2013-01-01. A Resonant Stream.
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Revolt of the Rebel Angels: The Future of The Multiverse – Book 2; Chapter 7 ~by Timothy Wyllie
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Revenge Served Cold, Lemurian Culture, the Storm and Being Kind.
After that last evening in Prince Janda-Chi’s HQ up in the mountains, I realized I had seen enough of the strategy the Princes had developed to handle and absorb the invasion, to be reasonably confident I was off the hook. And, I really didn’t like that look on Sephira’s face! It caused me to realize that females of any material species who were prepared to handle sexual warfare in such a detached manner, would be just as likely to bring the same level of detachment to terminally dispatching those caught in their webs. Not something I wanted to stay around for, thank you very much! And even if some hitch emerged later I doubted if the Princes, having already claimed the initial success for themselves, would then try and hold me responsible. I knew it was time to leave when I looked out to sea the next morning and the masts of the fleet were no longer visible.
They must have sailed at dawn. I imagined the stories they would be concocting on their return; of the terrifying and utterly mysterious magic they faced; how their warriors were disappearing all around them; how they were the sole survivors who’d bravely battled the invisible forces to a bloody standstill before escaping with their lives. Yes, I remember thinking, it’s definitely time to make my graceful exit if I’m starting to use my imagination. I’d got away with it once, blurting out my idea, It was with these thoughts that I returned to the Transport Center, this time to find my friendly Seraphim preparing for a trip back to Earth, very much as if she might have been waiting for me. But, no, she assured me with an enigmatic smile when I asked her: she’d made dozens of trips since she’d last seen me so, I certainly wasn’t anyone special no one worth waiting for, anyway We didn’t speak after that and before I knew it I was back on Earth. Since the ice had withdrawn from the Transport Center on Earth, to which I was returned, was located among the new growth of Sequoia trees on the west coast of the North American continent.
I decided not to return to where Prince Caligastia was currently locating himself and his court in the mountains of Romania, in an area which remained unaffected by the radioactive fallout from the war. In fact, it was the obvious proximity of the Transport Center to the Pacific Ocean that suggested I first visit the Islands of Mu and see the progress Vanu and Amadon had been making with their Lemurian civilization. Moving between various places on the planet for a watcher is as simple as setting our intention and with a barely discernible shift of space or time, we are where we wish to be. Under more normal planetary conditions, for example before the rebellion broke out and this world became isolated, it worked rather differently.
Then, we angels merely responded to necessity. One activity led naturally to the next. We didn’t have to think about the moral value of our actions, or make impulsive choices we would later regret. We had no need to concern ourselves with right or wrong, or good or bad. In a sense, we were almost unable to make mistakes. We had no choice but to be in the right place, at the right time, and doing the right thing. This was what was so shocking about the Lucifer rebellion. As angels, we’d never been presented with such an extraordinarily important choice before. We knew nothing of the three previous rebellions, so had no precedent from which to draw. We were appallingly vulnerable and far too easily carried along by the blazing rhetoric of our leaders. In our minds we became the freedom fighters. We were exposing the inefficiency and corruption in M A’s bureaucracy.
It was going to be us who would be showing M A up for the fraud it was perpetrating and we would be denouncing the conspirators before the entire watching Multiverse, we would be the ones who would being changing everything. Us! It sounds so foolish as I write it down. So grandiose. So full of pride. So easily entranced. Would I ever have made such a frivolous choice, I wonder, had I been previously permitted to fail and experience the consequences of my mistakes? Mein Host is reminding me that I’m indulging in nostalgia and self-pity again, so let me state clearly here that I have no regrets. Yes, I was foolish to have followed Lucifer into rebellion, for all the deluded reasons I mention above. I was naive and impulsive, granted, yet, for all that, there was this “voice” that whispered revolution in our minds; the mysterious voice some of us heard–and that most of us didn’t.
