The Other Side

© 2018 Dan Pagano. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  12/11/2019

ISBN: 978-1-5462-7291-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-7290-8 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1 The Other Side

Chapter 2 Solomon

Chapter 3 Inferno

Chapter 4 Into the Black

Chapter 5 Father CRC

Chapter 6 The St. Laurents

Chapter 7 Nemetona

Chapter 8 The Family Adams

Chapter 9 Mother Eve

Chapter 10 Into the Nameless Mist

Chapter 11 Jericho and the Reign of Terror

Chapter 12 The war in Heaven

Chapter 13 The Archangel

Chapter 14 The Saint Society

Chapter 15 The Gate of the Dead

Chapter 16 Afterlife

Chapter 17 The Outcast

Chapter 18 The heretic and the pilgrim

Chapter 19

About The Author

CHAPTER 1

THE OTHER SIDE

M y name is Jude St. Simon and I can see ghosts. Until recently, precisely 2 o clock this morning, I had never seen a ghost before, and even now I doubt my senses as this wailing apparition beckons to me from the school corridor. I was awakened by a strange noise just prior to the ghost’s appearance, so I lit my lamp and carried it with me through the unlit passages and up the stairs to the floor above. I tramp my way up slowly toward the cupola which rests high atop our school building, taking caution with every step as I survey my surroundings apprehensively.

The ghost is a female spirit, clad still in the attire in which she was buried, namely a plain white funeral shroud commonly used by the bourgeousie. She is very sad, weeping and wailing almost uncontrollably, so I call out to her. Surprised to learn that I can see her in her ethereal form she begins to recount her tale in a voice as delicate and gentle as soft summer rain.

In appearance the spirit is pale white, the same shade as her soft burial gown. Her eyes stare and skirt about wildly, as if she did not truly belong in the world of her birth anymore, an unwanted and unwelcome intruder. The irises of her eyes have lost their color, for their native form has lost her spark of life. She is a terrible and terrifying thing to see there in the abandoned hallway just below the cupola, standing alone wringing her hands and tearing at her wispy hair.

Please she says, through the tears in her eyes. "My name is Esther Moreau and I am only recently deceased. The threads binding me to this world are frayed and strained, so I have little time to talk, so please just listen without interrupting me!

I am here on behalf of my husband Herb, who was widowed by my passing. He has stopped eating, stopped drinking and stopped living these past few weeks. I cannot move on you see until I know he is alright, for I cannot bear to see him in such pain! Will you take him a message for me? Tell him that Esther is still right here and that she loves him still more than words can say. The veil which separates our worlds is so thin, like a sheet of glass barely posing any obstacle at all. But this side is of mist, and of fog, and I am finding it harder and harder to stay. Can you tell him please. Oh you must! Tell him to let me go! I am of the dead and he of the living and it is not good for a living man to linger so in shadow, where despair has him in its deadly grasp! Will you tell him?

She vanishes as strangely as she had appeared only moments ago and I cry out to the darkness in my confusion and my disbelief. How do I find your husband? Come back spirit! Paris is a vast and dangerous city and I am a boy of 16! What can I do to help you? But the darkness does not answer.

Weary and shaken, I make my way downstairs into the Great Library. After my ordeal I cannot even pretend to sleep so instead I will study. ‘There must be some reason for this experience I had!’ I tell myself. ‘Perhaps there is a precedent, or some clue in our family history?’ At last after combing through volumes of family histories I came upon it, The Templar Family St. Martin, hiding at the far end of the bottom most shelf. I flipped through the timeworn pages quickly as I read feverishly searching for any mention of witches or spiritualists among my ancestors.

The volume traced our lineage all the way back to ancient Judea and a man known only as Simon the Sorceror, who was a powerful conjuror and adversary of the apostle Paul. The line after him grew undistinguished, one landholding noble after the next with accounts of their holdings, their spouses and their forgettable offspring. Then in 1187 one Milton St. Simon was among the crusaders who besieged Jerusalem, driving out the infidel turk Saladin. He was a Grand Master. From this ancestor for generations our family line was filled with Templar officers and commanders, all the way up to my grandfather Sebastien, who was a Preceptor.

