2013-01-01. Shame and Disbelief.
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Revolt of the Rebel Angels: The Future of The Multiverse – Book 2; Chapter 9 ~by Timothy Wyllie
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Ravaged by Inez, Lemurian Entheogens, Daligastia Speaks, and the plot Thickens.
It was fortunate that Lemurian society was so basically stable when the neurological changes took place in the population. The transformation occurred over two or three generations and might well have created serious intergenerational conflicts, if there hadn’t been a deep confidence born of thousands of years of continuous history. Their prevailing belief system, passed down through the centuries, was based on the principle that all that happened was meaningful and had a purpose. And that natural events–the rain, the storms, the seeping of the lava, the plants and animals, the earth, the sun and stars–all occurred for a reason that could be interpreted and understood.
This was experientially reinforced on a daily basis by the Lemurian practice of Being Kind to one another under all circumstances. Although this might sound hollow or naive to the modern ear, for a culture that was aware of the profound meaning to life and all that life entails–whether or not that purpose was understood in the moment– practicing kindness was an inspired way of confirming their belief. Naturally, the presence of the immortals, Van and Amadon, when they visited the different islands, also carried the implicit promise that life has a larger context and significance than immediately obvious. Approaching their lives in this openhearted way, and with a long history to confirm its consistently beneficial effects on their culture, Lemurians on the whole, accepted the withdrawal of midwayer guidance from their minds with admirable equanimity.
Yet, of course there had to be the normal challenges which necessarily arise in a polarized material frequency-domain. Left on their own, without the ready availability of midwayer guidance, all mortals are liable to error and misdeed. It is part of the mortal journey to learn from the consequences of your errors–just as it has become mine as a result of the rebellion–and to master the darker impulses of your animal heritage. As I’ve already mentioned, it was in the priesthood that corruption first starting appearing on Lemuria. Whereas previously, when the midwayer presence was a constant, there had been no real need for priests. The few people drawn to counsel others, though they might have been thought of as priests, made no claims of exclusive guidance. If anything, rather the opposite. Functioning as proxies for Amadon they saw their purpose as helping people to reconnect with their own inner guidance.
When the midwayers withdrew from the minds of mortals, a new class of person started emerging who seemed to need to control other people and take advantage of their innocence and gullibility. And the Lemurians, many of whom were among the most spiritually advanced of individuals the world has yet seen, were paradoxically all the more vulnerable to the lies and manipulations of this new priest class. Their very openheartedness could lead individuals to accept the priests’ empty rhetoric This is no blanket indictment of the Lemurian priesthood; there were always some who retained their honor. But the institution itself, with its strict hierarchy, its dogmatic statements, and its growing accumulation of wealth; all this was the first sign for me of the sort of corruption I’d seen so often in Caligastia’s territories in the West. Whereas the Prince would have pounced on the first signs of corruption and used it for his own ends, Amadon, on Van’s advice, was wise enough to leave the priests well enough alone.
In fact, one of the only actions I saw Amadon take was to speak personally to all the original counselors, and urge them to continue their work with Van’s support, and to make sure they remained free of the priesthood. I believe it was to seal this agreement that Amadon introduced a mysterious and marvelous set of spiritual tools to those few special people–those more deeply committed to helping and healing others, than in seeking control, power, and wealth for themselves. As seen on contemporary houses, the flowers of a climbing vine in the family Convolvulaceae had long decorated the exteriors of Lemurian houses on the islands in the cooler climates. The seeds were among those brought from the mainland by the original settlers. That the flowers were so highly valued for their ethereal beauty is suggested by the fact that the hardy little seeds would have made the long journey themselves from the cooler climate of China before being brought over to the islands.
