The Esoteric Charles Goodwin

2006-11-02T06:36:00.002+10:30

Charles Goodwin has published his latest book 666 The Cauldron on this Blog. (Copyright © Charles Goodwin 2011 All rights reserved) - The first in a trilogy - The founding of Chiron. (Scroll down for the blog posting index.)

666

The Cauldron

The Founding Of Chiron

by Charles Goodwin

Warning: 666 The Cauldron is an extremely scary novel of the supreme battle between the light and dark forces. The reader is advised that The Cauldron contains violence and sexual content. Please do not read this if you are under 18 years old and/or such subject matter offends.

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Copyright 2004 – 2011 © Charles Goodwin. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, storage in a retrieval system or otherwise, without the prior express written permission of Charles Goodwin.

All characters - other than obvious historical figures - in this book 666 The Cauldron are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Prospective publishers or Literary Agents

with expressions of interest are invited to contact

Charles Goodwin at cgoodwin@wealth-creators-club.com

Table of Contents

(Click on Chapter Heading to open)

Chapter 1 The Amsterdam Connection

Chapter 2 Destiny or Coincidence

Chapter 3 Visions and Dimensions

Chapter 4 Shattering Through Barriers

Chapter 5 Belief Systems Crumbling

Chapter 6 Seeds of Awakening

Chapter 7 So Close Yet So Far

Chapter 8 The Devil’s Due

Chapter 9 The Austrian Headquarters

Chapter 10 Close Encounters

Chapter 11 The Mantles of Hell

Chapter 12 Temptations And The Esoteric

Chapter 13 ‘And Deliver Us From Evil....’

Chapter 14 Australian Dreamtime

Chapter 15 The Pit of Venom

Chapter 16 From Darkness Into Light

Chapter 17 The Community of Light

Chapter 18 The Nexus

Chapter 19 Chiron’s Ecumenical Solstice

Chapter 20 The Seal Of Empowerment

The Esoteric Writings Of

Charles Goodwin

Table of Contents

Evil is the Sewerage of Contaminated Mind

Do You Believe in Reincarnation

Consciousness Is Always Self-consciousness

Charles Goodwins Ten Esoteric Tenets

The Mind Is Centered In The Past

The Past Is Dead

Truth Cannot Be Found In Doctrines

Miscellaneous Meanderings And Extracts

Charles I'm an Atheist

Enlightenment Is Not Individualized Or Separate

You Cannot Step In The Same River Twice

Enlightenment And The Guru

Hate Is Not The Opposite To Love - The Fallacy of Opposites

War And Peace - (More on the illusion of opposites)

Surrender To Oneself Is The Only Surrender

Knowing

Karma Destiny And Freewill

The Parables and Stories Of

Charles Goodwin

I have been to India upon a number of occasions. The primary purpose of these memorable journeys was not only to revel in India’s spiritual and magical energies, but also to observe and experience the techniques and examples of the Masters. Many of the profound parables I share with you here are my esoteric versions of stories based loosely from the lips of those Masters. The stories are pregnant with meaning.

Table of Contents

The Parable of The White Horse

The Parable of the Lily Pond and the Fishes

The Parable of the Sacred Nanny Goat

The Story of Govindamurti

The Enlightenment of Babu

The Pumpkin Man

The Story of the Frog

The Story of the Two Friars

The Sadhu and the Prostitute

Prospective publishers with expressions of interest are invited to contact Charles Goodwin at cgoodwin@wealth-creators-club.com

Wealth Creating and Enlightenment

– Vice or Virtue?

By Charles Goodwin

My readers have often commented on the paradox that my writings encompass both the esoteric/spiritual areas and wealth creation principles. A judgmental few have even “strongly commented” that there exists a high level of hypocrisy between the two apparent conflicting subjects.

Yet I make no apologies. To a starving child, is there any benefit in offering a copy of a Bible, a Koran or other holy book? To the countless millions out there in this world who have trouble paying their rent and food bills etc, is there any point preaching that because enlightenment is at hand, one does not need to be worried or concerned?

As a young man I "owned" dozens of apartments and houses. One in particular was rented by a handsome young twenty two year old bank officer. He had absolutely everything to live for. Yet one Monday morning, I received a call from the bank security asking that I arrange to have the apartment opened. The young bank officer neither arrived to work that morning nor informed the bank that he would be absent.

This scenario triggered a security alert in the bank. I later learnt that my tenant had shot himself dead with a spear gun. The reason? He was two payments in arrears on his car payments to the bank! At the time I was devastated. I knew that with a few hours of mentoring, I could not only have taught him how to be wealthy but also shown him why he never needs to fear poverty again. Yet I was only three years older than he was and at such a young age, I did not think I had the right to teach anyone anything about life's experiences.

Thirty years later I wrote The Secrets Of Wealth Creation Revealed. Upon release, most of Australia's libraries purchased copies, then the Australian and New Zealand book stores, then amazingly the book went through the major banks and I found myself being invited to interstate Head Offices. Finally the book took off world wide on the internet.

It has been the highest honor of my life to know that thousands of peoples' lives worldwide have been dramatically turned around because of both The Secrets Of Wealth Creation Revealed and the various wealth creation articles that I have written. From small villages in Africa, to Bangladesh to the mighty USA - the book has been used as a teaching aid in seminars and classes.

So I offer no apologies and see no conflict between "detached" wealth creating and the spiritual pathways. One inevitably so often leads to the other as financial security affords the time to ponder the higher secrets of existence.

Love always

Charles Goodwin

Wealth Creation Articles

by Charles Goodwin

How You Can Become a Millionaire via Your Hobby

How you too can become a Millionaire – the six dynamic steps of Wealth Creation

Gold Investment versus Alchemy – turning dross into Gold!

Wealth Creation and the Values Myths that keep you Poor!

Wealth Creation – Kiss it or Say Goodbye!

Making Money versus Wealth Creation

Wealth Creation Made Incredibly Easy!

Wealth Creation, Real Estate and the Internet – the Golden Triangle?

Critical Difference Between a Gamble and a Calculated Risk!

The Story of Govindamurti

2006-09-08T12:00:00.000+09:30

The story of Govindamurti

"Repressions are like a genie in a bottle waiting for the uncorking".

It was an auspicious day indeed. It was the day Govindamurti decided to leave his wife and family and seek enlightenment in a cave in the Himalayas.

For eight long years through the harsh seasons, Govindamurti sat alone in his small cave practicing austerities. He “meditated” long and hard throughout the prolonged cold nights, chanting his mantra, disciplining his mind and practicing his breathing techniques.

With few distractions, his mind soon silenced and he began to experience such beautiful peace and tranquility. Visions of Krishna and Buddha became common and Govindamurti wept with gratitude.

“I am enlightened at last!” Govindamurti one day proclaimed to himself. “I must now return to tell my wife and family.”

“Govinda, my husband, you have returned at last. Please sit down, put your feet up while I prepare a feast to celebrate your return!” exclaimed his wife ecstatically.
Govindamurti was pleased indeed with the welcome and made himself quite comfortable in the armchair.

“I am surprised you haven’t noticed, but I am now enlightened!” he later announced with feigned humility.

“That’s nice darling. I’ll pour the chai.”

“I don’t think you understand, I am enlightened,” Govindamurti repeated, his voice now perturbed.

“Oh, yes, yes, I understand, that is wonderful. Now just relax and drink up,” answered his wife, obviously unimpressed.

Govindamurti stood up, trembling with restrained anger. “You don’t understand. I’ve spent eight years becoming enlightened and you dismiss it out of hand with platitudes, you stupid unspiritual woman!”

“You are tired my husband, just sit down and relax. Perhaps practice some of your nice meditation.” His wife remained unruffled.

Govindamurti lunged at his wife violently and held her painfully by the hair, shaking her as he shouted, “You ignorant woman, you haven’t changed a bit. I am telling you one last time. I am Enlightened! I am now filled with love!”

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Yes! Repression is the Genie in the bottle that will demand to have its day! Repression is not a substitute for expression. And what is the moral to the story? Well there are many. The obvious "if you know you are innocent, you are not!" (Think about it.)

Enlightenment may well occur in solitude. However, it is in the marketplace that true enlightenment is verified.

Neither are visions a sign of enlightenment:

The disciple with tears of devotion in her eyes proclaims to her Master whilst meditating in the ashram, "Oh Master, I am having this most beautiful vision of Krishna!"The Master is unmoved and replies dryly, "Don't worry, just keep doing the breathing technique I gave you, the vision will soon go away."

The mind has its self-imposed peripheries. Tantra techniques, through expression, are aimed at breaking through these boundaries into freedom and totality.

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The Parable of The White Horse

2006-09-08T11:45:00.000+09:30

I have been to India upon a number of occasions. The primary purpose of these memorable journeys was not only to revel in India’s spiritual and magical energies, but also to observe and experience the techniques and examples of the Masters. Many of the profound parables I share with you here are my versions of stories loosely based from the lips of those Masters. The stories are pregnant with meaning.

One such beautiful story relates to the fallibility of judgments and comparisons. Delve even deeper into the meaning and you will discover the indiscoverable!

The Parable of The White Horse

A woodsman and his son came across a magnificent white horse deep in the forest. Their gentle nature combined with their skill of horsemanship came to the fore and they soon were able to lead the valuable stallion back to the barn, adjacent to their modest cabin.

The neighbors and other villagers were envious and quick to judge. "What good fortune. What luck. A magnificent white stallion… You should be so happy!"

The woodsman merely shrugged his shoulders. “Please do not judge the situation. The reality is, there is a white horse now on my land instead of in the forest – no more – no less”.

News spread and stories of the magnificent animal, the best horse in the land, soon reached the king. The king naturally wanted to possess the horse; after all, he was the king. Clearly, the king rather than a peasant should ride on the best horse in the land.

He sent his top negotiator to buy the horse with the instructions to buy at any price.

The woodsman was unmoved and declined the offers. A king’s fortune was offered yet the woodsman still declined. The horse simply was not for sale. The negotiator sadly returned to the king without the horse.

The neighbors and other villagers were again envious and quick to judge. “You fool! How could you refuse such a fortune? You would never have to work again in your life.”

The woodsman observed but refrained from answering.

Two days later the horse escaped back to the forest. Now the villagers really scoffed in their judgments. “We told you, you were foolish. Now you have neither the horse nor the king’s fortune! How unintelligent can you be?”

Again the woodsman was unruffled. “The reality is that the horse that was originally in the forest has now returned to the forest.”

The villagers laughed at the stupidity.

Two more days passed and the stallion returned. This time the magnificent animal led a whole herd of wild horses back to the woodsman.

The villagers now reversed their attitudes. “You are so clever. How did you know that the horse would return leading a herd? Now you own many horses. What luck you have!”

