The Stranger

The Stranger





By

James. A. Hall




The scout motioned from up ahead, and the armed team forged up the winding trail. Though carrying a wounded comrade, their movements were stealth-like. A deep sable sky offered a pale moon and steady wind rattled the trees and combed back the tall grass.

A force of twenty paused near the top of the hill, in sight of a pasty old edifice. Their eyes scanned the stylishly detailed windows for the subtlest of movements. Their ears sifted the light breeze for even a whisper. Keeping formation, they moved like phantoms to the side entrance of the safe house.

Strategically spaced, the motley-attired team entered the house. By unit, they searched the cobwebbed and splintered old mansion. Their blue laser beams of light crisscrossed the darkness like the light sabers. With the house swept clean, their movements became relaxed.

The kalunking of their heavy boots against the hardwood floors resonated throughout the ground floor. The house was empty except for a few sticks of dusty furniture, which seemed as out place in the elegant old manor as sandwiches at an opera.

The group, in workman-like fashion, fortified the windows with wooden planks and bolted the doors with 2x4s’. With the points of entry sealed, they spread out their backpacks, weapons and sleeping bags over the ballroom floor.

Finally, their wounded comrade was bedded down upstairs, the fireplace was lit and supper was prepared. Rations consisted of stale bread, vegetable broth, and water. Tristan, tall, blond, and strapping, paced while the others ate. He was also the only one still holding on to his weapon. Twice he peeked through the firing slits in the planks.

“Monroe, after you and Mooch finish, I need you to get upstairs and relieve Lee and Asija. They need to get some of this chow. Monroe, a pit bull of a man, threw down the last of his meal and rose from the floor.

“Tristan, maybe we shouldn’t stay the night,” whined Monroe. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“Monroe, we’ll be fine here. Besides, we got a wounded man.”

“But, Monrovia’s secret police have killed or captured everyone associated with the underground. If the police can’t get them to give us up, there’s Monrovia. Some say that she can read minds.”

“If she could read minds, don’t you think her assassins would’ve been waiting for us when we arrived,” answered Tristan. Tristan’s response left Monroe scratching his head.

“Monroe, it’s going to be okay,” interrupted Isabella. Monrovia’s surveillance crafts and spy cams will locate us before she has to call on her telepathic powers.” Monroe, face stoic, searched Isabella’s face. Realizing that she was joining, Monroe belted out a hearty laugh. The others soon joined him.

Isabella was a stunning beauty with a long, dark tress that she wore in ponytail. Her velvety soft skin was the color of the Sahara and her eyes were as soothing as a summer drizzle. Isabella was peculiar mixture of tomboy and Sunday school teacher. Still chuckling, Monroe motioned to Mooch to follow him upstairs. Tristan and Isabella exchanged long glances before Tristan grabbed up a bowl of broth and sat down to eat.

After the fire died down, the group bedded down for the night. Suddenly, a tapping sound, mimicking the cadence of a dripping faucet, pieced the sack time chatter. Sitting up, they stared at each other. Then, just like that, the sound was gone. But, before they could relax back into their calm uneasiness, there it was again. The group sprang to their feet, clutching their weapons.

Tristan gestured with his weapon in the direction of the dinning room. By candlelight, Tristan crept across the room, snatching up a flashlight as he went. The others followed, spread out behind him. Stopping just short of the doorway, Tristan pointed to Lee and Asija, who had just descended the stairs and was closest to the connecting door. Tristan silently counted to three, and he, Lee and Asija charged the room, the muzzles of their guns casting blue shafts of light.

The room was still more shadow than substance. No one had spotted the blanketed shape occupying the far corner. Isabella then entered with a large candle, peeling back the shadows.

“It would seem that we have a guest,” Tristan whispered, moving on the balls of his feet toward the threat. Guns pointed, the group closed in.

“Whoever you are, show yourself. You have nothing to fear from us.” As they closed in, it became apparent that it wasn’t a blanket at all, but someone clothed in a hooded robe. “Trent, you and De Andre have a look outside,” ordered Tristan. “And, tell Monroe to keep his eyes open.”

Tristan had inched to within arms distance as the others fanned out to the sides. Just as he was about to reach out and prod the robe with the nose of his weapon, it moaned to life. The stranger, still shrouded, attempted to stand. After several tries, the intruder lapsed back against the wall.

“I think he’s hurt,” said Lee.

“Maybe he’s wounded,” posed Asija.

“He’s not hurt or wounded, you dopes,” Isabella insisted. “Can’t you see he’s just an old man?” There was a collective sigh as their automatic weapons descended to their sides. Isabella pushed pass Tristan and the others and went and kneeled down beside the stranger. “No one is going to hurt you. Are you able to talk? The men nodded and slowly removed his hood.

His skin was chestnut-brown, and his hair cloud white.

“Well, what are all you gawking at?” asked Isabella. “You act like you’ve never seen an old man. Come; let’s get you in the other room where it’s warm. Are you able to walk?”

“Yes,” the man murmured. Gently, Isabella helped the stranger to his feet. The man’s movements were steady, but hunched and slow. Reaching the fire, she helped him into a old chair. The glowing light exposed an elderly, but gently aged face. His sharp eyes scanned the curious faces. Then he lowered his gaze to the floor as if he had grown tire of the scenery.

Isabella retrieved a bowl of lukewarm broth and hunk of bread. The stranger’s hands shuddered as he reached for the bowl.

“What are you doing giving him our food. We may be here for some time.” Isabella bushed Tristan’s comment off with a raised eyebrow. Annoyed, Tristan turned his attention to the old man. “Who are you and where did you come from?”

“Tristan, can’t this wait?” asked Isabella.

“Have it your way, but when he’s finished, he going to answer some questions. We can’t trust anyone. All of our lives are at stake. His being here is poses a problem. What do I do with him now? If I allow him to leave, he could talk. And, I can afford to assign a man to watch him twenty-four hours a day.

“He’s just an old man, Tristan. Besides…” Isabella paused, looking off for a split second. “I…I feel like we’ve met before.” She shook her head slightly, realizing how peculiar her words must have sounded.