A soft female voice full of wisdom and love which accompanied us faithfully throughout the uprising, urging us on to be courageous, to hold on to our ideals, to defy M A and all her minions. A voice of encouragement and gentle enthusiasm, who was there until suddenly, she wasn’t! It was one day, soon after everything started going awry back in the city of Dalamatia, when the voice simply withdrew. With no explanations. No apologies. One moment I felt there was this deep loving intelligence guiding us into and through the uprising the next moment, silence. Never to be heard again. I’ve had many occasions since that time to ponder this mystery; wondering to whom this voice belonged. It was no delusion, too many of us were hearing her. She was loving and playful, yet she insisted on secrecy. She seemed to whisper on a frequency unheard by the bureaucrats, by those who remained faithful to M A; by those who turned away from Lucifer.
Those were the ones, she let us know, who were to remain untroubled by our revolutionary zeal; who were not to be part of the Great Experiment. She let it be known that we were the special ones; the chosen ones. It was us to whom she spoke. Not them. Shush. Don’t tell them anything. It is then, when this thought comes to me, my self-pity drops away and I remember that far deeper currents are flowing deep under the surface of my life. After all, I would never have had the all the experiences I’ve been having, had I not joined the uprising even if I had no idea of how challenging the consequences of doing it would be. As Watchers, however, we’re required to choose our destinations. I assume it is part of our preparation for my mortal incarnation. However, of the three Transport Centers on Earth then in use, the fact that I was deposited so close to the American north coast had to have been a sign I unconsciously absorbed. Because before I had much chance to think about reporting back to Caligastia, I was being whisked off to Van’s Lemurian capital, which I recalled was built on one of the larger islands south of the equator.
My first reaction on arriving was astonishment. Surely, I hadn’t been away that long! The capital, though not yet fully completed, was a wonder to behold. It was built over a series of smaller islands, connected by bridges and hollowed out with underwater tunnels and interconnecting canals. Small skiffs skimmed the water–which made me think of water-taxis from another era. The buildings were massive and seemed to grow naturally out of the sea which often lapped at their stone skirts. Wide, flat platforms, formed of enormous interlocking blocks of granite, stretched out into the sea, with larger boats tied up alongside and a hive of human activity loading and unloading the goods which traveled between the islands.
Fish of all sizes and species were laid out on the polished obsidian slabs in the open markets; women dressed in brightly colored sarongs, some with pitchers balanced atop their heads, moved in a relaxed flow between the open stalls. People, in general, appeared confident and happy with their lives. Overall, it was a prosperous sight. A large structure lay at the top of a wide avenue that rose in a succession of broad, shallow steps up to its base. At first glance I’d taken it to be a flattened pyramid, but in moving closer, I could see it was comprised of seven levels that seemed to stack one on top of another; each smaller than the one below it, so as to give the appearance of roughly pyramidal shape. Ceremonial staircases climbed up between the platforms; the massive stonework was decorated with large carvings which, I was amused to see, were of the fierce animals they’d left behind on the mainland.
As I moved around the city, I was struck by the apparent simplicity of life, especially compared to what I’d just been witnessing on Zandana. Perhaps if I’d have visited the Zandanan barbarians I might have observed more similar conditions to what I was seeing in the residential sectors of the city. Although both worlds were roughly parallel in terms of the timing of the emergence of intelligent life and the arrival of their Princes’ missions, Earth’s overall development was badly retarded by the chaos and confusion Caligastia had been sewing since the rebellion. Yet, here in Lemuria I was finding something different, something rather more encouraging. The culture hadn’t yet reached the level of refinement that I saw in the city of Zandan, but neither did the people seem so bewitched by their own self-importance. Whereas, the wealthy Zandan citizens built splendid houses and took great pride in their personal possessions. The Lemurians enjoyed living in small huts perched a dozen feet above the water on bamboo poles sunk into the lava and coral. The Lemurians were evidently still a communal people, frequently living in large extended families, their pole-houses connected by a web of bridges and platforms suspended above the waves.
Children played their games, running in and out of the huts, sometimes swinging like monkeys from the rope bridges before dropping, squealing with pleasure and fear, into the water below. A small group of old men sat on three-legged, wooden stools and gathered on a suspended platform formed at the nexus of three walkways. I could see they were playing a game of moving colored pebbles through a series of carved, concave, indentations in a flat piece of polished wood. There was a lot of excitement and laughter between them, but I didn’t stay long enough to grasp the rules. I was eager to see more of Mu before I reported back in to Van. He was always most curious to hear of the latest developments on Zandana.