The woodsman again ignored their ravings. “The reality is simply that now there are many horses in my yard. All else is judgment.”

Weeks went by and one day a tragedy happened. The woodsman’s son, whilst breaking the wild horses, was thrown to the ground and became crippled. He was no longer able to ride and could now only walk with the aid of a walking stick.

The villagers once again reversed their judgments. “We told you that you should have accepted the king’s offer. Now your only son is a cripple! What misfortune.”

The woodsman did not reply. He had tried to show them the foolishness of judging a situation, to no avail. Unperturbed, he quietly went about his work.

Months went by and the kingdom was at war. The king ordered that every able-bodied single male be conscripted into the army. All the villagers knew the war was in a distant land and un-winnable. They knew they would never see their sons again. They went to the woodsman. “We will all lose our sons. Your son’s misfortune now appears to be fortunate. You are so lucky and we are so damned.”

The huntsman felt compassion for the villages. “Can’t you see that it is your judgment that continually causes your conflict? Observe the reality of what is and accept it. There is no need to judge. None of us can see the immensity of reality, the overall play of creation. Simply accept the what is and leave the rest to the Creator.”

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The Enlightenment of Babu - The Pumpkin Man - and many others!

2006-09-07T13:21:00.000+09:30

The Enlightenment of Babu

Early one morning, young Babu went running to his master in the ashram.

“Master, master come quickly, Govindamurti has finally become enlightened.” Babu paused to catch his breath. “I’ve just come from the river, Govindamurti was on the other side. I beckoned him to me. He simply walked across the surface of the water to me. Govindamurti can now walk on water!”

Babu’s master remained seated and unmoved. His eyes glared at Babu with mocking joviality.

“Master, it is true,” protested Babu. “Govindamurti is enlightened. I saw him with my own eyes walk on water.”

The Master beckoned with his finger for Babu to sit before him. Silence followed.

An hour went by. In the presence and aura of the Master, Babu’s thoughts settled. He lapsed into deep meditation. Another hour elapsed. The silence was eventually shattered by a mosquito buzzing around Babu’s face.

The Master finally spoke. “Babu, is the mosquito enlightened?”

“Of course not, master.”

“Yet even a mosquito can walk on water, can it not?”

“Yes, but…”

“So you think that enlightenment is raising yourself to the talents of a mosquito do you?”

Babu was humbled. “No, master.”

“Enlightenment is dropping all notion of body consciousness and becoming the mosquito. Not imitating the mosquito, is it not?”

Babu nodded “Yes, master.”

“When you beckoned Govindamurti to come to you, how do you know it was not your power that prompted him to walk across the surface of the water?”

Babu looked perplexed and did not answer.

“Babu, the path to enlightenment is fraught with dangers. You will develop various powers and view many visions. All these powers and visions are impermanent, hence illusory. Know that enlightenment is even beyond sidhi powers.”

At that instant, the mosquito suddenly bit Babu on the face. Impulsively Babu slapped and killed the mosquito. The Master vanished and Babu was instantly enlightened.

Question – Why did the Master vanish?

Here is another pregnant Zen parable as it was once told to me. The story is often told to children so they can learn to distinguish between their real self and their ego. On a higher level, it also relates to distinguishing between the immortal soul consciousness and the temporary physical body.

The Pumpkin Man

The child was only small when the parents tied a small pumpkin to his back. The child felt uncomfortable and encumbered at first, but in time slowly became used to wearing the pumpkin. The young boy played, ate, and slept with the pumpkin attached.

As the boy grew, the pumpkin also increased in size in proportion to his growth-rate. Others in the village began to wonder why the poor boy hadn’t simply removed the pumpkin from his back. He was certainly now old enough to do so, and the weight and the hindrance seemed too much to bear.

The boy remained steadfast. The pumpkin had now become an integral part of his psyche. He began to believe he was the pumpkin. If anyone dared advise him differently, he would become defensive and angry.

As the boy became a man, he was known far and wide as “the pumpkin man”.

Years went by. The pumpkin grew until the weight forced the now elderly man to stoop as he trudged through the village. The children would often run after him laughing at the foolishness. He would become angry and bitter, and wave a stick at them to frighten them off.

One night the children decided to play a trick on the pumpkin man. They entered his hut while he was asleep and cut the pumpkin from his back.

The children hid until dawn to see the results. The pumpkin man eventually awoke and realizing the pumpkin had gone, clambered out of bed and immediately began ranting and raving. “I am dead. I am dead. I do not exist anymore!”

Your ego and your physical body are your pumpkins. Your attachments and possessions are your pumpkins. Do not be like the pumpkin man and think that these pumpkins you are burdened down with, are you.

The story of the frog

A frog lived in a well. As the frog was born in the well and had never ventured from the well, the frog naturally thought that the universe consisted only of his well. One day the frog heard a voice coming from the top of the well. The frog thought that the voice must be God calling! The voice was the frog’s wake-up call. For the first time the frog was motivated to climb up the side of the well to the ledge near the top. When he reached the ledge he could see another frog sitting upon the top of the well.

“Are you God?” the frog respectfully asked.

“No, not at all. I am merely a traveling seeker after truth,” came the reply.

“Then, where are you traveling to and what are you seeking?” asked the inquisitive frog.

“I am traveling to the coast to experience the ocean!”

The frog was bewildered by the visitor’s answer. “What do you mean by the word, ocean?”

“The ocean is a huge body of water.”

The frog thought for a while and then replied, “Ah, the ocean is like a big well.”

“Yes, I suppose you could describe the ocean like that, but the ocean is, of course, very much larger.”

“I see. The ocean is much larger than my well. Is it ten times bigger than my well?”

“No much larger!” explained the amused visitor.

“Is it a hundred times larger?”

“No, even much larger than a hundred times bigger than your well.”

The frog was now even more bewildered by the strange visitor’s remarks. “This is all beyond my understanding. What you are saying is that this ocean you talk of, is maybe, even a thousand times bigger than my well, possibly even ten thousand times. A well that big must be dangerous! I don’t think I want to hear anymore. I could get lost in such a big well.”

“Well, I’ll be on my way then as I have a long and arduous journey ahead of me. Good day to you.”

“Good bye,” answered the frog as he scrambled back down to the safety of his well.
The frog summed up his little adventure this way. “I’ve been blessed to meet an enlightened Master who has explained to me that the ocean is a large and dangerous well of a size at least ten thousand times bigger than my well!”

The mind cannot cope with such immensity.

The frog mind can only consist of the known. It rehashes past experiences and conditioning, and simply by it’s own conglomeration of recycled memories, creates the ego.

The Story of the Two Friars

The world is often a mirror reflecting our painful insecurities, repressions, fears and prejudices. The following story shows us how the mind projects those negatives onto others.

The sudden storm had passed. With the run-off from the mountains, what had been a gentle stream only a day before, had now become a torrid river that threatened to burst its banks.
Streams, like people’s minds are subject to change – especially when sudden storms arise that unearth repressed desires.

Friar Umberto was walking down-stream with the talkative and jovial Friar Vincenzo, his younger colleague, seeking a safe place to cross the turbulent waters.

They came to a bend in the river where the waters narrowed. A most attractive young girl was standing upon the banks with the obvious intention of wading waist deep into the waters, in an attempt to make the dangerous crossing unaided.

Friar Umberto instinctively handed his staff and backpack to Friar Vincenzo, ran to the girl and lifted her into his strong arms.

“Hold on tight, my dear,” he commanded. “I will carry you across these raging waters.”

The girl did, indeed, hold on tight. Friar Vincenzo observed how the girl’s firm breasts pressed against the chest of the older friar as they carefully made their way across the river. Friar Vincenzo became troubled as well as perplexed.

Once on the other side, the two friars bid farewell to their grateful companion and continued their journey back to the abbey.

Umberto noticed that Friar Vincenzo was unusually quiet and sullen on the return journey. The sullenness continued even after the evening meal was served.

“Obviously, something is bothering you,” stated Umberto. “Since the river crossing today, you have hardly spoken a word. What is the problem?”

The young friar was more than hesitant in his reply. “It was the manner in which you assisted that young girl across the river today…. We have taken vows of chastity…. We are taught to avoid contact with the opposite sex because of the dangers of temptation of the flesh. Your actions did not sit right with me.”

The older friar felt compassion for Vincenzo. His reply was gentle. “Can’t you see that your problem springs from within yourself? I left the girl upon the opposite bank. Whereas, you my dear Vincenzo are still choosing to carry her!”

The Sadhu and the Prostitute

I wrote this (with guidance from beyond) at 4am one spring morning loosely based on a story I heard in my travels. It still brings tears to my eyes.

Chandra, as a young man, had renounced the world of possessions and became a wandering ascetic. He practiced faithfully, both brahmacharya (celibacy) and vegetarianism. He worshipped the Divine Mother aspect of God and was constantly moved to tears of ecstasy when his heart chakra centered on her image in meditation.

He wandered from village to village, preaching the gospel of love, right conduct, service and right action to all those who would care to listen.

Chandra was sure that after such a life devoted to God, he would soon become enlightened. After all, he thought, many others already considered him an enlightened saint. Attainment must now only be months away, if not sooner. The cycle of births and deaths for him will surely end. He has earnt his Buddha-hood.

In India, to be able to provide food and lodgings for an ascetic is a great blessing and a privilege. A village dignitary persuaded Chandra that he should retire from his wandering days and take up permanent residence in a small cottage that was, until then, unoccupied. Old age had been creeping up on Chandra. The thought of a little comfort in his final years would help make the pain of his arthritis a little more bearable.

From the front window of the cottage, Chandra could see the goings on in the busy street and more importantly, could observe the entrance to the cottage immediately opposite. His curiosity was aroused (if not inflamed) when he came to realize that his neighbor across the way was obviously a prostitute. He observed that men would be clandestinely visiting her at all hours of the day and night. He also came to learn that the woman had four children.

The situation both infuriated and disgusted Chandra. After such a life of purity in honor of the Divine Mother, to be faced with such blatant defiance of God’s laws, was an affront to Chandra’s senses.

As the days went by, his obsession with the “sinner” across the street, increased. He moved his prayer mat in front of the window, so that whilst practicing his long hours of meditation, he could continue to observe and keep count of how sinful his neighbor really was.

Each time the woman would have a male visitor Chandra would place a rupee in a large jar that he had placed next to his prayer mat. Each rupee would represent, or symbolize, a sin that he was certain, would have to someday be atoned for.

As the months went by, Chandra’s obsession did not wane. The months turned into years. The jar now contained thousands of rupees. Exaggerated rumors spread around the village. Whispers abounded. “The old sadhu keeps a fortune in his front meditation room. What need has a sadhu for money?” “He is obsessed with the prostitute across the street. He is out of his mind.”