“Oh, that’s just great. We should all feel reassured because you seen his face in a crowd somewhere. That cinches it then. He will be secured in the hall bathroom for the night…until we figure out what to do with him. Unless, of course, he identifies himself and tell us what he’s doing here. We searched the house from top to bottom. It was empty. Then, he just appears. No, there’s something not right here.


“What if he’s a Mystic?” added Asija.

“Then let him render something and I’ll let him go free,” answered Tristan, mockingly.

“You are consumed with anger, son?” muttered the old man, looking up from his broth. “Eliminate your fears, and you anger will disappear.”

Tristan, with scornful eyes, turned back to the old man. “After the Messiah pulled the nation back from the edge of the abyss, there was peace and plenty. The council, led by Mother Valora, kept the master’s word sacred. Under her spiritual leadership the nation flourished. Utopia was achieved. Each citizen was free to live and worship as he or she pleased. But, that has changed with the coming of Monrovia, the master’s unholy seed.

“Using her remarkable powers of persuasion, she has subjugated the will of the council. She has intimidated them into acquiescing to her twisted ambitions. By her thirtieth birthday, she had usurped the supremacy of the council and launched her reign of terror.

“Her first act was to expand the state police, including death quads. She outlawed all books, particularly books of faith. In the place of knowledge she substituted her own Declarations, a corrupted version of her father teachings. Her state police have arrest or killed anyone who disagreed with her actions, many of which were friends of ours. One of my people is upstairs with a bullet in her, courtesy of Monrovia’s goons. It’s even rumored that she’s aligned herself with dark powers, that she performs unholy rites.

“The land has fallen as barren as her heart. Where there were once ceaseless harvests, there are now state rations. The return of hunger and poverty has summoned the most visceral demons of our past, crime and murder. To display works of art or bare religious symbols is an offense punishable by death. With each passing day, the nation sinks deeper into despair. So, pardon me for being a little angry.

“Tristan, we all feel the same way or we wouldn’t be here,” Isabella broke in. “But, this old man is a victim the same as we. The only chance we have is to appeal to all those weary of a programmed existence, where every hour of our day is planned, where spiritual reflection and mediation has been replaced with mass ceremonies glorifying her name. Remember, the book that we found in last year?

“You mean the book featuring the girl, Dorothy, and her traveling companions,” answered Tristan. “How can we forget? You won’t let us. And, at the end of their spiritual journey, they discovered that the holy man was a false prophet.”

“Naturally, you would forget the most important part of the story,” Isabella pointed out. “In the end, they learned that they held the power all along. That is what the Master taught: it is done unto you as you believe. Maybe that is what the stranger is trying to say.”

“Yes, but, I’m no tin man and you’re no Dorothy. And what’s more, there is no wizard. But, what we do have is a wicked witch, Monrovia. And like the witch in the story, her powers are real.”

“Has any of you every seen her?,” the stranger asked. The stranger’s question drew chuckles from Tristan and some of the others.

“Yeah, we’ve dined in the palace on many occasions,” kidded Tristan. Everyone but Isabella exploded with laughter. But, their mirth was violently interrupted by jarring rumble followed by a burst of lightening. Tristan’s face grew solemn. “No one has laid eyes on her in 10 years. She never leaves the citadel she calls a palace. Her wicked deeds are all committed by a proxy, a dark, villainous man.” Pivoting around, Tristan pointed to a Munoz, a lanky boy still in his teens. “Tell Trent and De Andre to get inside. I want them posted upstairs. First the old man, then the storm. Some coincidence.”

“There is no such thing,” asserted the stranger.

“What are you talking about old man,” barked Tristan.

“There is no such thing as a coincidence. Everything happens for a reason,” responded the old man.

“I’ve had about enough of you. You remain heedless to our questions, and yet you speak when no one cares to hear your thoughts. For years the spiritual centers crammed that nonsense into our minds. We don’t need it from you.”

“Maybe, the message is sound, but your spirit is unwilling,” said the stranger.

Tristan, losing control, stomped toward the old man. Isabella stepped between them. “The stranger is not a threat,” she whispered.

“And, exactly how do you know this, Isabella?” asked Tristan, regaining his composure.

“It’s like I’ve known him all my life.”

“Oh, you know him, now. Be careful, Isabella. Next, you’ll be telling us that this old man is the Master returned to liberated the nation from the clutches of his evil and tyrannical daughter.”

“You will not bait me into another conversation on the Messiah.”

“The Messiah lives,” proclaimed the stranger, robustly.”

“Ah, he wades in again,” Tristan balked. “And, what can you possibly know that we don’t?”

“I know that the fifth messenger lives.” I further know that he has a second daughter. Flora, his wife, gave birth to a set of twins.”

This time there was no laughter. “You are all as bad as Isabella,” admonished Tristan. “This old man knows nothing. He’s just a vagrant. He is just one of the millions that the Monrovia’s propaganda machine claims to not exist. Everyone knows that the Messiah had but one child.” Tristan’s words failed to recapture the group’s attention, as their eyes never left the stranger.

Isabella cleared her throat before speaking. “What he says maybe true. There has always been quiet talk of a identical twin. You’ve heard the rumors yourself, Tristan.” Tristan was about to speak when Monroe called from the top of the stairs.

“Isabella, it’s Kendra. You better get up here.”

The group stormed up the stairs, all but Asija who was left behind to guard the prisoner. Isabella rushed to the side of her wounded comrade. Kendra had learned of the imminent crackdown and risked her life warning Tristan and Isabella. She succeeded, but only after taking a bullet in the side.

“I tried to wake her to see if he wanted to eat, but he wouldn’t respond,” said Monroe. Isabella grabbed a towel and basin off the nightstand.

“She burning up with fever,” Isabella declared, dabbing her friend’s forehead with the wet towel. “And, I’m afraid that she’s gone into shock. Maybe if we had with some antibiotics…”

“She’s dying,” interrupted the stranger crossing the threshold. Isabella continued pressing the cool compact to Kendra’s face.

“How did you get up here?” Tristan asked, his forehead undulated and his eyes knitted. Then Asija appeared in the doorway, slightly winded. “I turned my back for a second and he was gone. But, it was no way he could have made it up the stairs this quickly. I told you that he’s a Mystic.”