As I traveled around I found the contrast between the two worlds growing more extreme. The geography of the Islands of Mu, for example, spread in their thousands in a long chain straddling the equator, had evidently discouraged the growth of cities. The population appeared to be spread relatively evenly throughout the islands; the only large aggregations of people lived in their pole-houses encircling the three main power centers. These were the rare places where, I was told later, it had been found that the telluric fumes seeping up through volcanic fissures in the rock could produce trance inducing effects in some people.
The first of these places, apparently, was discovered some thousands of years earlier, and quite by accident. As the colonists spread through the islands, settling where the fishing was good, or where there was some protection from the worst of the elements, a clan-group of villagers made their homes, without realizing it, over just one of these fissures. Since the islands were volcanic, the settlers had already seen places where magma was still oozing out of the ground; and others in which hot, sulfurous, water gathered in pools that steamed quietly in jungle clearings.
What they hadn’t come across was a place in which the fumes were rich in ethylene, a natural, colorless gas, with the faint odor of wildflowers. Drawn by the sweet scent, as well as the excellent fishing, to settle there and build their houses, they were unaware of the consciousness-altering potential of the fumes which seeped into their huts every once in a while. It wasn’t a common occurrence, but when it did happen, they noticed it was always at the time of the full moon. Neither did the fumes affect everyone in the community; adolescent girls appearing to be most vulnerable. It was a subtle influence, by all accounts, nothing like the group madness that could befall those villagers who, in later ages, unknowingly ate bread infected with the ergot fungus.
Here on Mu, there were no hallucinations; no screaming fits; no foaming at the mouth, or tearing of hair; nothing to really bother the natural rhythms of their lives. It was simply that a few of their young girls would periodically fall into a trance and some would even speak in strange riddles of unknown places. Lemurian civilization around forty five thousand years ago was a spiritually charged culture. Much of what might be dismissed as superstition today, was intensely relevant to the citizens of Mu. Their connection with Mother Earth and with natural events allowed them access to her secrets. A sudden change of temperature, the direction of the flight of birds, the quality of the wind or rain, the forms in the clouds, the pattern of ripples on the surface of water, the smoke from volcanic vents; all these and more, were regarded as signs or portents.
Not only was this “superstition” a constant reminder to the Lemurians of their place in the natural order of life, but it permitted a ready interface whereby the midwayers could subtly influence human behavior when required. If, for example, one of Van’s midwayers wished to guide an individual Lemurian in a particular direction to accomplish a task of mutual interest, he’d be likely to work in conjunction with the primary local nature spirits.
They, then, might coordinate aspects within their realm so as to ensure, by the flight of birds or the direction of the wind, that the Lemurian would have natural signs to follow. If you find this as having little relevance to modern life, perhaps a digression from Mein Host’s life will serve to demonstrate how these hidden powers can be activated under certain conditions. It was on a beautiful summer day in July of 1983 and Diana Ross, after a previous decade as the top disco singer, was due to give a free concert in New York’s Central Park. Mein Host was living at the time on the 25th floor of the Eldorado, an art deco apartment building which overlooked the Westside of Central Park at 91st Street.
Mein Host would jokingly refer to the park as his back-garden and liked to make a point of going to the various free concerts presented there. Diana Ross’s would be no exception. And, if there were already some examples known within the music industry suggesting that Ms. Ross’s ambition and self-regard might be getting the better of her, Mein Host was unaware of these criticisms as he followed the crowds streaming towards the concert ground. It was a perfect July day, not a cloud in the sky and there were well over half-a-million New Yorkers already there when my ward arrived.
He stayed at the rear of the enormous crowd where there was more space I knew he liked to dance when the music started. As with most concerts, it did not start at 3 PM as promoted, but at least half-an hour later, so by the time Mein Host arrived many people who’d been waiting in the park for hours were already starting to grow restless. Here are some of Mein Host’s journal entries, written on returning from the concert: I arrived shortly after 3 PM to a very warm, sunbaked and dusty central field. Walking through the Westside of the park amid mainly young blacks I caught the drift of at least five separate altercations.