The name Morning Glory was first given to this flowering plant in Lemuria, although their hieroglyph for the plant more accurately reads: Dawn welcomes another glorious day. Colloquially, the flower was known as Glorious Dawn, and then later, Morning Glory, as it entered the modern era. Unlike the seeds from some other plants which are nutritious and pleasant tasting, the seeds of the Morning glory plant lack both qualities. The seeds are small, hard and indigestible, and I’m told they taste bad when pulped up. If there were a few occasions in which a cook might have experimented with preparing them for eating, and had they been the seeds of Rivea corymbosa or Ipomoea tricolor, I suspect the participants would have been unlikely to repeat the meal in a hurry. In short, while Morning glory flowers were ubiquitous on the northern isles as a decoration, the practice of using the seeds as foodstuff was completely unknown when Amadon confided to the shaman the mysterious secret at the heart of a certain genus of this family of flowering plants.
Since this is of particular interest to Mein Host, I’ll see if I can pull up the basic elements of the exchange Amadon had with one of these selected shaman, as they’ve come to be known in all cultures. “You are one who has been chosen to enter the Mystery,” Amadon was telling the man–and Lemurian shamans were generally male–after he sat him down. It was dusk and they sat outside, close to the water which was lapping at the base of the basalt shelf. Between them a small fire was glowing. “Guard the secret well and it will serve you in your work.” Amadon’s voice is stern and resonant. He pours two handfuls of seeds out in front of him on a stone slab. “Look. See what I’m doing.” He is vigorously pounding hundreds of the tiny seeds, using stone against stone, until he has a double-cupped handful of fibrous material. “Use between three to four hundred seeds for each voyage.” Amadon stops grinding and shows the man a handful of ground-up seeds.
I can see the shaman is wrinkling his nose and laughing, unaccustomed to the smell and having no idea what Amadon has in mind. He clearly feels privileged at being chosen for whatever is going to happen and is hiding his nervousness with laughter. “Here. Drink this.” Amadon mixes the crushed seeds with water and hands the shaman a stone mug full to the brim with a viscous milky fluid. The shaman gags a few times but manages to keep the thick concoction down. Amadon is tapping quietly on the small drum I know he carries with him everywhere. The stretched lizard-skin head produces a taught, snapping sound which draws the shaman deeper into himself. The minutes pass and the drumming seems to entwine itself with the rhythmic beating of the waves on the rocks beneath them. The fire is burning brighter now. Amadon is periodically sprinkling a crushed mineral dust that sparkles as it touches the flame.
He starts talking in a singsong voice and I realize he is telling the story of the world as he remembers it. He sings of the wondrous arrival of the surgeons of Avalon almost 460,000 years earlier and of being among those chosen to contribute the biological gift that would become his beloved Van. He is singing of Dalamatia, the City of God; and of the noble Prince Caligastia and the promise of a new world. The shaman’s face is assuming a beatific smile and I watch as his spiritual body fills with light. The drumming changes rhythm slightly and Amadon’s voice assumes a more somber tone. Now he is singing of the rebellion among the angels; of the tragic and terrible conflicts which arose between members of the staff; of the great schism and of Van’s brave resistance. Amadon’s voice echoes the sadness and poignancy of their exile and their long trek across half the world. I can see reflected on the shaman’s face and in his emotional body that he is experiencing every nuance of Amadon’s story.
His face flushes with joy and his eyes are upturned in ecstasy when Lemuria enters the narrative. The long dangerous sea trip; the kindness of the dolphins; the early struggles and their slow expansion into a great culture, he sings of these wonders, and more. The drumming suddenly stops. Amadon’s voice adopts a new and authoritative tone. I wonder if someone else is speaking through him. “This, this I wish you to know. I speak with the mandate of Van and of the Most Highs. As I have told you, at the time of the rebellion among the angels your world was quarantined. You were isolated from the comings and goings of other planetary beings. You know little of the magnificent Multiverse.” The shaman is listening intently. He is clearly experiencing feelings unknown to him and I sense that Amadon’s words are creating a visual accompaniment in the man’s mind. “Your world is being left to follow its own path, so hear this well. I spoke to you of Van’s companions, Prince Caligastia’s staff and the demise of our city.