“Who are you, stranger,” Isabella asked, looking up from her feverish patient. Her question went ignored as the stranger proceeded to the side of the bed opposite her. He touched his palms to the wounded woman’s forehead and then ran both hands down the length of her body. “The bullet has torn into his vital organs and she’s bleeding internally.”

“We must get her to one of the spiritual health centers!” Isabella insisted.

“She will be dead before morning unless…” The old man stopped.

“Monroe, lock the old man in the bathroom for the night,” Tristan ordered, with disgust. “In the morning, I will take a team and see if we can scrounge up some medical supplies,” he said, looking at Isabella.

“What if the stranger is right?” asked Isabella. Tristan just shook his head and walked from the room.

That night while everyone except the lookouts was asleep, Isabella visited the old man.

“Without being seen, she slipped into the bath room. Once inside, she lit a candle. The old man was sitting up in the dark, as if he had been waiting for her.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said.

“I came to apologize for Tristan. He wasn’t always the man you see. When we joined the underground, it was just to put out a crude newspaper. It was our way of fighting back. But, when Monrovia began her crackdown, we were forced to defend ourselves. We were all dreadfully inexperienced when it came to weapons and tactics. However, Tristan had an undiscovered talent. He instantly took charge. Under him and with support from the underground, we formed a cell. It was during this time that Tristan’s mood darkened and his devotion to the master’s teachings faltered. However, I have another reason for coming.

“I know why you came, Isabella. All things are possible if one has enough faith. Isn’t this what the master taught, and are these not the words of the Carpenter who preceded him. Man is divine by his very nature. His thoughts tie him to the Universal Mind, which is all of existence. What man pours into the Great Void will be returned to him. Therefore, our true enemies are our very own fears, doubts and disbelief. You, my sister, can summon the supreme agency that lives in the realm of infinite possibilities if you but slay these three demons.

“You tell me nothing new, stranger. The spiritual centers and meditative retreats taught us that since we were old enough to attend.”

“That’s just it. It has been taught to you, instead of being demonstrated for you. As a consequence, the truth of the Master’s words has lost its spiritual vitality. Its true meaning has been lost. After the Master departed, Mother Valora lead the way, encouraging the practice of her son’s teachings as it spread throughout the world. However, she resisted direct interference. She understood that the son’s message was a mighty as the ocean, yet as delicate as a drop of dew on the rim of a rose pedal. That is, it couldn’t be institutionalized in the tradition of world religions.

Nations thought that they were fostering the Messiah’s teachings, when in reality they were suppressing them. Mother Valora with the help of the Mystics waded in to stem the tide. Nonetheless, schools, churches, and spiritual centers grew more dogmatic, their religious hierarchies growing in power and corruption. After her death, the Mystics soon withdrew to the mountains, practicing the teachings of the Messiah in seclusion.”


“Are you a Mystic?”

“No.”

“Can you save our friend?”

“No, but you can.”

“How, I harbor the same fears as Tristan and the others?”

“How long have you known your friend?”

“I’ve known Kendra all my life. She’s been like a sister to me.”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes, as much as I love myself,” Isabella answered, her eyes teeming.

“Your love will be enough. Go to your friend and pray over her. Visualize her as she once was. Let your love for her open the door to infinite possibility. Isabella went and kneed beside you dying friend and prayed throughout the night.

Tristan entered the room the next morning to find Isabella’s head resting on the foot of Kendra’s bed.

“Isabella, wake up. We’re about to take off: I want you in charge. Several others entered just after him.

“There is no need to go?” she said, stretching and wiping the sleep from her eyes.

“What are you saying? Is she…?” All eyes turned to Kendra.

“No, she’s not. Her fever has subsided and her pulse is growing stronger. She will be fine.” Just as she said that, Kendra’s fingers curled into a fist. Isabella smiled as Tristan, Monroe, Mooch, and Trent looked on in amazement.

“The old man’s prognosis was wrong,” added Tristan.

“No, his diagnosis was accurate. She was dying. He told me to pray for her. When I entered the room, her pulse rate was close to critical. And, there’s more. As I slept, I dreamed of Monrovia’s secret police. They have found us. Already, they’re swarming the hillside.” Before Tristan could fix his mouth to speak, Lee bolted into the room.

“Tristan, there is movement outside. I think that they’ve found us.” Tristan gazed long and hard at Isabella before he turned back Lee.

“I want everyone in position while I work out a plan of escape. Oh, and bring me the old man. Before Lee could relay his leader’s orders, an explosion jarred the house to its foundation.

“Tell everyone to get up here. It’s our only chance,” Isabella said, calmly yet resolutely.” Tristan stared at her unblinking, and then he looked over at Kendra. Her eyes were beginning to flutter open.

“Do as she says, yelled Tristan, after some hesitation. Lee tore from the room.

The entire group crammed into the room, deep concern on their faces. “They’ve blasted away the south wall, reported Monroe. “They’ll be pouring in soon enough. Up here, we trapped like rats. What do we do now?” Tristan asked gazing over at Isabella.

The sound of machine gun fire erupted. The group clutched their weapons as all eyes turned to the door. “Lay down your weapons,” said Isabella. The group stood motionless and confused.

“Do as she said,” Tristan commanded. One by one the heavy armaments hit the floor with multiple thuds.

“Are we surrendering” Monroe asked fretfully.

“On the contrary,” said the stranger, appearing in the doorway. Let us join hands in a circle.” Isabella was the first to reach out to the others. Soon they had formed a circle around the bed with Isabella holding one of Kendra’s hands and Tristan holding the other. “Now, close you eyes and visualize the house the way we found it last night,” the stranger instructed. “Visualize the house as it was. See only that which was here when you arrived.”

The sound of heavy boots echoed up through the floor. Sporadic burst of gunfire rattled the walls and floors. Several men pulled away and gathered up their weapons. Not even Tristan could deter them from the course of self-preservation. Then Isabella gently called to them.