Nothing too serious, but enough to remind me of the contrast with three of the previous events I’d attended; the Elton John concert; the 1982 Peace Demonstration; and the Simon and Garfunkel reunion; in which the atmospheres had been excellent, stable and uplifting. I recall thinking at the time of hearing the arguments that there was likely to be trouble, and with that thought I headed into the thick of it. If there was going to be an explosion then I would sooner be there to see if there was anything I could do to transmute it. While this might be considered a somewhat arrogant thought, I’m of the opinion that it was probably his companion angel’s only way of hurrying him along–making him feel he could be of service.
He found “his tree,” just inside the path running to the back of the meadow. I knew he thought of it as his place of power. It gave him the room to dance freely, so it was from there he usually watched the concerts. After a few minutes he was approached by a Hare Krishna devotee who, after trying to get him to come to their Saturday “Vegetarian Feast” later that day, I heard telling him she’d been harassed by some of the young men hanging around at the back. I know this confirmed for him that violence was hanging in the air. Even I could feel it: a horrible sense of an imminent overflowing of anger and resentment. Ms. Ross, for all her professional success, was evidently not well-liked. And Disco, on which she’d made her name as a solo artist, was just starting to be eclipsed by Punk and was being vigorously scorned by the younger crowd. Standing under his tree, there was a CBS TV van beside him; and behind him, across the path, stood row upon row of police men and women. Here he is again, describing what was going on: Thick rows of police men and women were gathered in the smaller, treed, enclosure behind me- over 800 of them, I’d read somewhere.
It was intriguing to observe the reactions of the young studs as they turned the corner to see this massive, low-lying, blue cloud of fuzz. Mouths dropped open. “Sheeeet!” and they’d double over laughing. Others yelled “Freeze!” and postured primate-proud for their shrieking womenfolk. Their reactions on coming across the CBS van were not dissimilar (but) the tired, old-lag, technicians were far too jaded to take anything but the most cursory interest in all their posturing. It was at this point that Mein Host must have realized something had to be done, but what ? He was extremely sensitive to psychic atmospheres by this time, and this one was not good. He started dancing under the tree to the music being played over the P A system as a way of dissipating the negative energy in his immediate vicinity. At least four news helicopters were hovering low at the periphery of the meadow, whipping up the leaves of the trees, their washes gusting clouds of dust across the crowded field.
Large swathes of the crowd, subsequently recorded as being over 800,000, were starting to express their irritation by the time the Diva finally announced herself. How she struts and preens herself! Mein Host’s reactions again from his journal. She’s the very top of the black aspirational ladder and does she know it! She’d paid a million dollars for this and she wants everybody to know it. She’d really made it, proved to all those unhappy, ghetto-locked, blacks, that one of them can do it. Noble as that sentiment might have appeared to her on paper, she delivered it in such a conceited and arrogant tone, it created a discernibly, uneasy reaction in the crowd. Many were obviously embarrassed by her self-admiration, others were laughing scornfully, which only got louder when she announced she was giving this gift of a free concert because she loved New York so much.
For savvy New Yorkers, who like Mein Host, would have been well aware the woman was trying to revive her waning career by squeezing as much publicity as possible from her apparent largesse, she was donating a children’s playground (in her name, of course)–this seemed to be one conceit too many. She paused after announcing this, expecting a roar of applause. There were some clapping of hands, yet far more noticeable was a low rumbling of barely suppressed scorn. It seemed the pride the crowd was supposed to feel at one of their own making it to the top had surrendered to a mix of envy, resentment and angry dismissal. The response of some of the young men at the rear was less inhibited.
They’d been circling the meadow playing their boom-boxes at full volume, laughing and shouting at people who complained. The diva’s arrogance appeared to be rubbing off on them. Their shouting got louder and more insulting. Ms. Ross had started singing, but it wasn’t doing anything to lift the atmosphere, if anything, it was making it worse. Mein Host, by this time, was dancing and whirling with all the energy of a Dervish. And as he was spiraling around with his eyes tightly closed, he invoked the midwayers and the nature spirits to intercede to do something, anything they can, to disrupt what was threatening to become a full-scale riot. As he whirled I could see what he couldn’t with his eyes shut. Behind him, to the northeast, a large, dark, and very menacing thunder cloud was moving rapidly towards the park. Now people were moving gingerly around the whirling crazy person.