As fate and the karmic law of relationships would have it, the prostitute fell gravely ill. There were those in the village who had contemplated robbing the sadhu. When they heard that the local prostitute was dying, they panicked. “Once she is dead, the old swami will more than likely give the money away. We must act quickly or risk missing out. It is time for action!”

The same night the prostitute died, the robbers entered the sadhu’s front room. The plan was to sneak up behind the meditating holy man and render him unconscious by knocking him over the head.

The blow was heavier than intended. That night, Swami Chandra also died.

The keeper of the gate met Chandra at the ethereal gates of heaven.

“I am truly sorry, Chandra I cannot let you through these gates as you have not yet earnt entry to this holy realm. You must now return to earth, reincarnate and try again.”

“But …., I have lived a life of austerity. My life has been entirely devoted to God. I have loved the Divine Mother all my life,” stuttered the sadhu. “There must surely be some mistake.”

The gatekeeper’s reply was compassionate, yet irrevocable. “We do not make mistakes here. Your name is definitely not on our list of new entrants. Now please go from this place. We are expecting an important guest at any moment. ”

Chandra felt shattered. He had noticed the excitement and preparations being made on the other side of the gates and naturally thought the festivities were for him. He was about to turn, when the trumpets sounded their fanfare. A harmonic choir of angels began singing a most beautiful bhajan or spiritual hymn. The gates suddenly opened.

Her face was transfigured. Glowing with radiance. A golden healing aura streamed out of her body into the ethers and into other dimensions. Yet, there was no mistake. Chandra recognized her immediately. She was the prostitute.

“How can this be?” he cried. “This woman has been a prostitute for most of her adult life and is welcomed into heaven as a saint and I have led a life of austerity and are refused admittance. I don’t understand. My Divine Mother has let me down badly. Her love has failed me.”

The keeper of the gate ceremoniously closed the gates before answering Chandra.

“Yes, Chandra. She was, indeed, a prostitute. She chose to prostitute herself, not as you thought for the sake of her children, but for one other exemplary cause. However, each time she engaged in the sexual act her mind was centered totally upon God. She constantly begged the Lord’s forgiveness. Upon each of those thousands of occasions, she felt wretched and un-lovable. Each sexual act was a torturous sacrifice. On the other hand, whilst her mind was on God, your mind was centered upon her performing the sexual act. Can you not see the difference?”

The truth of the keeper of the gate’s words found fertile soil in Chandra’s heart. “You are right. I am not deserving to enter this sacred place. I will re-incarnate a thousand more times to earn forgiveness for my self-righteousness, vanity and egoism. How could I have thought that I was so close to attaining enlightenment? I have been such a complete and utter judgmental fool.”

Chandra, head bowed, turned and began to walk away. “Thank you for your help. At least I have the Divine Mother to love for a thousand more lifetimes. From this day on I will trust only in her purity and love. I will give up all notions of enlightenment and attainment.”

“Chandra!” The voice was angelic and the voice of the Divine. ”Chandra, come back!”

Chandra turned his head back to face the gates. The gates slowly opened. Through the golden brilliance he could make out a figure of a beautiful woman beckoning him to return.

Hesitantly, though as much in trepidation as in reverence, he edged back to the gates.

As he approached, the prostitute’s face changed into the image of the Divine Mother. “Come on in, Chandra,” she said gently. “My undying love cannot fail you.”

And her words made Chandra suddenly realize that he was the “one other exemplary cause” for the Divine Mother’s earthly sacrifice. At that split second, Chandra attained enlightenment.

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The parable of the lily pond and the fishes

2006-09-07T13:02:00.000+09:30

I have been to India upon a number of occasions. The primary purpose of these memorable journeys was not only to revel in India’s spiritual and magical energies, but also to observe and experience the techniques and examples of the Masters. Many of the profound parables I share with you here are my versions of stories based from the lips of those Masters. The stories are pregnant with meaning. I wrote this story around a short parable that devotees in India are often told.

The Parable of the lily pond and the fishes

Prince Abdullah was a most fearsome warrior in battle, and a wise and intelligent ruler over his people. His magnificent marble palace, gleaming in the sunlight, was centered in over two hundred acres of majestic gardens. An outer walled fortress protected the peaceful sanctity of these gardens from the noise of the bustling city, over which Prince Abdullah ruled.

The fragrant gardens were a meditative retreat for the Prince, away from the heavy responsibilities and burdens of state. Many exotic trees and plants, ordered by the Prince from the far reaches of the world, thrived in the garden. Prince Abdullah was particularly fond of his large circular lily pond. The ancient pond not only contained the Prince’s beloved exotic fish, but also his wife’s favorite colorful lilies that the Prince had brought back especially for her as a gift from a distant land.

The Prince’s daily early morning routine was to walk around the lily pond seven times reciting verses from the various Holy Scriptures of the world’s great religions. This practice, he considered vitamins of the soul and helped him to understand the varying cultures and religions in the lands over which he ruled.

On one such early morning walk the Prince happened by chance to notice a problem.

The lilies in the pond appeared to be doubling in area daily. The prince realized that the fish, being mainly from the warm shallow waters of the tropics, needed sunlight. If the lilies were to eventually spread over the entire surface of the pond, they would shut out the light and the fish would surely die.

The problem posed a dilemma for the Prince. He neither wanted to offend his wife, nor lose his prized fish.

The Prince called for his top horticulturist and his most gifted mathematician. After several days of studying the plants the horticulturist confirmed the Prince’s observations. The lilies, were indeed, doubling in area every twenty-four hours.

The mathematician meticulously measured the circumference of the pond and the rate of the lilies growth. He made his calculations and after carefully checking his results, requested an audience with the Prince.

“My noble Prince, I have measured the circumference of the pond and the rate of growth of the lilies. The area of the pond is very large and my calculations show that it will be quite some time before action is needed to divide the lilies.”

The Prince was visibly relieved. “Master mathematician, your news pleases me. How long may I wait before I instigate action?”

“My noble Prince, my calculations show that in three years, three months and three days the pond will be completely covered. However my respectful advice is that you instigate action well before this time to ensure against the unexpected.”

The Prince was delighted. “ Ah, three years, three months and three days - such a long time. I accept your wise counsel. I will regularly observe the pond and take action, as and when needed.”

Prince Abdullah continued his daily routine of walking seven times around the pond studying and reciting scriptures. His knowledge of religion steadily increased. The seasons came and went. The lilies doubled in area daily, but their combined area still did not appear to pose a threat to the fish. The pond was vast and the lilies so small. The prince rightly observed that even more than 99.99% of the surface of the pond was still covered by water.

The Prince, over the ensuing months, became fascinated with the teachings of the world’s great religions. He noticed that they all taught certain “pillars of truth”. For example, each religion claimed that there was one God and that the one God was all encompassing. Each religion also taught the virtues of love, peace, non-violence, right conduct and detachment. Each religion spoke of the continuance of the existence of the “soul” in some higher state of consciousness, after the physical death of the body. The founder’s of each religion, each in their own way, had attempted to convey these “pillars of truth” to the masses.

And the lilies kept on doubling in area.

The Prince became bewildered. He was the warrior Prince who had fought valiantly and without mercy for the religion that he had been born into. He posed the question to himself that if all the religions proclaimed the same truths, why do humans butcher each other in war, each side fighting in the name of their God, or to uphold the truths of their particular religion. On some mornings he would spontaneously laugh at the absurdity. On other mornings he would cry with compassion.

And the lilies kept on doubling in area.

Three years and two months passed, as if time itself was surreal. The Prince noticed that the total area of the lilies, in relation to the water surface area of the pond, was rapidly increasing. However, the lilies were still covering only a very minute surface area. The prince began to doubt the mathematician’s calculations. He murmured softly to himself, “Over three years has elapsed and the lilies are yet to cover even one percent of the pond! Not even one percent. Ridiculous! The mathematician must surely be wrong. I will continue to wait before I take action”

The final four weeks drew to a close.

The Prince was now an “expert” on the dogma of all the great religions. His mind was filled with parables, psalms, quotes and verses. He could argue with the local religious leaders as valiantly as he once fought on the battlefield. He also proclaimed non-violence, violently. He also discussed the concept and immensity of the one God without ever experiencing that which he was discussing.

And in the meantime, the lilies kept on doubling in area.

The Prince knew it was now nearly three years and three months since the mathematician’s prophesy. It was early morning and he chuckled when he studied the pitiful growth of the lilies. Only a mere six to seven percent of the pond was covered with the plants. The mathematician’s calculations had been proved wrong. After that day, only four mornings remained. The lilies had taken nearly three years and three months to get this far and only four mornings remained. Surely, it would be many more years before he would have to act.

The Prince began his seven rounds of the pond, philosophizing on the philosophical truths of existence. He brooded upon the tragedy that the leaders of the world’s major religions, instead of uniting under a banner of love and truth, competed against each other for the hearts and minds of potential followers. This competition created conflict amongst his subjects and often boiled over into physical violence.

It was at that instant the Prince had a profound and dangerous revelation. He stopped and spoke out loud to his fish and the lilies. “Why am I brooding? I am the great Prince Abdullah, the warrior Prince. I will summon all the leaders of the religions, along with the other leaders of my lands, to a grand celebration. There, I will make a surprise royal pronouncement. We will together celebrate the unification of all religions. If there be one God, there must also be only one religion. I will call this new religion, “the religion of love”. I will order all of them to love each other in the name of God and Prince Abdullah. Those who choose to resist my edict will be banished from my lands.”

The Prince excitedly hurried back to his palace and began issuing the relevant orders. The celebration was planned for four days hence. He’d have to work fast. The Prince was practical. He knew there would be opposition. By giving only four days notice, his potential dissidents would have less time to hear the rumors that would surely abound, and more importantly, less time to hatch their plots to unseat him.

There was much to arrange. Many details had to be taken into consideration. Every important citizen of his lands would be invited. The hundreds of guests would need to be housed and fed. Varying entertainment would have to be arranged at short notice. So much to do. No time to be. In fact the Prince became so busy that he did not have the time to take his regular morning garden walk.

The four days flew by.

And in the meantime, the lilies kept on doubling in area.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon. The worried guests were seated in the grand hall awaiting the Prince’s arrival and announcement. The religious leaders were present along with the generals, the politicians and the business leaders. The tension in the hall was electric. All were impatient to hear their Prince’s impromptu announcement. Rumors abounded! Each and every one of the guests were vitally concerned of their own respective futures. Their wealth, their egos and their positions were threatened.

The drums rolled and the trumpets sounded. The gathering stood in unison as the Prince entered the room and took his place at the regal podium. He beckoned his audience to sit.

The silence was apprehensive rather than peaceful. The Prince began to make his announcement. “My lords and honored guests, as you know I have a special proclamation to announce. This edict is sure to affect each and every one of you.”