“My brothers, our guns will not save us now. It is only by our faith shall we be saved. Come now, join us.” Isabella, with the gentleness of a saint, reached out her hand. One after another, they relinquished their weapons and returned to the circle. The sound of boots rushing up their stairs failed to unnerve them this time. A few feet from the bedroom, they footsteps fell silent. Moments pass before they began to open their eyes.

Monroe was the first through the door. “They’ve gone,” he yelled, jubilantly.

No, they were never here,” said Isabella.

Downstairs they found the house was as it had been the night before. There was no sign of an explosion, or gunfire. It was if they had dreamed up the attack. Their bags were even packed. Then, they realized that the stranger was missing.


“Search the house for the…” began Tristan.

“Don’t bother, he’s gone,” interrupted Isabella.

“What’s next, Tristan asked, looking at Isabella.

“We must go. The stranger gave us a mission.”

“What are you saying? What mission?”

“We must find Monrovia’s twin.” With that, the group followed Isabella out the front door and down the trail.

Messiah: Fate or Fiction

Seers of all faiths and keepers of the mystical flame heralded his coming. A child brought forth by God to rescue America from herself, and to be an arch over the tumultuous waters of fear and doubt to a distant shoreline of supreme knowledge and volition. Skeptical clerics marked him a false prophet, as they clutched tightly their crumbling world of stoic illusions and dogmatic perversions of the Word. When this failed to dissuade his followers, political powers sought the Messiah's death. Nothing less than the pretender's blood could satisfy them. Pursued by ruthless raiders, mountain commandos, and a massive army, the miracle child blossomed in to a shepherd of men and a peerless commander on the battlefield. The boy savior ascended from the ashes of a collapsed civilization as a beacon of light for the righteous, and a final warning to the iniquitous. Those with ears to hear his message, eyes to recognize the countenance of truth and the pureness of heart to perceive the presence of the God in all things, gathered around the boy savior's campfire as he rendered a God inspired vision for the world. Displaying the mark of the lamb, he carried the heart of a lion into battle. Undaunted, he would assemble legions of spiritual warriors for a final reckoning with the soldiers of darkness. The seeds of his unconditional love and supreme wisdom would give birth to a mythos and spiritual order of unparalleled peace and prosperity. Under the deleterious spell of materialism, the world had accepted the death of god and celebrated his demise. Pious pillars supporting the church shook and crumbled under the strains of scientism and technology. The last vestiges of fidelity blasted away by the twin tempests of political ideology and the capitalist paradigm. Man placed his faith in the institutions of his own making. As his puny and atrophied social structures faltered, famine, war, and mutated viral strains claimed the lives of hundreds of millions. Groping in ceaseless deprivation, man imagined himself alone. With no memory of his divine self, he sank deeper into the darkness. There he encountered an inscrutable presence. From the bowels of hell, it came bearing the gift of false deliverance. Many were deceived. His followers pledged their loyalty by waging an unholy war against the human race, placing the world in great peril. Greed, the blind will to power, and the drive to enslave all of humanity became the unholy mission of these arcane lords. For centuries, the dark lords worked to raise the Anti-Christ to a place of worship. Toward that end, the truth became a lie and a lie became the truth. As long as their dark influence prevailed, humanity was cursed to dwell in a state of barbarism and war. With each planetary crisis, the powers of the Dark Prince grew, while hope faded. In the days that followed, this demonic order plunged the world in to a New Dark Age. It was an age that fostered the spread of ignorance, the perpetuation of fear and dissemination of misinformation. The world witnessed a period of unprecedented economic growth followed by a rapid decline of the world's financial system. Behind the scenes, sinister forces worked to bring about the proliferation of nuclear weapons. The world stood helpless as rouge nations and terrorist organizations tightened the hangman's noose around the necks of a world sentenced to death and awaiting execution. The floodgates of reason were flung open and waves of ignorance and loathing flooded the lush fields of tolerance and reason. The beast first reared its evil head in the Middle East. Its influence then spread to the West and to the Far East. NATO was dissolved. Economic competition and the resentment of American's hegemonic rule over world affairs dampened her relations with Western Europe. Dozens of former allies routinely lined up in opposition to American foreign policy. America found herself alone, with the exception of Great Britain and a few Eastern European countries. Facing an increasing hostile Asia, where China and North Korea were mounting threats, America was forced to withdraw from the region. Shifting geopolitical conditions hampered the war against global terrorism. The cost of which was astronomical. The world was had never been a more dangerous place for America. But, even these daunting challenges were only the tip of the iceberg. Domestically, the great nation was showing cracks in its political and economic base. Whispers of discontent swelled into organized rebellion. In a climate of crisis and fear, mid-western states challenged the federal government's authority and power under Article I of the Constitution. Acts of terrorism by domestic and international groups, unprecedented crime rates, and a crumbling economy compelled the government to revoke the Bill of Rights in favor of marshal law. Faced with an insurmountable task, the beleaguered President called upon the Pentagon to guarantee internal security. When the central government's police efforts failed to calm the escalating turbulence, there was a disintegration of confidence in the new government's capacity to stabilize the besieged nation. As an undercurrent of panic spread across American, a splintered electorate demanded sweeping political changes. Only chaos ensued. The nation began to come apart at the seams. Seeds of secession sprouted up in the Mid-West and spread like a brush fire through prairie town and big city alike. Washington's powers continued to erode until it could no longer preside over the Union. Events began to spiral out of control. Anarchy followed in the wake of widespread rioting. Fundamentalists fanned the flames of racial and ethnic paranoia helping to plunge the land into a Second Civil War. The nation fractured into separate spheres of influence. As the central government's power continued to decline, so did the state of things. Hordes of lawless warlords, opportunistic mercenaries, and Techno-corporations rushed in to fill the vacuum of power. A murderous and brutal autocratic government would rise up laying siege to Washington, taking the land of the free by storm. From it seat of power in Oklahoma City, New America would supplant old America. For the survivors, "…and liberty and justice for all" seemed a distant memory. Alone against the onslaught, a federation of divinely inspired Americans, led by a supreme sage, unlocked the gateway to a realm of infinite possibilities. The course of world history would be forever changed by the battle that was to follow, a battle pitting the forces of good against the forces of evil, with American the battleground.

