
“Reality is much more interesting than fiction.” Her expression is wry.
“But a nonfiction book would be problematic. The market is already flooded with books about channeling, alien abduction, and OBEs. I think people are pretty well saturated with the true confession angle. Jane Roberts, Whitley Strieber, Robert Monroe cashed in, then there were the usual jumps on the bandwagon. I think the wheels on that vehicle are about flat.”
“You think I'm considering ideas for a book?”
“You said you were going to continue to write. Maybe you're burned out on fiction, but I would advise you to reconsider. The way your mind works, it's a virtual garden of creative ideas.”
“Such as?” she wants to know.
He ignores her snooty tone. He's got her number. “You vaguely remember living on some other world. You migrated here, like a walk-in, but something went wrong. You can't remember who you are, why you're here. The story will be about what you experience, trying to remember. You have out-of-body experiences. Maybe you're abducted. You get strange symbols, you try to figure them out.”
“Why would my memories be veiled?” Zion says, playing along now.
“You're an undercover agent for warriors on another planet. It's part of the plan that you don't retain memories, because you have to live convincingly as a regular human being. Your purpose is to convey important information to mankind. Say, a survival manual for after this cycle thing is done. But you can't write a nonfiction book saying that outright, because most people are too dense to believe you. They can't think past the mouth of the funnel. Except a few key players are waiting for this information. When they read your book, they are triggered to do certain things that will help prepare people destined to survive the big shift. Say a comet is going to wipe out most of the population. After the comet, everyone will wise up to various messages about how to care for the planet. Survivors will become true stewards of Earth. But not without your book. It's like a prophecy. You came here to impart this knowledge, but because you did so under cover, you just thought it was a novel. And you had to work under the veil because should you be too successful at alerting people the whole shebang is soon to collapse, you would be taken out by the corruptive elements in government, religion, business, people who stand to lose power. They don't believe you, but if you did something too convincing, like heal a blind man or raise the dead, it could rile up the natives, set off a revolution.”
“Hmmm…where am I after the cycle ends?”
“You return to your home planet. Mission accomplished.”
“And where are you?”
“I'm one of the survivors. A leader because I knew you. I'm the one who realizes your book wasn't really fiction. Wait a minute. You don't have to return to your planet. You fall in love with Earth. You decide to make this your home.” You fall in love with me. He grins, hikes his shoulders. “What's a story without romance?”
“Maybe I have a lover on my home planet. It's hard to leave Earth, because I did grow to love it, but destiny beckons me to return home, because I can be of greater service there.”
“Oh, yeah? How?”
“My experience here will help to establish a vital corridor between Earth and Geshlama. Our worlds will always exist separately, but it's part of the evolution of Earthbound souls to become aware of Geshlama and other worlds. The next wave of Earthlings will consciously travel to other spheres. They will discover that outer space is actually inner space. They will discover that their bodies—all physical bodies, including planets—are extensions of their minds. They will begin to search inward for the source of creation.”
“Hey…Geshlama…I like that.”
“May I add to the story?”
“Sure. You're the author.”
He raises a knee, rests his elbow, his hand supporting his chin. He could sit like this, gazing at her for days, no matter what she's talking about. Is she digging it? He's on her bed, just a couple of legs and a pile of covers away from a full-body embrace. Maybe before the night is over. He dreams.
“I flew here from Geshlama with a group of fairchildren on the Emmanuel beam…a protected beam in a music band. We intended to open a vortex south of here. We located it by studying the sacred terrestrial maps. We believed we were acting on inspiration. The flight was successful. We found the vortex and activated it as a channel for light. We thought there was a man in this region who would become a contact for light workers on Geshlama. Something would activate him—we had not thought that far—we were children. Life was sensible magic.” Her laugh chimes with self-derision.
“We were not as prepared as we thought we were. The man we thought would serve as a communication link had not even moved to the area yet, and something went wrong over the vortex. We were attacked by a legion of archons…negative forces that reside in bands of static surrounding the Earth, where they thrive, exploiting the carnage of squandered energies. But their survival depends on the Earth maintaining a slower vibration. Their bodies will not withstand an upgrade in frequency. When the cycle closes, they will be like insects frozen in amber. They know this, so they are working furiously to prevent the upgrade. The vortex we opened was corrupted. It is watched. That's why I traveled to Uruguay.
“Because I was the one who instigated the journey, assuring the travelers we would be impervious to the archons, it was karmic justice that I would fall through the vortex to Earth.