I sang of their terrible deaths when the nutrient rays were cut off how Van and I were spared this fate, so as to bring your forebears safely to our beloved Mu.” Here, Amadon pauses. The shaman is rocking silently to some rhythm only he can hear. I can see from his subtle energy bodies he is fully conscious; fully aware of the significance of what he is being told. I sense Amadon is coming to the point. “What you do not yet know is what you are now feeling and experiencing. The planet will be your ally in your healing. You understand now? It is the spirit of this plant who will be your ally. She will be your teacher. She will guide your hands and your mind.” The shaman is silent throughout. After a long silence, Amadon resumes speaking, once again in his singsong voice. “It was in these desperate times, with our companions dead or recalled, when Van discovered a terrible, yet wonderful truth.
He beseeched me to remain mute until the time came when ones such as you would emerge and be deserving of such knowledge. “It is this. Displacement and redirection. Much of what was contained in those life-giving energies that poured down on us on all of us the nutrient rays which sustained the staff which warmed our spirits as the sun warms our bodies and what has been unrecognized by all, is that these cosmic rays were long imprinting this world’s second chakra, well before they were ever shut down.” Amadon pauses again, watching the shaman’s face, ensuring himself the man is following, making the connections for himself. But, it’s far too important to leave to guesswork, so Amadon continues: “You have no need to understand the details, know only that there are certain plants, sacred plants power plants, because they have been endowed with the spiritual capacity to empower human consciousness beyond its highest limits. “You will discover power plants for yourselves as your species matures.
There will be others. You’ll find them on all continents and in all climates but the very coldest. There will be fungi and cacti; there’ll be certain vines and flowering plants; there’ll be roots and leaves and the bark of special trees; the spirits of all these will be your teachers. “These, the seeds of our sacred Morning glory, are your introduction to this realm of spirit. She will show you how to travel in your mind; how to speak to the dead; how to seek the aid of the Old Ones; how to retrieve lost souls and see the past and the future.” The shaman is showing signs of overload so once again Amadon holds his silence for what will seem to the shaman like an eternity. “And, for some of you, she will bring you to the throne of the most High.” The shaman’s hands are dancing, forming mudras in the air before him. Amadon takes this is as a perfectly natural response of a sentient being seeking to balance and align his subtle energy bodies in the presence of massively accelerating energies. “This is sacred knowledge.
The journeys you will take are sacred journeys. Use these power plants with respect and wisdom. They are dangerous for the unprepared, or the uninitiated. There will be others such as yourself who will value this knowledge; you will know them when you meet them. Like you, they are the shamans of their people.” I see the man now has his eyes open and his full attention is focussed on Amadon. He is returned from the Highest Heaven. He finds the fire is burnt down to embers as dawn splits the sky and birdsong fills the air. Amadon offers the shaman water from a carved gourd bowl, which he laps down with enthusiasm. They sit together in silence before turning to face the sun as the world drops slowly beneath its warming solar rays. “I leave you with two pieces of advice, my brother.” Amadon’s arm is around the shaman’s shoulders who appears surprised at being addressed as such.
His body relaxes. “First. Never confuse the messenger with the message.” And when the shaman looks confused: “The spirit of the plant is the messenger: she is not the message. Don’t set her above yourself. It is not her to whom your devotion needs be directed. She will show you the God of your heart. She is your ally no more, no less. She requires respect, not worship.” “And the second?” It’s the first time the shaman has spoken throughout the night. Amadon is smiling in appreciation: the man has been listening. “Ah! The second thing. This is the most important. You would be wise not to talk openly about the sacred journey you have just taken. Absorb the knowledge you have gained use it to deepen your healing work. Share it only with other shamans I’ve told you that you will know these men and women when you meet them. Otherwise, you’d be wise to keep the mystery to yourself. It’s a sacred mystery. It is not to be profaned.” Apart from a few random incidents of humans who mistakenly ate sacred mushrooms, the event I’ve recalled here is one of the earliest times in human history an entheogenic plant was accorded the supreme respect such a plant spirit deserves. The plant devas have served the shamans of your species with loving devotion through generations of humankind and are entitled to your gratitude.