God, Man, and Creation

I've passed beyond this world and experienced worlds greater in number than all the grains of sands on all the beaches of the world. I have bathed in the truth of the living waters, found eternity in the moment and seen the universe in a grain of sand. All imaged boundaries faded in to a forgotten dream. Through the eternal spirit, the totality of creation has been revealed to me.
I was fed Nirvana from the open hand of the Great Buddha, awoke to the dawn of the Christ Spirit, bowed in prayer with the Prophet Mohammed at an eternal sunset, meditated in the garden of creation beside Lao Tzu, and was guided to the Great Hall of Souls by Upanishads, Keeper of the collective consciousness of man. Freed of all earthly chains, my soul transcended.
Beyond the veil of the material world laid worlds of freely interpenetrating spectrums of light energy emanating from a vibratory essence. Starting with a creative pulsation of divine volition, man begins his journey into being. Down through the spiritual, astral and material planes he descends. This emanation of light grows dimmer and dimmer as the soul descends to the low levels of consciousness. Finally, the eternal substance becomes manifest in earthly clothing.
Man's manifestation on the material plain is part of the divine process of creation, where life acts upon life to eternally perpetuate itself. All becoming all. Essence preceding existence. The One becomes the many without losing any part of itself. The Whole is present in all of it parts as the part is present in the Whole. As the light of creation resides in man, man possesses a gushing fountain of unconditional potentiality.
Sadly, in the lower conscious state, he remembers not his wholeness, his oneness with all of creation. Instead, he remained trapped by the very tools he uses to view the world. His logical mind aided by the sensory organs spits his reality, casting him afloat in the waters of life.
Most souls are held under the siren's lure of the five senses. The enlightened; however, see with mystical eyes, hear with ears born of the immaterial, and feel textures of countless variety. Their awareness encompasses the astral side of the five senses as well as a sixth and seventh senses. The sixth-sense exist as intuition and the seventh as thought transfer. Everyone has these synchronistic experiences at one time or another, but lacking knowledge of the cosmic laws of the universe, they brush them off as coincidences or unexplainable phenomena. Some heightened souls, while on earth, cultivate their spiritual nature, surpassing the use of the five senses to achieve extraordinary vision. These souls may either use their powers for the good of the planet or for selfish enterprises thus inviting calamity and lost of power. By giving in to their bestial nature, these few retard humanity's spiritual restoration.
They act as false prophets (betraying God and man) steering humanity away form there light of truth. Their world is flooded with negative thought-forms that vibrate at base frequencies. Humanity is then held in the grips of perpetual slumber. He is unable to awaken to the eternal sunrise and his rightful place in the universal order.
These thought-forms fasten man's linear perception of the past, present, and future. His time machine provides a spatial and temporal corridor that plays host to his object reality. At the center of his imaginary universe is his created self, his ego self.
In the ego dominated world, man's lower nature rules supreme. Believing that he exist as apart of yet apart from all of creation, man ignores his immortality and wages all out war against what he perceives to be a treat to his continued existence.
The ego nature is exclusively concerned with the finite world, a world of objectives. The ego's council is false. It whispers words of deception in man's ear as he sleeps. He assures man that the dream is reality and reality is but a dream. The words describe a world of boundaries and separation. From the initial separation of man and divinity, a myriad of boundaries emerge to imprison him. The human personality then governed by categories of limitation beginning with the supposed separation of matter and energy.
Earth's scientist are beginning discover what mystic sages have known for eons. Matter and energy are two different sides of the same coin. At the very essence, this dichotomy (as with all others) is the Great Void discernible in the physical robes of duality and multiplicity.
Here lays the ontological keys to the celestial doors of divinity. Unlocking the door, an ever existing and ever reaching sea of pure energy that is existence is revealed. Man's oneness with all of existence is discovered. With this illumination comes the power to cure the sick, transformed smoke to stone, or transcend the time-space continuum. All things are possible in this elevated state of consciousness.
Others cannot let go. They are held in the hellish grips of the demons of their own mind.
Not even the fellowship of the Doves can reach them in these dark, putrid dungeons of the ego-mind's creation. They may be reincarnated but, only to begin again below evolutionary stage of a man. That soul will have to circumambulate up through the sublevels of the material plane.
Life acting upon life creating a cosmic helix spiral. The helix is composed of a cosmic substance emulating from the living intelligence in the hologramic medium of sub-atomic particles. This atomic singularity is the source of all matter, including the body of man, and is the buttress of objective reality.
Souls that have suffered great guilt or pain on earth may relive those experiences, and thus reviving those emotions. Sorrow and self-loathing may descend upon those who have taken a life or inflected great pain on others. He or she has to learn to let go of the terrible wrongs. Before they can ascend to higher levels within the astral plane, they have to forgive others as well as themselves.
These thoughts weigh heavy on the soul, and cause it to resonate at a lower frequency. Reincarnation may be the only way for them to work through and overcome the thoughts of pain or suffering that impedes their progression. Some may live out several lives before accomplishing them.While the astral plane is mutable and altered by the power of thought, the soul cannot be fooled like the mind, which may be tricked into mistaking a lie for the truth. One by one the illusions of sins or mistakes and the self-condemnation that surely follows, must be brought into light of truth. There they are banished forever from all planes of existence. On the higher sub-levels of the astral plane, thoughts flow in melodious accord with the rhythm of creation. The eyes of the soul enjoy misty waterfalls, dazzling sunrises, placid gardens and wondrous mountains vistas.
To speed their journey to the phases beyond the astral plane, some higher souls serve other souls who are confined by their thoughts to grosser levels. When the angels of light drives out the last vestiges of darkness, these souls transcend into the casual plane of consciousness, pure consciousness.
Awaiting them on the casual plane is still subtler energy levels where even thoughts and memories are no longer needed. The soul may choose to exist as an eternal thought, an eternal scintillation of light from the ethereal Sun, or enter the dreamless sleep of Avatar. By letting go of ideation, the soul is freed from the last feelings of insufficiency, limitation, and finitude. Letting go of the memories of mortality, the soul is free to exist as a divine thought even after dissolution.
Oceans of light envelope the soul. All desires and cravings are gone, because the objects of all one's fears are dissolved. The illusions that accompany finite thoughts are shattered and dispelled from the boundless province of the soul. Beyond the initial stages of the casual plain are the seven eternities. Mother, beyond this man cannot conceptualize or visualize. It is beyond his imagination or speculation. All that I can tell you is the living presence assures that everyone achieves happiness in the end and all creation works to that end."