My own parents, Virgil and Irena St. Simon, packed me off to boarding school at the age of 10, for that is what upper class families in Europe do with their spawn. I was 12 when the opportunity presented itself to transfer to the esteemed Universite’ of the Rose Cross here in Paris, so my parents pulled a few strings and got me in.

I sit for a while contemplating all this new information, but it just doesn’t jive with the supernatural experience I just had. Lost in confusion I fall asleep, my nose in the bend of an old book.

I am awakened some hours later by the gentle but insistent prodding of my roommate Charm. Her voice is as soft and gentle as a summer’s day, in fact I don’t imagine she ever yells about anything for any reason. Jude! Wake up! You overslept and its time to go to class!

Charmain Armagnac is a lovely, petite girl of 13 with silky soft brown hair which hangs down to the middle of her delicate back. Her pretty face is a wonderful thing to wake up to, but the mention of being late for class sets my pulse racing. I am on thin ice with my professor Brother Lully already. For some reason he doesn’t like me, whether it is my insistent questions or my apparent lack of faith I could not say, but he hates me without a doubt. And now I am late.

I follow Charm in a wild dash out of the library and into the Hall of Commons, which leads past the faculty offices toward the classrooms, where our intolerant teacher is waiting. We crash through the doors as the bell rings and Brother Lullly looks drearily up from his place in front of his mahogany desk. He is a stately, unforgiving figure and an utterly humorless man. He is probably in his forties or fifties and yet there is an oldness to him, a sinister sort of icy coldness. His skin is creased and wrinkled like aged leather left to bake in the sun and his iron jaw never flinches, even when he speaks his mouth gives the appearance of never moving.

Mister St. Simon, thank you for joining us! he snaps blithely. With your current lack of progress in this course the casual observer might think you were slacking, or worse that you were indifferent. Now kindly find your way to your seats and cease disrupting my class! He snaps his words like a veiled threat, which they most certainly are.

The title of this class is Spiritual Awareness and it pertains to the development of spiritual gifts, which according to Brother Lully every disciple of the Order of the Rose Cross possesses. And until late last night I would have told any complete stranger that I had none of these gifts, which to me are no more than fanciful ideas, the stuff of fairytales. But then I have never taken to the faith of my parents, which fit no better on me than an oversized suit. For me God is an idea, and an overused, misunderstood one at that. If there is a divine power in charge of this world then how come it is so messed up?

The remainder of class passes as uneventfully as it always does, with Brother Lully shooting icy daggers at me in the form of passing glances. (Like I said, the man doesn’t like me.) By this time it is lunch hour and I follow my friends into the cafeteria. They are eager to learn why I was late to class and it shows in their expressions and interaction with me. Under the glare of their penetrating stares I satisfy myself with a small bowl of porridge, a soup and some pudding. I am still upset and not very hungry.

I take my seat at our customary table at the far end of the cafeteria near the window. The twins Abner and Abel Adams sit across from me and Charm sits next to me, just the way we always do. Abel chimes up first. He is a bright and curious boy of 15 with sandy brown hair and a chiseled physique. Abel always has a smile on his face and a positive demeanor. There is an air of easiness about him and I feel as if I could tell him anything. So Jude, what’s the story? You were late to class and you look like you’ve seen a ghost.

I answer him without looking up from my porridge. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Try me he replies without blinking. I look up to see his bright blue eyes staring a hole straight through me so I lean in close to whisper in his ear. Last night I saw a ghost. It was terrifying and at first I didn’t believe my eyes, but it was real. It shook me up so much that I’ve barely slept.

Charm chuckles in disbelief and Abel’s brother Abner looks away in disgust, but to my amazement Abel seems excited by the prospect of a ghost. Really? he asks inquisitively. Did the ghost say or do anything to you? What did it look like?

You can’t be serious, Abel Abner snaps sternly. There is no such thing as ghosts. Whatever he thinks he saw was a trick of his mind, or a dream even. You are such a child sometimes, honestly!