At that split second the Prince noticed his master mathematician standing, sullen faced, at the rear of the hall. The Prince immediately realized why the great scholar was there.

“Oh no,” the Prince cried out. “My fish, the lilies have killed my fish!”

To the mutterings of his surprised audience, the Prince leapt from the podium and ran to the garden. He gasped as he reached the pond. The pond was totally covered by the lilies. His rare tropical fish were all dead.

The Prince cried out in anguish. “Oh God, how can this possibly be. I have been absent for just four days. After so many years of being “alert”, just four days of absence and my fish are dead. The mathematician was right after all.”

The Prince began to do the sums. “The combined area of the lilies doubles each day. Five mornings ago I observed that only 6.5 % of the pond was covered. Therefore, four mornings ago in my absence, 13% of the pond was covered. Three mornings ago 26%. Two mornings ago 52%. This morning the pond was totally covered. In just four days of absence the lilies increased their area by a further 93.5% of the pond’s surface area.”

The Prince felt shattered. He sat humbly on the edge of the pond and began to meditate and offer a prayer to the ethers. His meditation flowered and his prayer became the fragrance. For the very first time in his life he was able to drop his obsessive ego mind. He finally realized that his thoughts, however noble and well intended, had created the thinker. He’d always assumed the opposite. That he was the creator of his thoughts. Now without thoughts the thinker or the ego was also absent. There was a space and that illumined space was his true self.

For the first time, he was now able to truly observe the lilies. He felt their presence expanding once more, as if they were reaching out to his soul. All about him began to shimmer, to vibrate. The trees, the flowers, the grass and the clouds, vividly colored – all pulsated in a celebratory rhythm of love. The pulsations merged. The Prince became the pulsations and experienced the bliss of totality. At that instance, a soul became enlightened.

After a lifetime of absence or sleep, less than a minute of true alertness led to enlightenment.

Back in the grand hall the plotting was well advanced. The religious leaders and the generals were arguing vehemently with the business moguls and the politicians. “The Prince must surely be insane,“ they shouted. “His grand announcement was that the lilies have killed his fish. He must have gone mad. Such a leader is highly dangerous. He must be stopped!”

And the high priests murmured, “And, of course, there are those rumors of heresy. He even had the audacity to think that he could begin a new religion. How dare he threaten our positions?”

The business moguls and the politicians wanted to imprison the Prince in one of his own dungeons. They reasoned that the Prince would command a high ransom. Most of the religious leaders and the generals preferred a more permanent solution. They argued to have the Prince executed. To them, a living martyr is an embarrassment. On the other hand, the memory of a dead martyr can be turned into a powerful asset.

The religious leaders and the generals finally won the argument, but only after agreeing to pay a suitable monetary consideration to the others as compensation.

The meditative Prince, sitting crossed legged and facing the pond, was not aware of the approach of the assassin. He was not aware of the blade slicing through the back of his neck as his physical body fell into the lilies. His space now contained all.

---00O00---

The Parable of the Sacred Nanny Goat

2006-09-07T12:34:00.000+09:30

I have been to India upon a number of occasions. The primary purpose of these memorable journeys was not only to revel in India’s spiritual and magical energies, but also to observe and experience the techniques and examples of the Masters. Many of the profound parables I share with you here are my versions of stories based loosely from the lips of those Masters. The stories are pregnant with meaning.

The story of the sacred nanny goat

If a million people say or do an idiotic thing, it is still an idiotic thing.

Many hundreds of years ago there lived a great saint named Ramaswami. The enlightened Ramaswami had many devotees at his ashram. Each day at sunset, they would meet to sing spiritual songs (bhajans) and chant sacred mantras. After this session, Ramaswami would give a thirty-minute discourse from the sacred Vedas and when finished, all would share in the evening meal.

Ramaswami also had a pet nanny goat gifted to him by a devotee. The saint had no use for a goat but accepted the gift with humility and reverence. Each evening, after all had eaten, the goat was fed with the leftovers from the communal meal.

A problem gradually arose. Because the goat would hear the singing and realize it was near feeding time, she would wander over to the group and disrupt the devotees singing and chanting. These disruptions became a down-right nuisance and it wasn’t long before a few of the grumpy elderly devotees asked their guru if the matter could be brought under control.

Ramaswami made a decree. Before the bhajans began each day, the goat would have to be collected from the surrounding fields and tied up near the gathering. The problem was thus solved. After all, a decree is a decree!

The years went by. The crowds were now larger. The new arrivals soon realized that the collection of the goat was the significant sign that meant bhajans were soon to begin. Indeed, the person given the privilege to collect the goat was one of the most respected elders of the group. He even adorned himself with an ochre colored robe so that others would see the importance of the ritual. Several of the women of the group took it upon themselves to wash the goat each day, so as to keep the bhajans area pure and clean. They even embroided a blue and gold sash for the goat’s back.

Ramaswami merely smiled as he saw the development of this ritual and did not attempt to hinder the devotees.

Eventually the now ageing goat died and another was immediately chosen to replace the old goat.

Many years later, Ramaswami also dropped his body. The ashram was in a quandary. What to do now? Disband or continue?

The elders soon agreed that the ashram should keep going in memory of Ramaswami. They appointed themselves as guardian officers of the ashram. They insisted that there should be as little change as possible.

And naturally, the goat was still required.

A hundred years went by. The sect was now known as the Sect of the Golden Goat. At sunset, the procession of the goat would begin. The high priests would lead the goat to the altar. The sacred goat would be adorned with garlands of flowers and robed with an exquisite blue and gold sash. The devotees would bow and clasp their hands in reverence as the goat was led by.

After the bhajans, the priest would give a half hour discourse on the spiritual significance of the holy goat. These discourses would explain in some depth, how the goat unselfishly gives milk, wool and meat, how the goat survives in the most rockiest and steepest terrains without losing it’s footing and how goats have been placed upon this earth to give us deep spiritual insights.

Ramaswami was honored at each session as the enlightened one who discovered the holy connection between goats and spirituality.

Books were created from these discourses. Of course, each scholar added his or her own philosophical interpretation and knowledge to the text as each book was written. Soon a whole library of literature was available upon the esoteric teachings of the Sect of the Golden Goat.

A beautifully carved statue depicting Ramaswami’s body with a goat’s head was eventually placed upon the altar. Devotees would often prostrate themselves before the statue and ask the image of the Goat God to grant them favors or healings. Because of, either devotion or coincidence, often these favors would appear to be granted and healings would, indeed, take place.

Tales of miracles spread throughout the land like the Ganges in flood.

The high priests stature rose with each added million followers. Temples were built throughout the world. Money, gold and precious stones flowed into the vaults of the new religion’s hierarchy.
The religion of the Goat God was thus born.

If a million people say or do an idiotic thing, it is still an idiotic thing.

---00O00---

Evil is the Sewerage of a Contaminated Mind

2006-09-05T04:50:00.000+09:30

S.K. With respect Charles, your writings at times frustrate me. I certainly relate to your teachings regarding belief systems. The way we set them up as our ego security posts and then continue to defend them, even unto the death. As you often point out, when one analyses the process, it seems such immature nonsense bordering on insanity. You are offering humanity a way out of conflict and for that I thank you.

However, it is when you talk of this existence, (to paraphrase your words) as a “dream sojourn” and that the world is an illusion, is what really gets my back up.

C.G. Mmm, interesting, please continue.

S.K. I’ll give you an example. A missile blows apart a building and the media immediately labels those killed and injured as a statistic under the title “collateral damage”. So much suffering and yet in your writings you seem to dismiss these events as illusions. I feel outraged at your insensitivity. In my example, the warhead on the missile and the destruction and death it has caused is surely not an illusion.

C.G. Have you investigated the source of the outrage you are feeling? You are currently projecting this outrage towards me, as if I am the cause. If I am the cause, I must also be the source – which of course is absurd. In your example, I presume the loved ones of those killed and injured are also outraged. Their outrage will, more than likely, hunger for revenge. I suspect that those who deployed the missile you speak of were acting out of outrage from a previous event. Can there be any difference between your outrage and theirs? Are you not conjoining in their cycle of conflict?

S.K. You are merely putting the problem back onto me. OK. I accept that I feel immense anger when I hear of such atrocities and I am perhaps projecting that frustration onto you. But that doesn’t answer my question. I desperately need an answer. Others can turn their heads away from such problems and get on with their lives. I feel at times disgusted at being a human being. There is so much evil in the world. I feel like shouting, “Stop the world I want to get off. I no longer want any part of it!”

C.G. Evil is the sewerage of a contaminated mind, is it not? An uncontaminated mind will cease to project evil and conflict. If anger and outrage were the answer to rid the world of the evil you speak of, then surely the world would have rid itself of such evil long ago.

S.K. Yet a child dies and you call the existence of the world a dream, an illusion? How can you dismiss suffering so blatantly?

C.G. The two questions you ask are not totally related. The phenomenal world is an illusion. (Yes) Children die needlessly. (Yes). But then you load the question with another question: How can I dismiss suffering so blatantly? I cannot dismiss suffering. I have immense compassion for all who suffer. You too, obviously feel a great deal of compassion. The difference is that, while my compassion remains constant, you choose to allow your compassion to become contaminated with anger and frustration. It is a question of perception. You see yourself as separate from the world (duality) and I know that in essence, there is only non-duality or totality. When you observe suffering in others, you inaccurately perceive the suffering as their personal grief. To your observation, they appear separate from you. When totality is realized, all suffering is personal. When a child suffers – I suffer. The child’s suffering is my suffering. When the World is in pain I am in pain. Thus I cannot dismiss suffering. Neither will suffering inflame an angry response within me. To become angry and to make others suffer in retribution will only add to one’s own suffering and to the cycle of conflict.

S.K. This wholeness you speak of is idealistic. One cannot take on the suffering of the whole World.

C.G. On the contrary, one simply cannot avoid it. The ocean of humanity and the World are one. People place protective mental barriers up against the suffering of the world because they feel that if they were to surrender and “let go”, they will become overwhelmed with a tidal wave of suffering. And of course they are correct. Eventually these barriers will come crashing down and the ego personality and individuality will be washed into the ocean of oblivion.

These false barriers can never be absolute. An 'ego manageable’ amount of suffering seeps into the consciousness – usually just enough to become frustrated and angry. For example, you may have watched the news on television and became understandably upset by the graphic ‘newsworthy’ pictures of the latest violence. All the while, in other parts of the world, millions of malnourished and impoverished children are needlessly and prematurely 'crossing over'.

Such selected or partial compassion neither helps the sufferer nor the observer. Partial compassion, as you are demonstrating by your anger, can only lead to more violence and increased suffering. To further illustrate, each side in a conflict has compassion for the suffering of their own population and their own defence forces. However because such compassion is partial, it only leads to hatred and to the escalation of the conflict.