American Messiah

American Messiah



BY

J. A. Hall




Part I

Chapter One




Queens, New York
May 14, 2012



When Valora stepped from the plane’s tubular loading bridge, she eyed a unit of commandos up at the far end. Passengers up ahead were covering their mouths in horror. The soldiers cautioned her not to look, but it only fueled her curiosity. As she passed, she saw a sprawled body draped under a white sheet, a circle of blood widening.

Rapidly she made her way through terminal B, pass the passenger checkpoint and into the nearly impenetrable crowd. Her roller bag acted like an anchor dragging across the ocean floor, slowing her course through the sea of bodies. Bracing herself, she moved through the human mass like a tiny icebreaker. At 5’5” she couldn’t see beyond the manacle of compressed frames. If she was going to find a way through, she needed to climb to higher ground.

Valora had flowered into a beautiful young woman. Her eyes were the color of a lazy autumn afternoon, her skin caramel brown, and her smile pure sunshine. Her demure facade contrasted sharply with her fiery spirit and passion for life.

She was nineteen, but appeared even younger. Her petite but sturdy frame was clad in faded jeans, a white tee shirt, and a sage-colored Air Force jacket. A white gold necklace adorned her slender neck.

She tried to screen out the disconcerting chatter and the cries of unfed babies. The loud voice overhead made no mention of shuttle buses or transports into the city. Valora slipped her cell from her pocket, flipped the lid back with a quick motion of her hand, checked for a signal, and then shoved it back into her jean pocket.

Following the crowd, she made her way to the main entrance. As she stepped through the glass doors of the central terminal building, she was greeted by a blast of hot air. From the frying pan into the fire, she thought.

Eyeing the chaos out front, her prospects for getting into the city vanished like the cool air she’d left behind. Seeing a red cap (baggage handler) standing with his back to her, she tapped his shoulder. He didn’t respond. The man’s eyes were fixed on something far off. She gently clutched his arm. He spun sharply, his eyes piercing and his eyebrows kneaded in irritation.

“What is it?” snapped the hulking figure.

“I just flew in from the West Coast and I’m trying to reach Manhattan.”

“Consider it a blessing that you made it this far. These poor souls aren’t going anywhere. The airport is about to announce a complete shutdown, then all hell is gonna break loose.” Then he abruptly turned away. A second tap caused the large man’s eyes to roll.

“Maybe I haven’t made myself clear,” Valora stated. “I have to get into the city! Now, the sooner you tell me how, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

“Like everyone else, the best way that you can, young lady.” The man chuckled, his belly giggling like Jell-O during an earthquake. Valora’s face remained calm, yet resolute.

“Okay, here’s the picture,” the man said, his tone grim. “The shuttle bus was suspended days ago when the rental companies closed their doors and the public transit is a no-go. Unless you got a car, there are only two ways in or out of the city. You can walk, but I wouldn’t advise it, things being the way they are, or you can grab a taxi.

“However, let me warn you ahead of time. The going rate for a taxi into the city is anywhere between five hundred and one thousand dollars, depending on where it is in the city you’re headed. But if you’re short on cash, some of them will take jewelry or other valuables. How are your fixed for money?” Valora left the question unanswered.

“Thanks for the help,” she said. Then she pivoted and weaved her way through the swarm of would-be travelers occupying the drop-off zone. One of the paramedics directed her to the far end of a long, curled loading strip. Knapsack strapped on and toting her suitcase, Valora arrived at a stream of yellow cabs.

“How much do you charge to the city?” she asked the first cabbie that she came to.

“Eight-hundred dollars,” he replied in a Middle Eastern accent, without bothering to look up from his overseas newspaper. Valora pressed on. The next driver was out of the cab before she could say a word, snatching up her suitcase and flinging it into the trunk.

“How much?” Valora asked.

“Not much, only six-hundred dollars. The others are thieves. Mohammed’s rate, on the other hand, is most fair.”

“I’ve got about three hundred, which is more than fair,” Valora stated, standing firm. The cabby grumbled something in his native perhaps Pakistani or East Indian tongue. His face registered mild disappointment as he started to retrieve the suitcase. She delayed him by gently seizing his lower arm.

“I don’t have that kind of cash on me. But, I have a ring that’s very valuable.” The driver quickly spun around. He plucked the ring from her outstretched palm. Like a master jeweler, holding the ring up, he appraised the gold band, inlaid with tiny rubies and diamonds. After chomping down on the ring, a gluttonous smile flashed on his sand-colored face.

An hour passed before the driver managed to pack his cab with human cargo. The cab’s back seat held three passengers, including Valora, with a fourth occupying the seat alongside Mohammed. Satisfied with his haul, he instructed his passengers to buckle up as he lurched into traffic, following a stream of vehicles exiting LaGuardia.


Chapter Two


The eastbound lane of the Grand Central Parkway wasn’t half as bad as the traffic headed in the opposite direction. The exodus brought to mind rats abandoning a sinking ship. “Everyone’s fleeing the Big Apple,” the driver said letting loose a high-pitched and nasal snicker that grated on her, like fingernails down a blackboard. Valora’s only consolation was the thought that he’d get his in the end. Greasy, foul mouthed, avaricious cads like him always do, she thought.

Valora tried to ignore the cabby’s smugness by gazing out the window at the traffic on the Long Island Expressway, which was thick as flies on a discarded candy apple in summer. They dredged along bumper to bumper for the better part of two hours. No one spoke until Mohammed broke the silence.

“You see this is why Mohammed charges his rates. First, I must sit in this blasted traffic for hours, and then I must scrounge up petrol before fighting my way back to the airport.”

Valora couldn’t let it go. “Gee, Mohammed, I wonder if the Taxi and Limousine Commission would be interested in learning of your troubles. Maybe I’ll give them a call.”