A couple of loud arguments broke out close by; thunder rippled over the crowd, resonating with the amplified thumping of the bass drum. The pitch of the helicopters’ rotors suddenly changed–they must have been warned about the coming storm–as they climbed fast over the crowd, throwing up dust, hats, and paper cups, in their inconsiderate haste to return to their heliports. Apparently oblivious of the coming disaster and determined to strut her stuff, the diva sang on. The thunder roared. The skies darkened. The crowd seemed bewildered.
Mein Host, aware now of what was happening around him, whirled on, more vigorously than ever, eyes closed again, and singing loudly to the storm. And then the rains came. It poured. Vertical columns of rain, like dark, standing waves, marched over the crowd, soaking everyone to the skin. The wind changed direction constantly, growing stronger by the minute, throwing spray every which way. Still the diva sang on. Was she insane? Was she so proud she was defying the elements? And the crowd? Her loyal fans? Unprotected by the canvas awning which was keeping the worst of the rain off her? Was she really expecting them to stay and listen? “It’s just water!” She was shouting between songs. “It won’t hurt! It was so overcast, it was like twilight. The rain beat down unmercifully, turning every spot of ground to mud that was unoccupied by bodies.
It’s hard to know when the music ground to a halt. No one was taking notice any more. Every single one of those 800,000 people was preoccupied with trying to keep dry. Well! Not for long. The rain was implacable. It poured with the ferocity of an Asian monsoon. Here’s Mein Host again, summarizing the debacle. Harder and harder it rained. There was no protection from the wind as it constantly gusted in different directions, beating water into every nook and crevasse of a shivering human being. Then, something broke in the psychic atmosphere. Some people were laughing now, slipping and sliding in the mud. There was nothing for it but to surrender. Total immersion in the nature of the situation. A baptism of water arranged by the elementals, not only to cool out the escalating violence saturating the concert, but to give a large and unruly mob the chance of a truly shared experience! So, that’s how Ms. Ross’s vanity concert ended. The impending violence had been transformed by the storm into a mass of laughing, singing, sliding, dancing, rain sodden, mud-covered, New Yorkers. Not so, the next day. Mein Host did not attend her repeat performance on Sunday, when 500,000 people showed up.
This time the violence did erupt, with reports of over 100 people being robbed by groups of young men on the rampage during and after the concert. Law suits were filed. Money made on the first concert went to pay for the second. Ms. Ross initially refused to give any money for her promised playground, although to be fair to the woman, she did eventually shell out a quarter of a million dollars towards building it. It’s reasonable to ask whether Mein Host was responsible for causing the storm? The answer is obviously, no. What he did was facilitate the situation by addressing it in the way he did.
Any intervention as specific as this one is only permitted when there is a request from, or an agreement with, a mortal of the realm aware of what he or she is doing. Mein Host, now in his forties, was starting to know what he was doing. He was more than aware by this point in his life that he was working collaboratively with the midwayers and nature spirits. I was pleased when he felt no obvious inclination to claim it was him who created the storm. So easy to dismiss as coincidence, but in Lemuria, Mein Host’s actions would have been well-understood.
Lemurians were living contentedly in a state of harmony with nature. The islands of Mu were fertile and the fish plentiful. The people were healthy and lived long, active lives. They were relatively evenly distributed throughout the islands so population pressure was minimal. Mu had been colonized now for over twenty thousand years and apart from some minor scuffles, there’d been no wars and remarkably little personal violence. The absence of large predators on the islands meant Nature’s tooth and claw held few threats for them. Their children played in the wild and there seemed to no undue concern for their safety: Mother Earth would care for them. Many of the women had become knowledgeable herbalists, as had the breeding of domestic animals reached a high art. The few wild-buffalo brought over on rafts from the mainland by their distant ancestors now appeared very similar to the longhorn cattle you might find on a a ranch in present-day Texas. Chickens, too, descended from the Red Jungle Fowl they had originally brought with them from Indonesia, were first domesticated on a large scale in Lemurian households.