Abner Adams is nothing like his twin brother. I can best describe him as a black storm cloud, or perhaps a living block of ice. In every aspect he is military, never questioning authority and always adhering to rules as if they were edicts from God himself. He is humorless, strict and inflexible, like someone’s father. He harumphs aloud and says no more, fixing his penetrating stare on his eggs.

Charm sits quietly with wide eyes, careful as ever not to draw too much attention to herself. She is a girl undercover at an all boys military school so she is always having to tie her hair up on top of her head, tuck it under hats and generally dress and act as boyish as she possibly can. But at the moment she is busting, if somewhat doubtful concerning the details of my story.

I am suddenly aware that I have become the center of attention, not only at our table but across the crowded lunchroom. So I lean in stealthily and whisper to the others. Not here. There are too many ears in here. Let’s go out onto the quad where we can talk in privacy.

But I haven’t finished eating yet Charm complains. But she is quick to drop her fork and abandon her food to follow us out. The girl cannot resist a juicy piece of gossip. And since day after day is drilling and classes followed by more drilling, excercise then study the very idea of ghosts is a much needed break to the monotony.

Charm is the last one out the door and as she grabs the handle she talks over her shoulder to Krishna, who is sitting alone with his back against the outcropping of wall by the door. He is only a boy of 10 and an odd one at that, but he is by far the best and brightest student in our school. There is a rumor going around that Krishna has never actually gotten a wrong answer on a test or an assignment. And while he keeps to himself he is revered like some kind of god by the other students, most of whom believe the talk about him.

Krishna has shoulder length curly black hair and, of all things, blue skin! Some of our classmates think he is an alien or something or perhaps even the Krishna of Hindu legend, but I just think he is both smart and incredibly difficult.

Krishna! she calls out flippantly to him. What do you think? Are there such things as ghosts? Krishna pauses eating his salad and answers her without looking up, his tone as solemn as a mortician. There are many things in this world which defy human understanding and scientific explanation. Satisfied with his answer he returns to his meager feast. Krishna never eats meat and he takes the small portions of a third grader. I look back to see Charm screw up her face before following us out. She knows too well she will get no satisfaction out of the sombre Krishna.

Once outside we make our way down the length of the quad, which spans the size of a football pitch, and down the embankment at the far end where the custodial staff goes in and out of the maintenance garage with their equipment. Here we four can be alone, so with the others gathered round I continue to recount my story. As I finish it is no surprise that it is Abel who speaks up.

How does she expect you to find her husband? Paris is a big city and a dangerous place for a boy. Surely she doesn’t think you can do what she’s asking of you? And say you do find him, what then?

She was very desperate and somehow I don’t think she can rest unless I help her husband. I’m not really sure how it works since this is the first time I ever talked with a ghost.

Maybe she will come back. Now Charm joins in, as eager as ever, and completely willing to lay aside her disbelief apparently.

We three sit in silence while Abner pours over his manual. Minutes stretch into hours and before we know it excercise period is upon us. During the session Abel and Charm keep trying to talk to me about the ghost but I am far too cautious to discuss it in public. For now it must remain our secret I tell them. We could get expelled for something like this.

The remainder of the day passes uneventfully and Charm and I make our way back to our dorm. She has some snacks from home so we eat in, though I am still not very hungry. My strange encounter has left me shaken and doubting my own sanity. I nibble at my crepe while trying in vain to concentrate on my studies, when suddenly a book is thrown from a shelf by an invisible force. Both of us jump out of our skins, causing me to drop the book on my lap and Charm to spring to her feet in sheer terror. What was that, Jude? She asks with a worried look on her face, her eyes wide with fright.

I look up at her, forcing myself to regain my composure. Don’t worry so, Charm. I’m sure it was nothing, the book just fell on its own. I am beginning to think I was only dreaming. Maybe Abner is right.

Don’t say that! she begins, walking over to me, plopping down by my side on the couch. I believe you, Jude. I really do. And books don’t just crash to the floor on their own. It must be her! That’s it, it has to be! Esther is trying to reach you and she is so desperate to get your attention that she is resorting to tricks! What do you think she will try next? Charm stands up on a chair near the far end of the couch and cups her hands to her mouth, calling out into the air of the empty room. Speak to us, Esther! We are waiting for you to contact us! But there is no answer.