“Be my guest. Oh, I forgot. You haven’t heard the city is shutdown, owner gone mad.” The annoying snicker returned with all the appeal of a root canal. “But, thanks for the offer,” he replied. Up ahead, the Midtown Tunnel entrance was crawling with security. The National Guard and the NYPD were out in force. A cold chill pierced Valora.

Points of entry into the city were being closely screened since the first truck bombs demolished parts of lower Wall Street, just shy of the Stock Exchange, and another exploded in front of the Empire State Building during morning rush hour.

A soldier, protected by a bulky black suit of body armor, usually reserved for the bomb squad, cautiously approached the cab. Valora smiled as the soldier reminded her of Timothy, the turtle, a gift from her father when she was five. The pimples on the soldier’s face and the peach fuzz carpeting his broad chin, avowed his tender age.

“What’s your business in the city?” the soldier asked coldly. Valora noticed for the first time a second soldier approaching from the passenger side, his lethal Heckler and Koch HK MP-5 submachine gun slung around his neck. The cabby stated his business coolly, thumbing back to his well-dressed fares.

“Let me see your driver’s license,” demanded the soldier. Mohammed had anticipated the soldier’s request, and quickly retrieved the document from the visor. After scanning the passengers, the soldier tossed the cabby his license, and waved them on.

The tunnel was their longest stretch of uninterrupted driving since leaving the airport. The exhaust fumes forced Valora to shorten her breaths. The dimness momentarily blinded her as the blaring car engines battered her eardrums. As they sped along, the speckle of light ahead gradually broadened into the greatest city in the world. At the sight of the city, she felt a surge of emotion. It was just as she remembered it, except it seemed less hectic.

With rush hour approaching, 34th Street should have been bustling. The thinned herds of tight-faced New Yorkers continued to display the total indifference for which they were famous. However, there was a hint of despair in their eyes that had not been there when she left for the University of California at Berkley.

The cabby announced their arrival. “Alright, we’re here, everybody out.” Before Valora could shake the stiffness from her legs, the driver had unloaded the luggage from the trunk and dumped it onto the sidewalk. Without giving his fares a second look, the little man jumped back behind the wheel and threw the cab in gear.

“Wait a minute,” Valora cried out, appearing beside him. “I need to get uptown.”

Not bothering to roll down the window. “No way,” the cabby balked, wagging his finger in the air like it was a wiper blade. “That was not part of the bargain. I distinctly said midtown Manhattan. You agreed. A deal is a deal. Besides, I don’t go anywhere near those people. They are…” He stopped ranting, appearing to have remembered to whom he was speaking.

“Hold on, I think I know your price.” Valora slid an antique Egyptian cartouche from around her neck and dangled it in front of the greedy little man.

The cabby lowered the window, snatched the necklace, and looked it over. “Okay, but I’m only going as far as 110th Street. I won’t venture into that…place no matter the price. I have heard the stories.” As Central Park was closed to traffic, the cabby took Central Park West. In less than a half hour, he pulled the cab over and came to a screeching halt.

This time he didn’t bother to leave the cab as Valora had thrown her bags beside her in the back. Valora watched as the driver hung a sharp U-turn, leaving a black arc in the center of the street and a trail of white smoke as he sped off.

Out on the streets, there wasn’t a cab in sight so she started east, on foot, to Seventh Avenue. From there, it was about twenty blocks to the Strivers Row section of Harlem. Harlem, too, was deserted, but she hardly noticed. Her thoughts were elsewhere. The closer she got to home, the more she reflected on the last conversation she’d had with her mother. Her mother’s voice had sounded hurried and strained. The closer she got to home, the more she sensed that something was dreadfully wrong.
Rushing up the steps and into the lavish brownstone, Valora found her mother bent over the sink. Running water threatened to spill over on to the floor, as Olivia stood listless, staring into space. Not even her daughter’s sudden appearance could arouse her from her dazed state.
Valora, taken aback by her mother’s condition, let drop her pack and rushed to her mother’s side. Finding her alone and under such circumstances could only mean one thing, Valora reasoned. Something had happened to her father. Throwing her arms around her mother, Valora whispered into her ear.
”Mother, what’s wrong? Where’s daddy?”
Olivia wailed mournfully and slumped toward the floor, appearing to give way to the heavy torment of her worst fears. Valora strained to get her to the kitchen table. With no better solution, Valora searched the cupboard for some of her mother’s special sassafras blend. After serving her mother a cup of herbal tea, Valora tried to draw from her mother the circumstances surrounding her father’s disappearance.
“If there was nothing wrong, he would have called. Well, wouldn’t he?” Olivia asked, cup trembling in her hands. “I’ve talked to everyone that we know, but no one has seen or heard from him. His office has been calling. They haven’t seen him in days.
“He had been spending a lot of time at the Schomburg library, even more than usual. But, when I finally got through to the main desk, they said their doors have been closed for weeks. He has never lied to me, not ever,” she proclaimed proudly, yet with a sound of finality. “Something awful must have happened.” She continued to voice her apprehension as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Valora, tissue in hand, slid close enough to wipe away her mother’s tears.
Valora could not help but notice that her mother looked older than she remembered. The dark circles around her eyes, telltale signs that she had not slept in days.
“Daddy will be coming through the door any minute now, you’ll see,” Valora asserted, flashing a cardboard smile. Olivia continued to stare at her own fidgeting hands; muttering to herself.
Later that night, after getting her mother to close her eyes, Valora finally flopped down on the oversized sofa in the living room. There she sifted through the specifics of her father’s vanishing. She tossed and tumbled the loose details of her father’s sudden departure around in her head for hours. Still, nothing.
Valora craved a tall Chardonnay, but decided on a cup of tea instead. After a visit to the kitchen, Valora set off for the den in search of a trail that might lead her out of the thick, tangled jungle of dead ends. Then, suddenly, it came to her. If he’d left a clue in the house, it would be on his PC.
As she skimmed his document folders, one file entitled, “Letter to Valora” stood out from the others. That had to be it. Opening the file, her father’s heartfelt words spilled out across the electronic pages.