If you truly wish to embrace suffering, be total in your acceptance and total in your surrender. Be total in your compassion. Have compassion and patience even for those who perpetrate the cycle of suffering. The soul call is always, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” And I use the term ‘soul call’ with purpose. Such a petition should arise from the heart centre and evolve from compassion and patience rather than from the tolerance and judgement of the mind.

S.K. I still cannot perceive the world as an illusion. To my observation the physical world is real. I am separate from you. I am sitting here looking at you. We are two people in a real world.

C.G. The problem begins and ends with body-identity. You ‘think’ you are your body, your mind and your personality – all of which is impermanent. You ‘think’ you are a human being. You wish to escape from the world but in reality the world is within you. The body, mind and personality are impermanent and permanence cannot flow from that that is impermanent. Only that which is permanent is real and the real (being permanent) cannot die.

You, as the cognizing being, are the subject and all that you perceive is the object. It is important to understand that the object also includes your body, mind and personality - the observer, the real you, perceives these attributes also. Now the question is, can the impermanent object exist without the permanent perceiver (subject)?

Rather than trying to answer the question, simply hold on to it. Enquire deeply into its roots. You do not need an intellectual answer. An intellectual answer will be of the mind and of no use. Be earnest in your enquiry. The question alone can lead to enlightenment. Ask yourself, if you are indeed separate, where do you finish and where does the object (or the not you) begin. What or where is the periphery of your consciousness? These 'koan type' questions alone will lead you to self.

Your consciousness is limitless and beyond time and encompasses all that you perceive. I can assure you that if your consciousness did not encompass the world you would not be able to perceive the world. Consciousness is both formless and timeless. In contrast; all that you perceive including your body, mind and personality has duration. In the cinema you can become emotionally involved in a film. Yet you know that the story is an illusion. You know it is mere dancing light. The film ends and you exit the cinema. Similarly, when this earthly sojourn ends you exit the earthly cinema and realize it was all mere dancing light.

So continue to ask the question, ‘Can the impermanent phenomenal world (object) exist without the permanent perceiver (subject)?’ But don’t attempt to answer it intellectually. Awareness will emerge as you begin to break the false habitual thought that you are your body. Remain detached. You (the real 'I) can easily observe that you are separate from the body. You have observed yourself as a child. You have observed your body maturing and then growing old. You will also observe the same body withering and dying. Yet you still remain as the detached observer.

Totality or enlightenment is the promise for all souls. Once even a glimpse of totality is experienced, there will no longer be a need for the question to be asked and there will no longer be the need for an answer.

To experience totality is the blissful realization that all is one.

---00O00---

The Cauldron by Charles Goodwin Chapter 1

2006-06-20T15:32:00.000+09:30

The Founding Of Chiron

Chapter 1

The Amsterdam Connection

‘I feel all Hell is going to break loose!

Yet I’m not really here. I must stay detached. Merely an observer to this surreal drama.’

Rebecca Childs reassured herself with all the raw courage she could muster. Her intuition crashed at the door of her mind for attention.

‘My body is here. My consciousness is directed to this play of life. But I am total, beyond spatial time and space.’

‘I feel all Hell is going to break loose!’ her whisper now trembled with grave inner understanding. ‘God, why do I keep thinking that?’

Rebecca had no way of foretelling how prophetically accurate her heart feeling was to prove.
No way of even remotely conceptualising, the intensity and total ferocity that a Master of the black arts, breaking loose from the shackles of the lower dimensions, could materialise in the physical world.

There was however but one certainty, beyond even a dark shadow of a lingering doubt - today was the beginning of the end. And her higher self sensed acutely that she no longer belonged.

A morbid augury or inner knowing, rather than logic, had guided her for the last time to the foreboding square in Amsterdam, but she was certain that today would be her final protest.

The early morning late October mist silhouetted ghostly images as the pallid crowds gathered. Unfamiliar strained faces from the peace movement greeted her with unfeeling distrust.

She crunched over the frosty grass . Vapour escaped from her frigid lips as she exhaled. Her own vibrationary rate quickly became affected by the depressive energy about her.

The group mind beast was forming.

She scanned the gathering. The tattered banners, the placards, the worn out slogans and clichés: With an eerie detachment, she felt as if an apocalyptic play was about to commence. A play of profound destiny in which she would not only be an observer, but also an unwitting participant.

Rebecca’s awareness heightened as the usual dimensions of time and space became translucent and unreal.

Rebecca Childs was now utterly dissatisfied with the peace organisation. An organisation, she thought, had become so hypocritically militant.

As far as she was concerned, the international Peace Movement had been secretly infiltrated - manipulated at the highest level - reduced to a sinister vehicle. A controlled pawn to further the covert agendas of those who were tightening their rigid grip on power across the globe.

But she wondered:

Who are the manipulators of power?

The spontaneous outbreak of riots - of strikes - the various bank closures: The economies of many third world countries collapsing; degenerating into bloodied feudal systems. Mass unemployment, food shortages and hour long queues were now commonplace. The democracies of the world appeared to be slowly disintegrating into compost. As if a sinister world jigsaw was being sadistically completed, piece by enslaving piece.

Rebecca’s fertile mind demanded answers.

But the jigsaw was complicated and unsolvable.

Well almost, perhaps.

The challenge was voracious and irresistible to Rebecca. Whether out of an insatiable morbid curiosity, or a devoted sense of humanity, she would risk her life in the attempt to complete the jigsaw.

She grimaced despairingly.

The papers that early morning were filled with the grisly details of another terrorist bomb that had exploded in a crowded cinema in Hamburg, three days previous.

105 dead and at least twice as many wounded.

Everyone knew which group was responsible.

Her mind centred on the ugly world phenomenon, the hideous gangs of urban gorillas known as the ‘Radicals’, who haunted the major cities, terrifying the populations.

The Radicals readily took responsibility for the planting of the latest bomb. They boasted they needed the publicity as a campaign for their latest recruitment drive. A fearless attraction to death and violence was apparently a pre-requisite of membership.

The Radicals were a cult-like terrorist movement, run by powerful underworld war-lords, who each administered their own agreed territories - and their own particular brand of justice. A sinister, inter-linked organisation whose proclaimed agenda was simplistic - and murderous.

Total and complete anarchy.

And intent upon the destruction of any remaining decency in the remnants of a decaying and dying society. But the Radicals too served their purpose well. Rebecca knew their existence was neither co-incidental nor a cancerous accident pertaining to the times. The Radicals symbolised the globe’s tragic upheaval. They were ‘archetypal’, but not the architects.

And of course, an unparalleled looming world disaster necessitated tough counter measures of unparalleled ferocity.

Thus, the Radicals became the justification for the formation of the new global security service, the ominous ‘Peace Keepers’ force, created some 15 months previous.

International co-operation at last! she’d thought. If only it were possible.

Rebecca’s cynicism pained and her face hardened , as she pictured in her mind’s eye, the manner in which the feared security and intelligence units, ironically named the Peace Keepers, had mutated.

They’d began their operations simultaneously, in all major cities of Western and Eastern Europe, Asia, Africa and America. For some obscure reason, only Australia and New Zealand had elected to remain neutral.

Another piece of the puzzle yet to be explained.

The tyrannising Peace Keepers were falsely heralded by the controlled media as the saviour of society. At first they boasted many ‘apparent’ successes against the Radicals.

The future looked hopeful - and the public held their breath.

The nasty tasting medicine prescribed by the world’s political doctors, as the panacea of all ills, appeared to be successful.

And the tabloids relentlessly splashed their propaganda onto a shell shocked public.

‘Global Peace Keepers Ensure Peace For Our World,’
‘Peace Keepers Versus The Radicals’
‘Global Breakthrough For International Co-Operation’

‘Some break through,’ Rebecca murmured angrily to herself, ‘This abhorrent Gestapo has been re-created to terrorise us into submission, not to protect us!’

Creeping forward silently - but swiftly, and with now near total authority the Peace Keepers, month by month, cemented their power and domination over the populace. Their intimidating military style of uniform confused and overwhelmed the public into passive acceptance.

A public that was only too aware that the impotent regular police force had ‘failed miserably’ in their blunted attempts to eliminate the Radicals or to control crime at bearable levels.

As an ‘aware’ schoolteacher, Rebecca considered, that she of all people, should have known better. Yet even she was conned with the orchestrated deception. The constant propaganda of war, of civil unrest, of economic disasters. Surely any international co-operation, simply had to be a step in the right direction.

Rebecca couldn’t validate all of her theories.

She was after all, just one concerned individual. An angry and somewhat cynical lone soul, in a world that seemed to be going slowly mad.

A world hurtling to a new dark age.

Or to a miraculous new beginning!

She originally joined the peace movement to render a personal protest against the new world global system that was deliberately being introduced. She felt an icy disdain that the increasing disappearance of outspoken humanitarians, was accepted without a whimper of protest by a repressed and gullible population.

The Peace Keepers’ tentacles tightened, advancing ever onward to complete subjugation of the populace.

The constant eroding of the individual’s personal freedoms, the repression, and the acute realisation that the so called democratic system was an illusion, became not only unacceptable to her, but repugnant to her whole concept of the spiritual advancement of the planet.

I just couldn’t watch with apathetic eyes and do nothing. I needed to become actively involved somehow - in some way, she’d convinced herself with charged idealism.

The peace movement had promised much to her and delivered so little.

She was now an old soul of thirty four years, bright blue eyed and alertly intelligent.

Her deep understandings and experiences of the spiritual and supernatural areas of life had brought her into sharp conflict with the ordered and repugnant changes taking place about her.

The over populated human race was now at cross roads.

And God seemed a hell of a long way off!

Rebecca’s life had been radically transformed from her comfortable but claustrophobic earlier years in England. She’d felt unbridled freedom upon escaping from the subtle, yet possessive clutches of her conservative, and to her way of thinking, narrow minded parents.

Her father was a computer hooked accountant, efficient, strict and ‘Protestantly God fearing’. Her mother kept the house tidy and forever worried about performing her lacklustre duties correctly.

Rebecca never really felt a sense of belonging to her family.

Some relationships are karmic, thought Rebecca. One knows there is a connection deep within. Other relationships are purely physical and a heart connection is lacking however hard one tries. But alas, the destructive and most useless emotion of guilt fails to understand the difference between a karmic or physical relationship.

Releasing herself from the dollops of guilt associated with this feeling of non-belonging, was a mountain she was still climbing. A Geminian free spirit with a stubborn Mars in Taurus, Rebecca was now an independent loner and loved it.

She did not suffer fools at all well. Especially males.

And unless an unlikely miracle, in the form of the perfectly, imperfect, challenging man, occurred in her life, she was not about to give up that freedom so easily.

The previous Wednesday she’d received the long awaited acceptance to her offer to volunteer her services as a teacher in a new alternative life style community being set up in Australia.