I have made up my mind by now that whatever I had experienced was just a dream, so I disregard the strange occurence and return to my book. Within minutes the lamps inside our room begin flickering and the pages of the book in my lap flip rapidly on their own. Every candle, every lamp is snuffed out in an instant, causing Charm to bound from her seat in alarm and dive under the coffee table. It is her, Jude! She’s trying to get your attention!

I look up through the dark room to see Esther’s spirit standing before us with a candle in her hand. Charm does not see her as she beckons to me, but I follow her down the stairs and out into the street. She leads us across the city, past the Tuileries and into the noble district where the wealthy aristocrats live beyond the slums of St. Michel. Esther’s ghost stops before a tall black door with a bronze knocker, which is on a street populated by row houses. She turns to me, smiling subtly, then vanishes.

Charm has followed me out into the midnight air on my wild adventure, and at this moment she looks at me, her eyes frozen with indecision. I know what I must do so I knock on the door. To my surprise an old man comes quickly to the door, a candle in his left hand and a revolver in his right hand resting at his side. My heart is in my throat as he opens the door and I begin to speak.

Monsieur Herb Moreau? I inquire. Yes, that is my name. Who are you, boy and why are you out on the streets at such an hour? He is a grizzled old man, standing there in his nightshirt with a morose expression on his face. His voice is gruff, coarse like sandpaper and his face is hardened and creased with frown lines. He has lamb chops on the side of his head and his eyes are a deep, coffee brown.

Your wife sent me here to find you, as hard as that may be to believe. Esther came to me because she was worried for you, and she led me here.

For a moment Herb’s eyes grow wide with astonishment and I can see tears welling up in them. My wife…My heart stopped that day. And for every moment since I have simply marked time, breathing in and out but never truly alive. You are talking to a dead man. He pauses and his features resume their impassive harshness. My wife is dead! Esther is dead! Who are you, boy, and what is your game here at the stroke of midnight? Why have you come here? To torment me? Have I not suffered enough?

I explain how she appeared to me, contacted me and persuaded me to help him, even to the point of haunting my dormitory room. He remains unmoved, insisting that I am a fake and a trickster. As we argue back and forth he raises his revolver to his head, threatening his life. It is then that I see I thing which cannot be described. A black mist, dense and cumbrous as smoke, hung on the air, clinging to Herb Moreau with lifelike tenacity. Unthinkably this mist forms into clawed hands, one of which clamps down on his left arm as if to restrain him, while the other entwines with his trigger finger.

Time grinds to a halt and I glimpse a mysterious figure emerging from the midst of this smoke. It is in the shape of a man, bent and slouched and wrapped tightly in bandages. It emits a foul stench, carrying a chill with it that punishes the air, and its eyes are completely white and lifeless. Tendrils of energy come from every part of its body, attaching themselves to an unaware Herb. I gasp in horror when a desperate Esther reaches out to me.

Your wife…she is telling me to tell you to go to her vanity! She says you will understand. His face twists in confusion, but I have bought myself some time as the curious man shuffles into their bedroom to investigate his deceased wife’s vanity.

Their room is immaculate, appearing untouched since the hour of her death. The bed is neatly made, without a crease in the bedspread and every surface meticulously dusted. Her vanity has scissors, a brush and a jar of perfume, giving the false appearance that his wife is still among the living. Herb looks eagerly down to see a heart-shaped locket and fresh tears stream down his face. He opens the locket to reveal a picture of the then young couple and an inscription reading forever. This…is impossible! he stammers. She was buried with this! It was a gift on our first anniversary. We were married for 55 years you know. He explains, turning to face me.

Then suddenly his face hardens again, his wrinkles twisting with mistrust. You did this somehow! I have heard about men like you, but never so young! What kind of charlatan comes into a broken old man’s house to trick him and give him false hope? Why did you really come here? Is it money you are after? Get out of my house, boy! Get out before I throw you out!