My Dearest Valora:

If you are reading this letter, it means that my worst suspicions and fears have been realized.
From this day forth, you must face the fact that the nation, as it once was, has vanished like a mirage. Keep in mind in the coming months that everything that I did, I did for the two of you.
I tried to raise you to be a realist, but you were always a dreamer. Good thing too. The world will need dreamers and idealists more than ever. The world that you envisioned is now within your grasp. You must take the remnants of the old world and help to construct a better world on top of the ruins of the old.
From this moment on you must learn to trust your instincts. When the rioting starts, that will be the sign. Go into my closet and remove the back floorboards beneath the carpet. There you will find a safe. The combination is the same as your locker combination when you were a senior at Thurgood Marshall High. Inside you will find two keys. One will open the front door of the Schomburg. Once inside, head downstairs to the basement storage area. The second key will unlock your new home.
I want to believe that I have thought of everything. But I know that I haven’t.
I wanted so much to be with the both of you, but I am called to another fate. If we are to survive what I think is coming, we are going to have to organize and start preparing for the aftermath.
Take care of your mother for me. She is not as strong as you may think and she is going to need you now more than ever. Tell her nothing of this letter because it would only cause her more worry. It is better for her to think me dead.
You will always and forever live in my heart. Not a day will go by when I won’t curse providence for blessing me with the both of you and then taking you away. It seems the cruelest of all hoaxes.
Yet, all my hopes and dreams will spring forth from the winter of my discontent and find rebirth in the warmth of the June sun. Fear not, my daughter, God is with you always, and He will be all the strength that you will ever need.

Until we are together again,

Daddy

It seemed that her father saw the dark, storm clouds gathering far off on the future horizon long before most. He had been downloading articles from the electronic newspapers; as well as, military and survivalist data from a large cross section of sites. But, that wasn’t anything new. He researched countless topics. He had a passion for learning.
In addition, he was an avid chess player, honing his skill in the city’s parks. Through the game of chess, he taught Valora the fundamentals of military science and the art of war. He taught her to plan her moves far in advance and to use each piece in combination with the strengths and weaknesses of the other pieces.
Her father was fond of saying that the seeds of both victory and defeat lay in every move. Even a retreating move should compel one toward victory and not simply delay one’s defeat.
As she grew older, the two of them poured over the campaigns of Napoleon, Lee and Hannibal and discussed the tactical philosophies of Shaka, Sun Tzu, and Machiavelli, the way most families discussed box scores.
Hours passed like minutes as she sat, allowing her father’s grave message to burrow in. Valora could feel her father’s pain in his every word. She wondered what could coax him away from his family.
Having foreknowledge of the coming fate of the world must have forced him to die a thousand deaths, she thought.
Valora took another sip of tea, sat the mug down, and curled up in the recliner. Fully relaxed, she stared at the family photos adorned throughout the den. The resonating warmth of the tea mixed with memories of happier times brought a smile to her face.
As her father had forewarned, the coming days saw the start of widespread bank failures sending out shock waves across the globe from ground zero, New York City.
Night after night she sat watching her country coming apart on MSNBC. Meanwhile, Olivia slipped deeper into darkness. Valor knew that whatever she was going to do, she had to do it soon. Their window of opportunity was quickly closing. She was certain that she could get them to the underground refuge, but what then? With no better plan, she decided to go for it.

Chapter Three

The next morning Valora packed judiciously, deciding on two lightweight duffle bags. In the darkness before the dawn, she dressed her mother and waited inside the foyer. At the first sign of a blue-gray sky through the smoked glass doors, she collected herself, took Olivia by the hand and started out.
She feared the night and all of its veiled mysteries. But, the new day offered hope.
Pausing at the top of the steps, Valora glanced up and down the street. With the coast clear, they hurried down the stairs. Walking so close together, in the dimness, the two appeared as one.
Two black youths in their late teens called out to them, mistaking them for one of their own. Valora shot them a hand sign, one she had often seen them use. Ironically enough, it was a peace sign flipped upside down. While they didn’t appear totally convinced, they made no move to intercept them. Without looking back, Valora hasten to the end of the street and headed south for another three blocks.
Even before they reached the Schomburg, she could tell that the building had been ransacked. Most likely by local gangs, she reasoned. The security gates had been ripped from their tracks. The glass doors and huge plate glass windows were shattered, beads of glass littering the sidewalk. Once inside, she paused, allowing them to rest.
Valora scanned the jumbled room for hidden dangers, querying the silence for the slightest sound. Her pulsed quickened and a single bead of sweat trickled down the side of her face as they inched forward, arm in arm, into the spacious gallery. Except for a partly damaged, overturned lectern, the room was bare.
The wires from track light fixtures reached down from the ceiling like scrawny fingers threatening to snatch them up. Moving more cautiously now, with her mother in tow, Valora crossed through the gallery into the reading room. She had accompanied her father to the museum/library many times. As a result, Valora found her way to the stairs leading down to the storeroom with ease.

Grabbing a flashlight from her bag, she stood at the top of the stairs peering down. There, at the foot of the steps stood a steel door. Following the weak beam, they crept down. Valora began rummaging through her pockets for the key.
The sound of crushed glass gave her pause. Muttered voices seeped down from upstairs. Valora knew, instinctively, that it was the street thugs. As her search for the key grew frantic, she was forced to sit the flashlight down. They had recognized their missed opportunity and were out to atone for their blunder, she thought. Maybe she left it behind. Her heart skipped as death tiptoed closer.
Olivia, propped against the wall, was unaware of the menace lurking above. The collapsing shadows on the wall were like sinking sands in an hourglass. Body trembling, Valora felt the key wedged in the corner of her jean pocket. Retrieving it, she promptly snapped up the flashlight.
But when she did, the beam vanished. She shook the flashlight several times, but it was no use. The batteries were dead. She could have kicked herself for not checking them. With time running out, she used her mind’s eye to locate the keyhole. Carefully, she plunged the key into the lock and turned. Falling tumblers and revolving cogs sounded like sweet music. With a vigorous tug on the handle, the door flew open.
With the sound of the footstep growing louder, she hauled her mother to her feet. Seconds ahead of their pursuers, Valora jerked her mother forward into the pitch black and slammed the door shut.