“I thought I would die, because Geshlamans cannot survive on Earth. But my father appeared to me and told me I was part Rose Clan, an Earth lineage. We are all human beings, but the genetic makeup varies from world to world. He told me how I could adapt to the environment here. It would be better that I stay here, for a rescue attempt would excite a battle with the archons. The choice was mine. It would be more challenging to serve here, but I could be effective in ways impossible on Geshlama. And my soul would benefit from the lessons in humility that my proud, willful act called for. I chose to stay.
“I underwent a transformation in a swirling cocoon of light. After I emerged, I was exhausted and disoriented, but I knew there was a grace period before my body would react to heat, cold, and hunger. I crawled into a cave and slept, maybe for days. When at last I was awake and strong, I set out walking. Fortunately it was springtime. I had never been in a desert environment bef
ore. I was both repulsed and enchanted. Through my studies on Geshlama, I was somewhat knowledgeable of the human habitat here. I knew to follow power lines, and I could hear noises in the distance that turned out to be traffic.
“I'm sure it was Providence that I was found by the Vanderbonds. Jo was like my guardian angel on Earth.”
Tears well in her eyes. Jonah wants to gather her in his arms, but doesn't dare. He gives her well-padded foot a comforting squeeze.
“That's a very moving story, Zion. You're an awesome storyteller.”
She rips tissues out of the box atop the table, dabs at her eyes.
“What's so moving about it?”
“I don't know. It just grabs me. I want to know what happened to her.”
She looks at him, deciding something. “When she agreed to remain here, she became subject to all of the conditions that apply to souls on this plane. But it was like she lived in a two-story house, while everyone else lived in ranch styles. She did well until she married. Then she took refuge in a basement and lost awareness of the top level.”
It dawns on him she's talking about herself. Could it be true? Get a grip…she flew here?
“Zion…is this your history I'm hearing?”
“How much of it is believable?”
“Not much.”
“No, it's not my history. It's still pretty vague. But I did travel tonight.”
“On a music beam. Jazz…classical? Oh, I bet I know. Music of the Spheres. Harp music?”
“It's not something our minds can comprehend at this level of consciousness. It happens in a dimension where sound and light are one. It's something that has to be experienced. There are no words to describe it.”
She falls silent, her chin resting atop her knees, arms wrapped around her legs.
“So, tell me what it's like to travel on a music beam.” He snaps his fingers, taps his foot, jiggling the bed. “Doo-be-doo-dah…”
She finds him mildly funny, barely, maybe.
Her dark-blue eyes intensify. “I can speak of rainbows of colors so rich, each gradation screams with joy, a sound so powerful it shatters the harp, spilling stars like salt crystals. Sparked by curiosity, Spirit creates contrasts to know itself in myriad expressions. Intelligence is born, encapsulated in flesh and bone. The pain of separation vibrates our bodies in a grief of sensual longing that can only be quelled in the arms of a lover in brief explosions of ecstasy that render us alone again.”
Jonah shuts his gaping mouth. Her words twinkle in his mind. “Wow. You write like that, ought to be able to find an audience somewhere.”…Jupiter?
Her smile is wry again. “Thank you for the endorsement. But I'm a scribe. Or at least that's my calling. We'll see how well I do. Every age has its record keepers, people who leave tracks for the children of tomorrow. A scribe cannot make a map of terrain she never sees or walks. She must travel to the future to view the lay of the land. But what words can she use to describe what is yet to manifest? She can only write in the language of the soul. But how can I transcribe without my indigo veil? This is a mystery for Zion Rose to solve, otherwise these symbols will remain as indecipherable as etchings on cave walls.”
Jonah nods, slaps his knee. “So, what shall we talk about now?”
“Why you came in here?”
“I thought you were in trouble. Having a nightmare.”
Her eyes are shining. “We think we know why we act as we do, but life is constantly showing us something else.”
“What is life showing us tonight?”
“A woman speaking from her soul to a man who would rather not bare his.”
“That's not fair. I feel like an ugly toad in your presence.”
“If I kissed you, would you upgrade to a handsome frog?”
Is she coming on to him? He can't believe it.
“I think the story goes, a frog turns into a prince. But I'm afraid in my case, the most you can hope for is a toad who combs his hair.”
“I don't mean to embarrass you.”
“That's hard to do. I'm a Leo.”
“You look a little glum. Maybe you don't like seeing me like this.”
“Like what? In a flannel nightie?”
“I'm different tonight. Maybe it's not that apparent.”
“It is.”
“Jonah…” Her eyes plead with him to stop acting like a jackass. “There isn't much time. Tomorrow I won't be like this. I will forget everything. Even recording the symbols. I will hide them from myself before I go to sleep.”
“I don't get that, Zion. Sounds like you're programming yourself to forget tonight. Why? Nothing happened you should want to forget.” Not yet. And if it does happen, she won't forget.