Rebecca had felt ecstatic upon reading the letter.

The fast expanding community was known as Chiron and situated in the picturesque Blue Mountains of New South Wales. To Rebecca, Chiron appeared to be the sole light in a darkening world. A spiritual straw to desperately clutch hold of - a life saving ark in a stormy sea of despair.

Chiron was headed by a mysterious, yet beautiful, shamanic North American Indian God-Man, known by his followers as Wakonda. Wakonda is the Sioux Indian term for ‘all embracing essence.’ Rebecca had heard from her new age friends a great deal about this new ‘Christ’ or ‘Buddha’ that had incarnated on the planet. She experienced an instant profound spiritual connection when she first sighted Wakonda’s picture.

The love emitting from his eyes, she thought, just seemed to engulf her and cry out a soul call, awakening distant memories deep within her spirit. Wakonda was famous for his miracles of healing and the immense celestial love and total compassion he gave forth.

His profound teachings merged the beautiful dream time spirituality of the Australian Aboriginals and the Shamanic Indian, with the esoteric teachings of the world’s major religions.

‘All religions have as their essence, Love, Truth, Peace, Non-Violence, Right Conduct and Service,’ claimed Wakonda, ‘And that the one all encompassing God, is the God of us all.’

‘Are you God?’ Wakonda would often be asked by his followers.

‘Yes I am!’ he would answer, without a taint of ego and with much love and compassion. And then he would add, ‘But so are you! All is God. The only difference between you and I, is that I am aware of my essence. And I am here to lead you to that same essence and understanding. Love is God!’

Wakonda’s parables gently reached out and touched the purest inner essence of the soul, opening new realities of wondrous experience for the seeker. To actually live near his physical form! Rebecca’s spirit glowed with attunement to the positive creative thought.

As she ambled in the crowd down the narrow, cobbled Amsterdam street her heart was already in Chiron.

‘Down with fascism! We demand our freedom! - Down with fascism! We demand our freedom!’

Rebecca’s serenity shattered as the loud-hailers began to chant their monotonous slogans. She sensed the intimidating anger of the demonstrators mounting.

But she felt alone. Alone and indifferent from the group beast mind - a mob consciousness - forming like a shapeless emanation of destructive evil about her.

She was near the front of the column - three rows back and to the left. Close enough to observe the self appointed leaders whipping up the dire hatred of the frustrated protesters. Close enough for her to realise that something was wrong - terribly and insanely wrong!

She glanced over her shoulder. She realised that this crowd was strangely larger than usual. About six hundred, she thought. Mostly aged from late teens to early forties. Some carried makeshift shields. Others were armed with baseball bats and clubs.

And all had that same fetid look of anger and frustration in their possessed eyes.

‘Hell, they seem ready for combat,’ she murmured, and of course she was right. The throbbing unease in her stomach intensified.

‘Peace for Mankind!’ The chanting continued but now in a far higher volume.

A smirk of cynicism crossed her face as she grappled with the irony that for people who were protesting for their individual freedoms, why the need for such group or class action?

She asked herself, If humans are created in God’s own image, why then are we rendered so pathetically inadequate as individuals. Why would a loving Creator tease us with torments of unobtainable Godly visions?

A silver BMW in the path of the human juggernaut was quickly overturned and set ablaze.

Rebecca recoiled, and was forced to shield herself from the searing heat of the flames. The stench of burning rubber and oil clogged her nostrils and made her eyes fill with black tears. The polluting smoke soared high into the sunless sky. The noisy crowd hooted and jeered victoriously.

And the protesters lumbered onwards.

The strongest of the leaders suddenly stopped and flexed his muscles. With a grunting Olympic weight lifting pose, he swatted and lifted a heavy concrete planter box, up over his shaven bald head. He stood erect, held his wavering position momentarily, as if waiting for the three lights signifying all clear, then hurled the 60 kilos of concrete, through a newsagent’s shop plate glass window.

The deafening crash, sounded like an exploding terrorist bomb. Splinters of razor sharp glass sprayed back onto the glaring protesters.

‘Down with the fascist media. The propaganda weapon of capitalists!’ he bellowed emotionally in Dutch.

A blazing torch went hurtling through the shattered window onto the inflammable magazines and newspapers. Red orange flames spewed into the street, sucked by the pressure of the fierce up draft. Within minutes the building became a burning pyre of released hatred.

The hysteria frightened Rebecca. She felt the tension rise electrifyingly up her spine.

‘We’re no better than the Peace Keepers or the radicals,’ she gasped out loud. ‘This is crazy, we are supposed to be a peace movement.’

But nobody agreed.

The group mind beast was now well in control.

The crowd lurched into Spuistaat parallel to the Singel (canal).

Rebecca felt nauseous and claustrophobic. She was now shoved along. The compressed wall of protesters fanned the narrow street. There was no way out but to keep staggering onward.

Another car became a target of vented rage. Like the BMW, it was at first rocked, then lifted onto its side and effortlessly overturned as if made of balsa wood. The flames at first flickered, then exploded into a hellish petrol fireball.

But the automatic roar of approval fizzled to a silent horror.

The protesters halted - stopped dead en masse!

Rebecca stood mummified.

From two opposite side lanes, only one hundred metres ahead, three columns of the dreaded Peace Keepers marched stealthily across in front of the crowd.

They carried automatic rifles and blood red truncheons.

And the hated name ‘PEACE KEEPERS’ and their logo, an inverted pyramid and panther’s head enclosed within a yellow circle, was emblazoned on their shields and helmets and on the backs of their black leather jackets.

Their knee boots were known to be steel reinforced at the toes and heals, like safety shoes, but for different, more painful reasons. They epitomised darkness and were trained rigorously in the ways of torture and execution..

Rebecca began to tremble. Her fingers and ears felt painfully stiff with frigid fear. She had some idea of what to expect. And that only made the terror multiply in her heart. In the constant TV news broadcasts, she’d often seen the Peace Keepers bloodied assaults and street battles on the armed radicals.

‘My God,’ she gasped with pure terror and some disbelief, ‘Today it’s the peace movements turn. The bastards are actually going to attack the Peace Movement.’

‘They’re at the back of us as well. We’re trapped!’ yelled a distraught woman further back in the crowd, shattering the tense silence.

Rebecca’s pulse raced. Her breathing irregular. She spun a glance anxiously to her rear. The crowd broke into frenzied convulsion. Wild screams of panic filled Beursstraat. Bodies and bruised limbs crashed into each other with fiendish ferocity.

A hefty shoulder pushed Rebecca violently from the side, catching her off guard. She became unbalanced, stumbled over a kneeling sobbing young woman, and crashed to the damp cobbles.
‘Someone please help me! I’m so scared,’ cried the young hysterical woman in English, hands clasped over her ears.

Only Rebecca could hear her depressed cry amidst the violent sea of legs.

Rebecca tried frantically to get up. A boot crushed down on her flat hand.
She squealed with intense pain.

‘Get off!’ she yelled, punching blindly at the leg of the culprit swashing her fingers. The boot lifted just two centimetres at the heel. She pulled her sore hand free.

Even above the thundering bedlam she heard the Peace Keepers’ order bellowed through the loud speakers. The young English woman beside her, slowly stood up in a state of shock, like a rabbit caught in the glare of high beam headlights.

‘Duck down!’ yelled Rebecca. ‘Don’t be a fool!’

The woman didn’t move.

‘Pick your targets. Take aim! Fire!’

‘Crack!’

The first volley of high powered rubber bullets rang out. An instant aftermath of painful screams echoed through Beursstraat.

‘Fire!’ The second and third volleys, in military precision, followed within seconds.

The young English woman didn’t cry out. Her expression remained blank. Scarlet blood gushed from her face. She slumped backwards, at first held up by the crowd, but then crumpled to the street next to Rebecca.

‘Oh God!’ cried Rebecca in horrified agony.

In place of the dead young woman’s left eye was a bloodied gaping recess. The rubber bullet had pierced through the eye and into her brain, killing her instantly.

Rebecca’s became angry. Her bare instincts was to survive at all costs. Her pranic adrenalin empowered her higher self to fight for her primal right and duty - the right to claim her destiny.
Maimed bodies fell dazed and became trampled in the now total and utter panic. Rebecca tight lipped and jaws locked, could hear the Peace Keepers shouting brutishly in Dutch. She dared look up for a split second.

A tortured expression enslaved her milk-white face. ‘Oh no,’ she cussed, ‘The caustic water cannons!’

Six of the Peace Keepers were lining up, each with bulky twin cylinders strapped to their backs. In their hands were the familiar tubular cannons, attached by hose to those dreaded cylinders.
She instinctively clambered, sidestepped and crawled her way to the adjacent buildings. Her thoughts now disconnected by shock.

The reinforced doors were locked and barred.

She glanced back.

The chemical water cannons began to extract their grisly toll. Gushes of bright pink torrents, fired high into the air, rained down upon the hapless screaming prey. The caustic additive burning exposed skin like fiery sun burn, making the eyes stream in acidic tears.

Rebecca shielded her face with her jacket. She dodged and fought her way between one barricaded shop and the next. Her limbs felt weighted and uncooperative.

The rest of the Peace Keepers now began to march towards the pitiful rabble, shoulder to shoulder, their truncheons thundered upon their shields in unison. They drew terrorisingly closer.

A sob burst uncontrollably from her lips.

They halted, only twenty four metres ahead of her. She saw them donning their alien like gas masks. Her mouth was croaked dry.

‘Quickly now! Fire!’

Rebecca quivered.

The Peace Keepers lopped their canisters of ‘happy gas’ into the bloodied and soaked crowd.
No smile came to Rebecca’s face. Instead her forehead glistened with icy sweat. Escape was her only soul call. The Peace Keeper’s infamous happy gas was so named because of the tranquil look on the faces of its victims, as they’d stagger dazed, before lapsing into temporary unconsciousness.

She was deathly aware that any unfortunate soul still standing, or even partly conscious after the gas attack would either be clubbed or on the receiving end of those steel reinforced boots.

And how many of the unconscious victims will be dumped into vans, never to be heard of again, she raged mindfully as she battled through the terror.

The Peace Keepers were total in their brutal efficiency.

A narrow, one and a half metre wide, no exit laneway, the barriers demolished by the stampede, and leading to one of Amsterdam’s many canals, became Rebecca’s only chance of escape.

Unhesitantly, she scrambled over the unconscious and maimed bodies and hurtled herself down the lane. Her heart thumped against her rib cage.

Her fear at the knife edge of consciousness.

She tripped on the slippery cobbles. She dared not look back. Clambering to her feet she could hear the thuds and the wailing terror echoing behind her, as the Peace Keepers bludgeoned and kicked the hapless remaining victims.

‘There’s one bitch getting away!’ screeched a nasal voice in Dutch.