He moves to lunge at me threateningly while Charm cowers in the corner frozen with fright. Just then an unexpected thing happens and an invisible hand begins to scrawl on a sheet of paper lying on the flat surface of the vanity. The note reads: I love you and I always will but you have to let me go, mon cour. Remember our love and our children and grandchildren. You have to go on and take care of them for me. I will always be with you.

Herb crashes down on the bed, dropping the revolver and he sits with his head in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. I miss you so much, my love. Looking up at me he asks What do I do now? How do I go on without her? I fall silent but listening I hear a gentle whisper on the breeze. Your wife says to fix your hair.

My hair? No one but Esther would say that. My hair was always sticking up in the back and she would wet her fingers to smash it down. You have a gift boy, and I don’t know how you do it, but you are miraculous! I think you should look in the mirror. I answer, and he does.

I can see the image of a young Esther as she once was smiling brightly at him in the mirror. The reflection shimmers like the dawn and she blows him a kiss and she is gone. Turning to me he says Now I can go on. Now that I saw her one last time and know she is happy I can live. Thank you, Jude. You have given me a gift more precious than anything. You have given me back my life.

We say our goodbye and the steely old man wraps me in a warm hug. He is still a powerful man, a big man who spent his long life working with his hands. It is like being embraced by a bear. He smiles and waves to me. The black smoke is gone now, dissipated by the power of love. It is a power I have never felt, never experienced until now and it is like no other power in the universe. I wonder at this strange night and at the alarming creature I saw and the shadowy presence with it as I walk out onto the street.

I look up into the sky and I see a crack some ten miles high, like a giant rift. I stand gaping with my neck craned. What you lookin at, Jude? Charm asks me. She doesn’t see it. Whatever this crack in the sky is no one on the street can see it, which means it must be somehow connected to my ability to see spirits. ‘Whatvever this means it can’t be good.’ I say to myself.

CHAPTER 2

SOLOMON

O ver the past few weeks I have not spoken of the strange events surrounding the ghost of Esther Moreau. Abel repeatedly asks me questions about the ghost, and if I have had any more encounters, to which I reply No and leave it at that. Charm is now a firm believer in my abilities and experiences, but she asks me no questions, she just watches. Whenever we are alone together and I look up she is watching me, staring at me, a fact which makes me a little uncomfortable. But I never ask her why she is staring, nor do I bring up our encounter or the hole in the sky, which she cannot see and knows nothing of.

Everything is back to normal until one day when the four of us are sitting at our hidden spot near the garage and we hear the sound of a man gasping in pain. Abner has just left for his apprenticeship with Grandmaster Lazarus when this unexpected sound catches my ear. Half afraid it is another ghost I lean over the steep slope and see a man dressed like a wizard below us with his back against the outside garage wall. He is clutching his hand to his midsection and through his thick fingers I can see blood dripping. Ever curious, I call down to him. Are you alright? Do you need some help?

He pulls himself upright and staggers over to us, wincing in pain as he moves gingerly, slowly to our little circle. He is a dark-skinned man with a neatly trimmed beard and long black hair. His face is covered with markings and script of some kind. (My knowledge of the occult is cursory at best.) His dark black satin robe is stained with blood and torn in a couple of places, near the shoulder and his chest. His fingers are adorned with rings which catch the sunlight and sparkle brilliantly and a gold chain dangles from his neck which bears the star of David. His eyes are a deep brown, like ancient oak, and I feel as he turns his gaze on me that my soul is laid bare before them.

I am Solomon he announces, an easy gravity in his deep voice. He has the kind of voice which heals wounds and calms stormy seas. I must speak with you alone, Jude. We have much to discuss.

This both excites and alarms me at the same time. I don’t know you, and anything you can tell me you can say in front of my friends. I trust them with everything.

He winces. It will not be easy to hear, but so be it. I am Magus Solomon of the sacred Order of Melchizidek. I cannot say more to you on that subject, save only that we are keepers of the cosmic peace, a group strictly concerned with maintaining the balance of power on Earth. There are forces aligning against us and even now General Nergal is massing his legions near the city’s edge. A bloodbath is coming, Jude St. Simon and the revolution is almost here.