I must have spent far too long in Lemuria because I received an unpleasant telepathic tongue-lashing from Daligastia, the Prince’s aide-de-camp, when I finally made it back to the western territories. There was a certain desperation in his outburst which told me more about the general state of morale in Caligastia’s camp, than it ever hurt my feelings. Perhaps one of the few advantages in having an insubstantial emotional body is there aren’t many feelings there to hurt. Besides, I’d been less and less aligned with Caligastia’s cause after observing Van’s work in Lemuria and getting a glimpse of what might have been on Earth from my trips to Zandana. Yet, I’d cast my lot with the Prince, and with Lucifer and Satan, and I had no choice but to make myself available to them for as long as this wretched affair continued.
Realizing this brought up a new feeling in me. A horrid shrinking feeling of cowardice. I’d never once told Prince Caligastia, or Daligastia for that matter, how I was really feeling, or what I believed was going wrong. Scarcely a justification, I know, but I was fairly certain they would consider any criticism from a watcher the height of insolence. Just as I was leaving Daligastia’s presence, I heard him calling me back. “So, Georgia,” his voice dripped oil in my mind, “you have some, um observations to share with us?” I thought I’d masked off those thoughts from him. Again, the cooly sardonic voice: “It’s come to our notice you appear to actually prefer to spend your valuable time with that despicable Van that is, when you’re not on Zandana. Yes, we know all about your trips.” I was taken aback by his tone. Anger at my absence I could understand. But I’d seldom been addressed personally by him before and never in this sneering tone. Did he think I was spying for Van? Or, that I might be a saboteur? I’d barely formed the thoughts when Daligastia’s contemptuous voice broke through again. “There’s nothing we need to learn from that traitor.”
There was little point in replying: I was an open book to him. He was my direct superior. “Van’s Lemuria ,” the scorn in his tone was becoming painful. “Thinking he’s doing so damn well proud of himself, isn’t he? Towing the party line like that like a good little boy he always was; yes M A, no M A, yes M A, this no M A that and he’s no idea what it’s really all about! That’s the joke of it.” I must have seemed confused. It was no surprise that Daligastia was derisive of Van’s progress, but a joke? This I’d never heard before. He continued, almost as if he was thinking aloud and wasn’t directing his ridicule at me. “And what do you think is going to happen to Van’s wonderful Lemuria?” He was asking rhetorically. “You think it’s going to last? You think that’s what this is all about? Life getting better and better? Wiser and wiser? A lovely peaceful world? Everybody being nice and kind to one another? You think that?” Ignoring the slur cast on what I thought was an excellent role to live by, I felt bound to react somehow. “But, Great One, isn’t that why we’re all here?”
Perhaps I surprised him, breaking into his train of thought, because I felt his attention turn once again to me. “Is that what you watchers think? You think that’s what the rebellion was all about? We went through all that trouble just to build another happy little world for M A?” “But, surely” “Thinking’s never been you watchers strongest suit. Best leave it to those who can manage it. If you haven’t connected the dots yet” His tone softened and I realized he was musing aloud again. Incapable of intelligent thought though I might have been in his mind, he appeared to need a (thoughtless) foil off which to bounce his thoughts. I knew better by this time not to respond to his questions. “What do you think that “voice” was all about? We all heard her. I know you did you wouldn’t be with us if you hadn’t. She was supporting us all the way and now where is she? “Did she know we’d all be treated like traitors? That we’d be cut off? Isolated?
Quarantined as though we had some terrible disease! You think she knew this was all going to happen?” He had a point about that mysterious “voice.” And it was a mystery. Soft, persuasive, humorous, enchanting in her tone and manner, she made us feel so special and loved. She was excited for us embarking on this great new adventure All the watchers with whom I’d compared notes after the rebellion maintained they’d heard her subtle encouragement to follow Lucifer. Yet no one knew who she might be. Some thought it might be a Supreme circuit opening up; others believed it was the voice of the Mother Spirit. And those who didn’t hear the voice thought we were deluded if we spoke too openly about her. She’d talked of the task ahead as a cosmic experiment; as something we’d understand more fully as time passed. She spoke of needing us to complete a great cycle; that we’d been chosen for this special task and promised she’d be there at the end to welcome us home.