A hurried shot seared past her ear - missing by only centimetres. She ducked, even though the bullet was past. She weaved and her weaving probably saved her.

Two more bullets pinged past at the vulnerable eye level and ricocheted against the red brick side wall.

Without slowing her sprint, at the edge of the canal she held her nose and took an almighty jump into the icy bracken water.

Her eyes opened under the cold olive water. Visibility was nil. A contrasting eerie silence, except for the amplified sound of her bubbles, engulfed her. It reminded her of being submerged in a soupy flotation tank - submerged with the ghosts of the legions of poor labourers, who with picks and shovels and waist deep in icy water, carved the canals out of the worthless swamps.

Rebecca’s appreciation and feeling for Amsterdam, a city originating in history as a refuge from religious and political persecution, never did extend to a passionate love for the 80 kilometres of murky canals.

The water felt soft, almost slimy.

She broke the surface gasping and choking. The noise was now deafening. She swam desperately, up and across the waterway to head for the nearest steps and freedom.

‘Ah!’ She groaned. A sharp piercing pain in her back made her gasp and swallow mouthfuls of the putrid canal water.

‘I think I hit her!’ An excited heavy voice shrieked from the edge of the canal, from where she had just jumped.

But the water had also taken the velocity from the rubber bullet.

Through the blurred haze of fatigued shock, she was able to make out four or five black uniformed figures with automatic rifles aimed at her.

She could hear their haunting mocking laughter, as if the whole brutal assault on the protest march was merely their afternoon’s sport.

Rebecca was to the point of nervous and physical collapse. Her face grimaced with death white trauma. She groaned with pain as she battled through the water to the steps.
She struggled up the stony bank.

Three more shots rang out. She slithered, rather than crawled a few metres, then collapsed into semi unconsciousness. Her soaked through skirt and blouse silhouetting her bruised and supple body.

Desperate and delirious, she called out into the ethers.

‘Wakonda, help me, please help me.’

The firing stopped!

She was only vaguely aware of the large chauffeur driven black Mercedes Benz braking to a halt. A strong tall shadowy figure, athletically jumped out from the back seat and lifted her gently into the car.

She felt herself drifting into unconsciousness. Rebecca clung earnestly to her rescuer - like a little girl cuddling her safe, secure daddy.

She recognised the distinctive smell of a French aftershave.

Rebecca knew her perfumes. Since her teenage years, when ever an occasion to stroll through a major department store arose, she would purposefully select her fragrance for the day, by testing an expensive perfume on herself. In the same fashion she’d kept abreast of the aftershaves - always romantically imagining the type of male who might wear each sensual fragrance.

Her rescuer was definitely wearing Egoiste by Chanel.

A feeling of warmth and security overwhelmed her as the sleepy darkness enveloped.

And for her rescuer too, there was just one certainty. Beyond even a dark shadow of a lingering doubt, today was the beginning of the end.

*
-----000O000-----

All characters - other than obvious historical figures - in this book 666 The Cauldron are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Prospective publishers with expressions of interest are invited to contact Charles Goodwin at cgoodwin@wealth-creators-club.com

The Cauldron by Charles Goodwin Chapter 2

2006-06-19T13:02:00.000+09:30

The Founding of Chiron

Chapter 2

Destiny or Coincidence

That same auspicious Saturday morning, thirty year old Paul Ravenscroft flew into the foggy Schiphol Amsterdam airport from Austria.

‘Good morning Herr Ravenscroft. Allow me to take your bags. The car is right this way.'

‘Good morning Hendrikus,’ replied Paul in German.

The chauffeur-cum-bodyguard directed him to the awaiting armor plated black Mercedes and was immediately driven the ten kilometres to the Amstel Hotel.

The Amstel, circa 1867, set on the banks of the beautiful Amstel River was Paul’s favorite hotel.
The hotel’s VIP service, and its grand palatial rooms, luxuriously furnished with expensive antiques, had attracted over the years an impressive guest list, including the Dutch Royal family, Winston Churchill, Isadora Duncan, and hundreds of other former crown heads, celebrities and tycoons. Having withstood the horrors of two world wars and their aftermaths, the Amstel fastidiously guarded its high standards against the backdrop of the gloomy rapid changes occurring throughout the world.

Today the famous Inter-Continental Amstel Hotel, in Professor Tulpplein 1, once more attracted the multi-millionaire businessman Paul Ravenscroft.

It was still only 6 AM when Paul arrived bleary eyed at the hotel.

A complicated arms deal had been organized for the ‘Syndicate’, with one of the Ravenscroft’s off shore subsidiaries being used as a front. The Syndicate was a pivotal key piece in the sinister global jigsaw.

‘Paul. Good to see you. Hey, you’re looking terrific! Now every thing has been arranged.’
Paul was met in the Amstel’s grand lobby by his aid, an expatriate American lawyer, and well groomed watchdog called Donald Ormsby.

‘The meeting is set for 8.30 in your suite. I’ve taken care of all the loose ends. The exchange should be a mere formality. All you will need to do is to play host for an hour while I go over the settlement papers.’

Don’s efficient over zealous manner is too irritating so early in the morning, thought Paul bitterly.

‘As a matter of fact, I feel tired Don. Hell knows why I’m needed here,’ he answered brittly in English. ‘I’ve read the brief for the meeting in the plane. I’m sure you could have taken care of the exchange alone.’ Paul paused significantly, glanced at his Rolex and added, ‘Look I’ve had less than five hours sleep and had to get up at 4am to make this damn meeting.’

‘I understand how you must feel. Your presence here certainly wasn’t my idea,’ countered Don in his usual polished US accent. ‘Your father insisted that you attend the necessary exchange of signed documents and banker’s guarantees this morning. I’m sure Heinrich had his reasons.’

‘I’m sure he did. But I would prefer that he’d let me in on his reasons occasionally,’ grumbled Paul.

‘Look, how about I get some strong coffee sent up to your rooms. You have over two hours to relax before the exchange takes place.’

Paul nodded reluctantly and remained tight lipped. ‘I’ll take another shower to wake myself up. In the mean time, see that my bags are sent up.’ He walked three paces towards the lifts, stopped and then turned. ‘Oh, and don’t forget to ring me first from the lobby when they arrive, before you rush on up.’

The giant Ravenscroft conglomerate, the daunting empire created by Paul’s Grandfather, Heinrich Ravenscroft the first - who seemingly had the magical touch of Midas - was built principally on the esoteric pyramid structure. From the all encompassing one is born the trinity. From the trinity- the creative force of the many.

The cone of the pyramid - the all encompassing one - being the powerful Ravenscroft Trust based in Vienna. The second level consisted of a triad - or a trinity - of corporations. These three companies, incorporated in Switzerland and fully owned by the Trust, comprised an influential and international merchant bank, an insurance company named Marduk Provincial and a commercial property holding company named Osiris Inc.

And from the trinity - the creative force of the many.

The third, fourth, fifth and sixth layers (but not seven) involved a vast complicated labyrinth of 62 other inter-related companies, spanning the globe, with questionable interests - including manufacturing, armaments, the media, finance, shipping and air freight.

The death of Paul’s grandfather, eighteen months previous, had resulted in Paul’s dramatic initiation into this vast business empire. Paul’s previous ‘playboy’ existence had ended abruptly.

Absolute control of the Trust still rested with his father, Heinrich Ravenscroft the second, but Paul had been launched - almost thrown - into the super league of the world’s business moguls.

Paul possessed most of the qualities of a successful business leader; intelligence, entrepreneurial spirit coupled with a fierce competitive nature - and a deep and inexhaustible hunger for power - or knowledge?

However, unlike wealth, love cannot be possessed.

And to Paul, LOVE was a word symbolizing an unexperienced concept only. A deep heart longing imprisoned behind barriers of suppressed pain.

He’d been fanatically indoctrinated from a child that money represented power. And the acquisition of ever increasing assets cemented that power. Power, which combined with the syndicated power of other similar conglomerates, now had financial control over much of the world’s economy.

Paul’s initial initiation revealed to him just a few of the dark secrets of this huge power base.
He'd learnt how countries’ economies were manipulated like ‘snakes and ladders’ via their central banks, by the Syndicate. Depending on the Syndicate’s game plan, the unsuspecting target governments are lured - or forcibly encouraged - to negotiate ever increasing loans to balance their billowing budget deficits. The security for the debt is the ‘balance of terror’ perpetuated or created by the Syndicate. A neighboring country, (or countries) is financed to expand its defense capabilities, agricultural or industrial base. The consequence of this expansion, results in an even greater threat to the first country’s security.

Higher massive loans are thus required, to pay for higher defense costs or much needed infrastructures. Both countries are caught in their own mini arms race, or developmental spiral.
Much to the satisfaction of the Syndicate.

The larger the debt, the greater the Syndicate’s control. The interned population having mortgaged their futures, standards and freedoms. Currencies are manipulated to make repayment even more difficult.

With the ‘balance of terror’ principle, governments out of line, found themselves with neat little wars or strikes to contend with. The media and the country’s internal intelligence service, often being used to remove anyone from power who refused to conform to the Syndicate’s ‘advice.’

Paul accepted these principles as simply good business practice. Nationalism was after all, an insecure weakness to be exploited.

He’d observed nations make valiant efforts to repay the loans, by raising agricultural or industrial production for export, at great hardship and sacrifice to its population, only to see the world price for the commodities tumble, when a fluctuation suited the Syndicate.

And in the Syndicate’s closet, hid other black secrets. Secrets of events past and events planned, that would make the science of economic manipulation, appear as mere child’s play.

Unbeknown to Paul, the Amsterdam liaison was arranged in part, for Paul to gain acceptance with the other moguls of the Syndicate. In comparison with his more senior associates, Paul was an innocent and naive novice. Heinrich Ravenscroft had lobbied his Syndicate colleagues tirelessly to accept Paul’s higher profile. He’d taken a particular interest in this transaction and had supervised the deal personally from Austria.

The other Syndicate chieftains were left suspicious of his motives. They had a right to wonder, why after 28 years of virtually ignoring his son, Heinrich was now anxious to see Paul promoted to the inner Council of the Syndicate.

Heinrich Ravenscroft’s awesome reputation was infamous. His power and wealth was matched only by his temper and stark ruthlessness. Don Ormsby had made sure that this meeting was to go strictly according to plan. He didn’t dare do otherwise. Heinrich Ravenscroft accepted neither failure or disloyalty.

But the best laid plans can go astray.

Another’s destiny can not be so easily manipulated by the logical plans of another.

Paul all but drowned himself under the shower before methodically unpacking his bags.

Analytical Virgos worship tidiness and cleanliness. Their thoughts too need to be tidy. All Virgos feel that panic attack of nerves that looms when their minds become disordered. Especially when a dosing of ‘moon in Cancer’ sensitivity is added to the sun sign.