My mind is riddled with questions. We are completely cut off here inside our little bubble, but news of the unrest on the streets of Paris has reached us from time to time. Is it really getting that bad outside?

The people are massing he replies, chuckling. And the days of the old monarchy are drawing to a close. It won’t be long now until the heads begin to roll. And Nergal has brought the legions of the Horde, the forces of Hell here to reap his harvest. They serve a great and ancient evil known only as The Nameless. Since the dawn of time this dark power has been trying to corrupt and destroy the world of men, and on a number of occasions it has nearly succeeded. This is where we come in, but there are limits, restrictions on how much we can do to maintain the balance. This is where you come in, Jude.

Me? I say with surprise. I am just a boy who recently learned he can see and talk to ghosts. How can I be of any importance?

You are a St. Simone he answers resolutely. The Gift has been in your family for generations, tracing all the way back to its genesis with Simon the Sorceror, and perhaps even farther. You possess the ancient power of the saints and I would wager that your potential for commanding chakra is nearly limitless.

Chakra? I reply, screwing up my face. I read about that somewhere. That’s a hindu concept regarding natural energy, isn’t it?

Chakra is living energy which courses through our bodies and is powered by our spirits, which are charged by their sacred intrinsic connection to the Source?

The Source? You mean God?

"There are many names for the Entity which is all and is in all. Since the dawn of time hundreds of religions have attempted to explain it, to give it a name and a face. I simply call it Master.

It is this one Source whom I have served all the days of my life, in the service of whom I have been forced into exile to hide myself from the dark powers of the Horde.

Who are the Horde?

The Horde are Legion he answers cryptically. They are but aspects of The Nameless, incarnations which are bent to serve its will, and in all ways pursue the darkening of this world.

I saw something! It was this strange being with white eyes and there was this black smoke! It had a living presence which was as cold as death. Was that The Nameless?

It was. The Nameless is the balance to God, the inevitable shadow to the light and in all ways it seeks to thwart the light until all is wasteland, all is darkness. The creature you saw is known to us. It is called Outcast, and it is a footsoldier, a mindless drone of The Nameless. It rips lost souls from the clutches of Light and drags them off to the Shadowlands, the Land of the Dead. You were lucky to survive an encounter with Outcast, who is one of the Horde’s deadlier agents, but it was likely only there for the soul you saved.

I saved? I don’t have the power to save anything or anyone. That’s where you’re wrong, Solomon. I simply became the medium, the conduit for the lady and she saved him. I was just the messenger.

Blessed are the feet of those who bear good news he replies, smiling mysteriously. You are more powerful than you can possibly know, Jude. It only remains for you to answer your calling and train your mind to tap into the Power Infinite. If you are willing I can educate you regarding the finer points of chakra. What do you say, potential?

I nod grimly, feeling a little apprehensive and thrilled all at once. There is so much I don’t know about my gift. Any light you can shed would be of great help.

Very good. Meet me on top of the Chancellor’s Hall at midnight. And like a sudden gust of wind through an opened door he is gone.

I make my way to the top of the Chancellor’s Hall just before midnight, being careful to avoid detection by the routine campus patrols and by my snoopy roomate. I search for a ledge to get a secure foothold and, using an elm tree to brace me, I shimmy my way up until I can clamber out onto the roof. As I pull my body up I look up to see Solomon waiting for me, smoking a cigarrette on the edge of the flat roof. He is serene, almost detached and as I approach him quietly he speaks no word until I sit down just behind him. He speaks without turning toward me at first, but then his piercing eyes find my own and I am frozen to the spot, utterly captivated by him.

First of all it is essential that you understand how your spiritual body works, and how this interacts with your physical one. Your spine acts as a superhighway for the kundalini, or spiralling energy which flows through your body. At seven points of your spine, leading all the way up to the crown of your head, are the seven channels or chakras, whirlwinds of energy where kundalini can exit and outside energies can enter you. Are you with me so far? Go on. I reply soberly.

"In order to access one’s chakra it must first be cleansed and a natural flow restored. This allows the divine spark, or shakti to ignite. This also allows kundalini to flow freely up the spine, exiting out of the crown of your head, where it mixes with divine prana and re-enters your system, fully integrating and cleansing your energy.