She warned us that it wasn’t going to be easy; that we’d be challenged to our very essences. But that only made us more determined. She hinted how we would be opening doors to entirely new territories. We were enchanted. How could we resist this siren call? Then, she disappeared. Silence. Nothing. We were on our own. “That is how Great Lucifer heard her voice.” Daligastia broke the long silence. He’d read my mind again. “He believed it was the voice of the Supreme he had no doubt about it. He even told us he derived much of his courage from her. She had been with him all through the revolution. It was difficult for all of us when she withdrew.” Daligastia drew silent again. Not a telepathic peep out of him. It’s how the telepathic circuits function. The greater encompasses and interpenetrates the lesser, as the greater can mask its thoughts from the lesser.
The lesser is telepathically transparent to the greater, but not vice versa. This is what finally convinced those of us who could hear her mysterious voice. She spoke to all of us, great and small. Whoever or whatever she was, she encompassed us all, from a System Sovereign down to the humblest cherubim. During the revolution she was a constant presence who could never be ignored. Frankly, sometimes it was as if it was her voice, and not Lucifer, who was leading the way. It was that strong. What was Daligastia up to? I hadn’t thought much more about this voice after she disappeared and that was many millennia past. Actually it was something of an embarrassment since her sudden absence suggested she might have been some sort of mass delusion after all. It wasn’t a happy memory and I think I speak for most watchers when I say we tucked away any memory of those cajoling tones behind us, and in the chaos and excitement of our revolution, I’d forgotten all about her. Yet, here was Daligastia bringing up the voice again–after all this time. I wasn’t sure quite what to make of it, when his voice slid into my mind again.
His tone was more gentle now, as I think he realized I really was a simple watcher and unlikely to have considered myself an unwitting pawn in a larger conspiracy. “And you have never concluded we all might have been setup? This has never come to you?” I was unused to being this easily read. I can mask my mind from mortals, midwayers, and most of those of my Order, but Daligastia could pick thoughts out of my mind as simply as reading words out of book. “Yes. Yes. I know she called it a great experiment ,” he sounded impatient. “That we were doing something which had never been done before. But did you know it had been tried three times before–just in this Local Universe?” Well, yes, I did remember something about the previous three rebellions and they were always called “rebellions” by the Melchizedek in the lectures–thus automatically portraying them in the negative, as enemies of M A. However, I did notice they were extremely reticent to talk about those three incidents, so prior to the uprising I hadn’t given them any more thought.
I was wondering whether those who participated in the three earlier revolutions had also heard her voice; who’d been persuaded, like us, by her tender promises. “I blame the Melchizedek for that!” The anger was back again. “You know they told Lucifer almost nothing you would think System administrators would have a need to know about any previous conflicts, yes ?” I knew better than to reply: this news was far above my pay-grade. Yet, it didn’t altogether surprise me. M A never liked to admit failures. It was scarce wonder they would have buried the information so deeply in the restricted archives. “And none of us ever met, or even heard about, any of those who participated in those early revolutions.” “Revolutions,” I noticed, not rebellions. But, what was he doing taking me into his confidence like this? I’d never heard Daligastia, or Caligastia for that matter, talking like this before. I hoped my own feelings of dissatisfaction weren’t prompting him? “I have never seen the significance of that until now one more clue we were set up.” He was thinking aloud again and evidently had forgotten to shield his thoughts.
This was going to be risky I shouldn’t be here, listening to this Should I quietly take my leave? I really don’t want to be here when he realizes I’ve been listening. And yet “And if it was some sort of setup well, what then? Are we then the dupes? Have we fallen into M A’s trap, damn it? Is that what has happened? And we just blundered into it? Thinking it all our idea?” I felt first his bewilderment, and then a renewed anger building in his thoughts. “Does M A take us for fools?! Is that it? They think we are dancing like marionettes to their tune? Who do they think they are playing with! They cut off the juice, dammit! They killed my staff without mercy.” He may well have gone on in this vein as his anger and self-recrimination built up, but this time I took it as my hint to quietly withdraw from the Great One’s presence. I wondered later, after I was well out of Daligastia’s telepathic range, whether this would be a line of thought he planned to share with the Prince. Somehow, I doubted it.
I am a Watcher Angel and my name is Georgia.