In a velvet movement, she shifts her knees toward the wall, reaches out, grasps his arm. He covers her hand with his own. They share a long searching look. If she wasn't so enigmatic, he would gather her in right now. But he can't read her. Is she coming on to him, or gearing up to blaze him again with more of her esoteric poetry?
“Jonah, I don't feel it's right to let you leave this room with only the burden of my revelations. I think we should make love.”
“You didn't say that. Did you?”
“Yesterday you said that sex was the basis for bonding between a man and a woman.”
He should peck her on the forehead, say goodnight, and get the hell out of here. She's a child-woman.
“Oh…you want to bond. Is this a marriage proposal? I'm shocked, Zion. We just met.” Shut up!
Swiftly, he positions himself next to her; she allows it, welcomes him. He encircles her with his arm, his legs outstretched beside hers. He touches her face, her satin hair, shivers with excitement.
But he has to ask. “Whom will I be making love to?”
“I'm sure you will meet Zion Rose, even though I won't remember tomorrow. Can you live with that?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yes. You can choose not to bond with me tonight.”
“Not a chance.”
Again she surprises him. Gently she pushes him away, presses her hand over his heart.
“Ohhh…” His eyebrows shoot up. Is this what she meant by making love? The sensations generated by her hand are so powerfully sensual, he almost faints. He removes her hand.
“You call that bonding?”
Nature is capricious and unpredictable. One day a gentle breeze, the next, a hurricane. No man can plot the exact moment a volcano will erupt, and earthquakes evade the most sensitive seismic instruments. But there are certainties in life, and one is, a lion is the greatest lover on Earth. Ask Jonah.
Embracing her in accordance with the laws of union on Earth, he takes command. He kisses her, thrilled to feel the same quality of energy that surged through his body when she electrified him with only her palm upon his heart.
Shed of their clothing, they tremble, flesh to flesh.
Jonah's spirit is rejoicing now in a movement like a dancer remembering a song forgotten in the illusion of separation. He strokes her breasts; her legs are wrapped around him. Drowning, dissolving, he is swept into an ocean of fire, where beast and soul merge in a creature neither knows.
Not bad for an ordinary Earthman…
“There's something I forgot to tell you,” she whispers, as he strokes her silken body, after they are spent.
“You're fertile tonight,” he jokes, hoping it is only a joke.
“I was supposed to activate you tonight.”
“Mission accomplished!”
“There was something I was supposed to tell you, but I can't remember it now. Maybe something more about the story of the tower of Babel….”
“You're already slipping into the forgetful zone,” he teases. But she'll remember making love to him, he's sure of that. Just thinking about it arouses him again. Gazing into her eyes, he is remembering a time long ago, or far ahead, when we all remembered that sexual union is spiritual communion, the holiest of human acts.
But
down here in the trenches, life is a messy, violent, beautiful business, passion and pain, hope reaching for love, an eagle sinking claws into the soft neck of a rabbit. Reality chimes in the incessant tock on a clock chopping the hours down to seconds. The alarm sounds, a door slamming open, exposing two naked hearts, a child demanding to be acknowledged.
Coral Kay stumbles into the room. Jonah yanks up the bedding. Does she know? Of course, she knows. She's a healthy sophisticated five-year-old. She sneaks over to Timmy O'Keefe's house and watches MTV. But does she look alarmed, giggle, or cry?
She points.
“Wow…what's that green light?”
Chapter O (15)
Climbing into bed at half past four in the morning, Jonah is twisting between elation and exhaustion. He hopes he can sleep, desperately needs at least a couple of hours of deep wink. Nothing makes sense, but who is he to question such fortune? Sure, lust had him panting after her like a dog in heat, but the culmination, that was pure love. Maybe she'll feel shy and embarrassed tomorrow, everything is happening so fast, but he'll set her at ease, let her know he's no flash in the pan, he is ready to commit right now! That's how powerful their lovemaking was, like nothing he has ever experienced before. He always secretly believed there was a special woman for him; almost lost hope, then zap! God's wand flashes across the sky, and like a genie, she appears on his doorstep. Who would have guessed? Sly Jo, that's who. Somehow Jo knew this would happen—was supposed to happen. One thing is clear. Zion needs him, and he won't let her down.
Not two minutes after he flips off the light and rests his head on the pillow, a flash of light startles his eyes open. “Give me a break,” he says, as if there is someone in the room, pulling a prank. He socks the pillow, and turns over, chuckling. Within minutes, he is snoring.
A novice when it comes to nocturnal visitations, Jonah failed to recognize the flash of light as an announcement. Q always announces with light before he rouses a human being from a somnambulistic state. It's P & Q courteous, even if a human is too dense to appreciate it.
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