Having said this it is also vital that you understand that over the course of your life you develop blocks to this natural flow; unresolved conflicts, bad karma from a past life and deep insecurities hidden perhaps from even yourself. Therefore for your first excercise I recommend that you perform a chakra cleansing. Lie down flat on your back and breathe deeply, becoming fully focused on every inhalation and exhalation. Let your mind drift out of time, allow it to reach beyond temporary constraints. Slowly and carefully unbury your deepest pain, bringing each negative emotion to the surface one by one. Now pray to the universe to allow you to become her conduit, converting your negative energies and repurposing them for the good. Do this until dawn then sneak your way back to your room to prepare yourself for your day. I promise you will find yourself renewed and reinvigorated.

I do as he asks me, fully knowing that he will vanish the second I close my eyes. I do not hear him leave, but by this time I have let go of my mind’s conscious control. I feel myself adrift on a great ocean without end. The surface of the waters is covered by sweet smelling petals as gentle sea breezes wash assuringly over me. I sit up to see the sun rising and in the distance I can make out the outline of the shore. White sands greet me as far as the eye can see and beyond this I perceive a dense forest brimming with life, the branches of the grateful trees kissed by the rays of the sun.

I see my parents as I reach the shore. They are moving away from me, boarding a vast ocean liner bound in the opposite direction. I call out to them but they do not hear me. Am I invisible? I ask myself aloud. Flowers rain down from the trees in the grove beyond the white sands but my parents are gone. It is festival time and the air is populated by the sounds and smells of celebration, but not for me. Alone I sit and weep. They left me. They always leave. My despair claims me as I wallow into mires of self pity, but then I remember Solomon’s injuction to convert my negative energies to positive, and to offer myself in service to the universal good. I become radiant, hot white like a lightbulb, giving off both heat and light. My pulse is hot electric and I rise up to explore this undiscovered country without fear in my heart.

I am awakened by the first warning bell and I startle, realizing I am late. Desperately I race to the edge of the roof and jump off, landing roughly in the manicured grass. I sprain the heel of my left foot, but I manage to hobble off into the commons, squeezing into my first class as the final bell rings. ‘What a night!’ I think to myself. For the remainder of class I am adrift, uncharacteristically unable to focus on anything or anyone.

That night I meet Solomon at the same spot on the roof. This time I have to sneak up through the building, so I stowaway until the time arrives. As I throw open the door leading out onto the roof the questions start to fly from my mouth. My mind is racing and I want answers. I want them now.

I tell him how I saw my parents, about the beaches, the forests, the flowers and about the awakening I experienced. He takes a deep drag on his cigarette, taking his time to answer. You are more powerful than you know, Jude St. Simon. The energy you felt reaches all the way back before the genesis of creation, all the way back to The Source. This is prana, the Divine, and it is the connection to your true power. You must train your mind to connect with this power and you shall awaken. You will be like lightning, boy. Like lightning and fire.

Over the next few weeks he lays it all out, meditation, the seven chakras, everything. He even explains to me in some detail about the war, how it all started and about The Order of Melchizidek. It is all a lot to take in, but I am an eager pupil, and I try my best. Still there is something deep inside of me, something which resists change and holds me back at every step. Every time I throw open a door part of me intervenes to slam it shut.

One night, having finished my meditation, I return to a secluded grove outside my dormitory. I am only partly aware that I am dreaming, drifting, yet my conscious mind sears into my subconscious- a lucid dream.

My mind and spirit roam free of my body and I find myself inside a local hospital. My ears are immediately pierced by the shrill sound of babies crying and I realize I am in the maternity ward. At the far end of the room a woman sits upright, her back against the wall at the head of her bed. She is desperately clutching a still infant to her- her dead son! I move closer to console her when I am aware of a strange being sitting on the foot of her bed.

It is a teenage boy with shocking blue hair wearing a white mask. In his hands is a lustrous thread, which shines dimly for a moment before flickering then going out. The young man’s skin is covered with shimmering sparkles and his glacial blue eyes pierce the gloom beneath his mask. I am stunned when he speaks to me, not with his mouth, but with his mind. His thoughts are icy cold and his tone sombre, like that of an undertaker.