Lemurians in general seemed to me to be living fulfilled and secure lives. Their temples and administrative buildings, built many millennia earlier from massive interlocking blocks of stone, had withstood many centuries of earth tremors, and were becoming more a reminder of their endless past than places of active worship or labor. Van and Amadon, now accepted by most as familiar presences, continued to travel among the people. They’d both sired many children with mortal women by now and their progeny had become the principal clans on the islands. It was an easy-going life for most. Families generally stayed on the island of their birth which, in turn, seemed to reinforce their conservative tendencies. I believe this was the dawning of a responsibility for caring for their birthright and a desire to pass along their contented lives to their descendants.
News of life on other islands was brought by traveling bards, their long, elaborate, songs never failing to make listeners aware and proud of their ancient past. As Van must have been aware, a people who revere their past, who have a knowledge of an unbroken thirty thousand years of their history; these are people who want to conserve their traditions for future generations. The people lived by barter, a system, though limited in some ways, inherently supported honest transactions based on genuine needs. In the few, small urban centers, shells were being used as a convenient medium of exchange, but since the shells had no inherent value, unlike the gold coinage that Caligastia had introduced on the other side of the world, there was no temptation to hoard them.
Personal ambition had been discouraged for so long that generations of Lemurians were content out live out their simple lives without thought of wanting anything more. To summarize the general social situation in Lemuria on this tour, I’d have to say that for all the ease and comfort of their lives and their reliance on Van’s traditional teachings, it felt to me as though something vital was missing from the culture. The challenges their people had met on the long trek across Asia and the punishing sea crossing to the islands, as well as, all the demands made on the original colonizers, were no longer pressing issues in their lives. They were not an aggressive culture and had no envy of other lands and little desire to leave their islands.
Once Van was certain that the focused sound and light techniques he introduced could not be easily weaponized, he permitted them for use in cutting, shaping, and lifting, the cyclopean stone blocks they used for their building work. These innovations were so advanced they leapfrogged much of the technology and many of the artifacts a modern woman would take for granted in her home. Bathing was communal, every small settlement possessed a well-appointed bathhouse, designed around a hot spring. Women could also wash their clothes in hot water, diverted from the spring and running in stone channels to a special courtyard set aside for laundering.
The bathhouses became the social center of the villages and one of the most pleasurable outings a Lemurian family treated itself was to visit a bathhouse in nearby village. While the northern and southern extremes of the Lemurian archipelago could become moderately cold in their winters, most of the islands enjoyed tropical and subtropical temperatures year round. This temperature differential produced a curious phenomenon which the world wasn’t to see again for many tens of thousands of years. As the weather started cooling off in the northern hemisphere, many of those living there moved towards the warmer regions for the season; and those who delighted in cooler weather, traveled into winter.
It was all for pleasure. Yet, what struck me when I learned this, is that the families would share their homes in what you would recognize as house-swapping. And if you wonder at the many similarities with contemporary life, know that human beings, their loves and jealousies, their desires and aversions, and their needs and greeds, have transformed very little over the last half-a-million years. All that has really changes is mankind’s capability to slaughter increasing numbers of people and its impulse to ravage the planetary biosphere. These latter changes came in waves throughout history as civilizations rose and fell; some were technological, some not so much and very few were wise enough to learn from the failure of their forebears.
The Lemurian civilization can be thought of as the slow swelling of a wave that crested as a true planetary culture before it collapsed as has every other civilization that followed it. At the time I’m reporting, however, the people of Mu trusted one another. With few personal possessions and ample available food, thievery was almost completely unknown. The one “commandment” they lived by was simply, “Be Kind”, which I’ve come to believe by observing the Lemurians in their daily lives, covers all ten Mosaic commandments, yet without a possessive deity’s demands for devotion and worship. Lemuria, as I found it on this trip, was in many ways an ideal culture for its time.
To use contemporary jargon, the people of Mu left a minimal footprint on the planet so small that most modern anthropologists will cursorily reject any talk of such a mature civilization existing so long before before the Bronze Age. Yet, the Lemurians have left their mark on many of the worlds most ancient myths as the Garden of Eden, or the paradisiacal state in so many creation stories and from which humans have somehow fallen. This is how Lemuria lives on, as the promise all humans hold in their hearts, that one day the world will become a paradise again.
A paradise it would have been by now were it not for the Lucifer Rebellion and the profoundly disturbing actions of Prince Caligastia in his guise as God of this World.
I am a Watcher Angel and my name is Georgia.