He was my first charge he says simply. My first assignment and I lost him. Well a Fate will be here shortly. It’ll probably be Asisa. That guy is everywhere. Oh, you can see me can’t you? You must be the potential all of Eternity is abuzz over. I am Indigo. Very pleased to meet you.

He bounds to his feet, thrusting out his hand in greeting. This is how your kind does it, right? But as I move to shake Indigo’s hand a powerful jolt of energy fills the room. I am knocked breathless by it, feeling like a vice is tightening oppressively around me. A figure clad in a long black coat strides across the room, a chain slung over his right shoulder. I see the creature’s face, which is pale blue, as it reaches the motionless infant corpse. Its eyes flash as the strange being stoops to pull the infant’s soul from its body, bind it with its chain, then sling it over its shoulder to carry it off.

Instinctively I spring to my feet, rushing at the creature in an attempt to rescue the baby’s soul. Give it back! I cry out as I reach the grim figure. The reaper turns, its cold gaze mesmerizing me, freezing me in place. Silent as death it extends a finger to touch me on my forehead. Instantly I go catatonic, falling into a deep sleep and everything goes black.

I come to with my head in the white sand which I saw in my dream and instinctively I know I am dreaming. My head aches like I was hit with a blunt object and my senses are reeling. As I struggle to clear my head I notice a small girl crouching beside me. In appearance she is like a fairie of fables and children’s tales, complete with gossamer wings and a skirt made of earthen leaves. Her eyes glimmer with blazing light and her skin is as clean and pure as alabaster. She flutters her green eyes at me as she speaks, her voice high and lilting.

You are awake! I have been hoping you would open your eyes! I am Camellia.

Sitting up I say the first thoughts to come into my head. Where am I? What is this place? I have seen it before, but only in a dream.

Come she says, offering a gentle hand to me. It is your world which is dreaming, not ours. You are new here so I must take you before the Elders. They will know what to do.

Immediately I react to this, remembering the baby’s lost soul and its captor. I jump up, my thoughts flaring hot within me. No! The child! I have to save her!

But Camellia puts herself in my path, meekly restraining me with a soft hand. The unborn is gone now she tells me softly. It remains only to help the mother, which is clearly your task. But for this moment I must take you before the Elders. They will be expecting you, and they have been for some time.

Camellia leads me into the dense woodland thicket, where I pass beneath a treetop village. The villagers look like her kin and she shouts a greeting to them as they answer her in turn. Time passes slowly as we wind our way down narrow paths through the forest, crossing over a roaring river, up a steep incline and into the open glade beyond. There in a forest glade surrounded by trees and resting atop a hill I come to the Gathering of the Eternal Tribe, Oetha.

The small village is comprised of simple thatched log huts arranged meticulously in a circle around a longhouse at the center. Seven figures stand on a balcony atop the longhouse, which overlooks the rest of the village and the forest beyond. The central figure catches my eye, for he looks very much like he could be an ancestor of my friend Abel Adams. He has handsome, fair features, complete with dazzling blue eyes and blonde hair. He beckons to Camellia to bring me forward, so I inch my way to the front of the longhouse, trying to appear relaxed while standing at rigid attention.

The leader trains his gaze on me, looking down like a teacher on the first day of school. His cool blue eyes fix me to the spot as his six companions stand behind him, their expressions fixed and emotionless. The man himself is stately, like nobility or even royalty, and there is an undertone of affection as he addresses me.

So you have come to us at last. We were expecting you much sooner, but then so goes things in your world. The hour is late, for our Enemy is on the move. You have seen the crack in the sky, have you not boy?

I stammer in reply. Y…yes. This is only a dream, which means that you are not real, but some projection of my subsconscious. How then do you know about the crack in the sky?

"I am Adam Kadmon of the Eternal Tribe. There is much that I know, that we know which is hidden from your kind. But this too is slightly misunderstood, for we are of the same blood after all. I am your ancestor, and the ancestor of all human kind. Many are the stories told