He stretched out on the bed wearing only his briefs, to avoid creasing his silk shirt before the meeting. He wanted to relax and switch off his mind but his rambling thoughts insisted on reflecting the basic principles of the deal.

The transaction is simple in its complexity, he thought, and he wondered how many tens of millions of US dollars, or Swiss franks, profit were actually at stake.

Paul scanned the dossier. His logical mind listed the relevant stages in sequence.
This central South American Republic’s economy has rapidly expanded through its newly acquired oil and gas wealth. The inexperienced military Junta in power unwisely ‘insist’ on repaying their outstanding loans to the Syndicate.

And repayment would upset the balance of control in the region.

The Syndicate would disallow any scenario to develop that would undermine its control.
‘And besides, I’ll wager the Junta’s huge oil profits needed to be ‘re-channeled,’ sniggered Paul, managing a portentous grin.

A huge surplus of dairy produce in Western Europe had been purchased at dumping prices by the Syndicate, to be on-sold to the hungry Russians. In return the Russians, via their usual middlemen in the Middle East, would sell arms to the Junta’s opposition, the terrorists freedom fighters based in the western mountains of the South American country.

Just enough arms to create havoc with the cashed up Junta - and more than enough to expand a local conflict into a financially draining and bloody war.

Divide and profit!

The scenario being beautifully completed with the Ravenscroft armament subsidiary selling even more advanced weaponry and helicopter gunships to the Military Junta to counteract the now well armed freedom fighters.

Russia needs the Syndicate’s money, as does the freedom fighters.

We win all round, thought Paul gleefully. A healthy profit is made on the dairy produce. We make a small fortune on the advanced weaponry to the Junta. And we reap the long term interest payments on the loans to all parties involved.

The Junta would be allowed to remain in power until it became more profitable to remove them.

Ah, the balance of harmonious terror, Paul reflected as he laid the file on the bedside cabinet. Nature’s wonderful exploitable law of the jungle.

Paul had been conditioned well. Beginning at the most basic level.

‘Make sure the peasants never forget the rules, Paul,’ his father used to say. ‘Tell them, they work or they don’t eat. They pay their mortgage or the house gets repossessed. They pay their overseas loans or they lose their country. It’s the same principle, just higher stakes, that’s all!’

The balance of harmonious terror.

Definitely no place for conscience or sympathy for the underdog.

‘If God didn’t want them shorn, he wouldn’t have in his infinite wisdom made them such dumb insecure sheep.’ His father’s clichéd word’s echoed through Paul’s mind.

He found himself often repeating the phrase, when he knew that sections of the public had once again been fleeced or manipulated by the Syndicate.

Ironic though, he thought, father was a devout atheist.

He’d told Paul that supernatural powers most certainly existed - and were to be used unashamedly. But he should never confuse those powers, which are now only just beyond present scientific understanding, with any stupid notion or concept of a God. Indeed, his father accepted that death was only a transition into higher levels and dimensions of an ever expansive universe. But again, these were natural scientific laws. Part of man’s eternal destiny.

‘The illusive God won’t be there when you cross to the other side,’ he’d instruct with fired passion. ‘Any God that exists is right there inside you! You are the creator, preserver and the destroyer. The unawakened are merely your meat to devour as you will.

Remember always the first law of the esoteric, ‘As above - so below’, he’d hammer at Paul.
‘Just as we eat dumb animals in the physical realm, we psychically feed of the un-awakened in the spiritual realms. All of existence struggles for ascension over itself in the same manner.’
And he’d often add, ‘Remember always that God has only ever filled in the gaps of science. Concepts or beliefs of a God recede as knowledge and science expands!’

So life was an exciting challenge to Paul. He hoped eventually to earn the right to attend with his father the mysterious Syndicate meetings held every two months in various parts of Europe. Each rendezvous was held under immense security and absolute secrecy.

Paul suspected that the agendas included such items as the oil and gold price, commodity and currency prices, wars, media policies and changes to governments. He’d often observed the satisfied ‘knowing’ face of his father, when shortly after a meeting, some major world event appeared ‘accidentally’ to conveniently occur:

Resulting in yet another huge profit for the Syndicate.

And perhaps a few incidental deaths.

But after all, business is business!

‘Paul, I would like you to meet Bashar,’ said Don, with an proficient smile, as he introduced the first of his three visitors.

‘I am most honored to meet you Mr. Ravenscroft.’ The two metre high lean ‘Russian’ spoke in a cultured but strong accented voice. He was bearded and dressed in a conservative well cut suit. His shoulder length black hair, parted in the middle, contrasted starkly with his anemic white complexion.

Paul detected the strange scent of aromatic oils on Bashar as he gave the customary bear hug.
And he felt a mysterious connection with Bashar. As if he’d met him before - or had known him in a previous lifetime.

‘And this is Fernando, who is taking care of the South American freedom fighters interest.’
‘Fernando meet Paul Ravenscroft.’

Paul shook Fernando’s limp hand. Fernando’s opium glazed eyes hissed total distrust. His slight stature bore the evidence of deprivation and abuse. His olive skin around his eyes had a tinge of unhealthy Hepatitis yellow.

Paul eyeballed him, unsympathetically.

The third visitor, Fernando’s well dressed portly legal adviser, wasted no time in taking out a stash of documents from his black leather briefcase.

‘Don can take care of those.’ Paul pointed to a table as he spoke and motioned with his eyes for Don to start checking the papers.

‘Come let’s have a drink while the lawyers earn their keep.’ Paul invited Bashar and Fernando to sit on the leather chesterfields.

‘What will it be?’ He asked, picking up the phone for room service.

Bashar shook his head politely. His shiny hair waved across his shoulders. ‘No thank you Paul. I never drink before breakfast.’

In contrast, Fernando twitched his nose with a sneer. His voice had a strong Latin American accent and a distinct tremble. ‘I do not wish to drink so early, either.’

Paul reluctantly replaced the receiver and sat down next to Bashar. He would have gladly ordered a drink. Preferably champagne - a few breakfast bubbles may well have cheered him up. Dragged out of bed at 4am. Flown to Amsterdam just to attend a simple exchange of contracts and bank certificates; this is absurd, thought Paul. A knot of outrage rose in the pit of his stomach.

The documents took about half an hour to be assessed and verified. Don insisted on a few minor changes, which were grudgingly agreed to by the South American’s lawyer.

Fernando sat perpetually nervous and distrusting, on the edge of the second chesterfield, displaying obvious discomfort.

I don’t trust you either Fernando, Paul thought, still lusting after his French champagne. He sensed Fernando’s disapproval of the terms of the arrangement. You’d sooner slit my throat, than to shake my hand!

Paul had been taught never to trust any one. Trust is relative and never absolute. Merely a calculable response of another to a given situation at a given time. And ‘trusting’ was an unnecessary gamble - and gambling should be left to the fools. Much better to take calculated risks.

Paul knew well the difference.

You calculate the deal so the punter takes all the risks.

Bashar on the other hand, thought Paul, was much harder to read. He wasn’t hooked on any idealistic mission like Fernando seemed to be possessed by.

Bashar had a mystical energizing presence. Yet out of character, he talked too openly about the double commissions he would receive from the purchase of the dairy produce and upon the sale of the arms.

‘Keep me in Vodka for a while at least,’ he mused. ‘Perhaps even a woman or two, yes?’

Paul studied Bashar without replying. He stared directly into the Russian’s magnetic brown eyes. He wanted Bashar to know that he wasn’t taken in by the frivolity.
You just don’t look the part, thought Paul. Truth be known you probably don’t even drink alcohol.

Bashar grinned enigmatically and his grin seemed to answer in agreement - as if he was able to read Paul’s thoughts.

The legendary Rasputin. Damn it, that’s who you remind me of!

Bashar grinned once again in the same ‘knowing’ manner.

Fernando was now perspiring. His shakes were becoming noticeably worse.

‘Are you OK?’ asked Paul. ‘You don’t look at all well.’

Fernando’s face showed strained disgust. ‘We need these guns desperately. I am doing this for my people and you, all for a stinking profit.’ He waved his arms with wild Latin gusto.
His outburst of passion caught Paul off guard.

‘The Junta, they are destroying my beloved country. My heroic comrades need these guns to win freedom. You must understand this. My people, they are dying!’

‘I am sure your cause is noble and just,’ replied Paul condescendingly, after allowing a few prolonged moments to elapse, ‘but business is business. Please, don’t be offended by our detachment. We prefer not to think in terms of nationality or race. Just business.’

‘Mr. Ravenscroft is right Fernando. The world is one big market place. Boarders mean nothing. Certainly nothing worth dying for,’ added Bashar comically.

‘No, you are both wrong. Some causes are worth fighting for. I would quite happily die for my country, any day,’ protested Fernando. He stood up shaking with restrained anger and his body craved for its overdue snort of heroin.

‘As I said, we need the guns. But I am not a fool. Your organization is like a multi headed monster. I deal with one head and the Junta deals with another. I know you sell to both sides!’

Don looked up, startled at Fernando’s emotional eruption. Fernando’s lawyer spat out a sharp reprimand in Spanish.

Fernando realized he’d said the unspeakable. He lowered his craggy face. ‘I am sorry gentlemen, for my remarks. Now please excuse me. I need to go the bathroom.’

Bashar gleamed sardonically at Paul, as if glad to be rid of Fernando. He tapped his peaked nose with his finger, leaned over and spoke softly. ‘And his death wish will come true. The Syndicate needs a patsy to hand over to the Junta. Fernando’s prized scalp will keep their military off the scent of our arms supply to their opposition.’

Jasmine that’s what I smell. Why on earth would Bashar use a fragrant oil as an aftershave? thought Paul curiously, without giving a second thought to what Bashar was saying.

‘Fernando is his code name,’ continued Bashar. ‘He sees himself as a Cuban trained revolutionary - the Junta knows him as a terrorist. He really can’t be trusted. His drug habit has become a huge problem. And too nationalistic, yes?’

Paul flinched in half agreement, noticing Bashar’s serious nature, but knowing he was still for some reason playing a comic opera role.

Bashar continued but now with added cabbalism, ‘Paul, meeting you at long last has been an enlightening experience. I look forward to working with you, and helping you, in the imminent future, yes?’

Paul wanted to ask, ‘Who are you? And what are you really here for? But instead he remained non committal. He intuitively knew that Bashar had been checking him out for the Syndicate. But there was something more. A strange uncomfortable inner feeling. As if Bashar was reading into his soul.

And Paul didn’t give a second thought that Fernando’s life would soon be terminated.
After all, business is business...

‘Everything is now in order Paul.’ Don stood up from the table and closed his attaché case as a calmer Fernando re-entered the room. Paul’s Virgoaness felt a little disgusted at his bathroom being used to snort drugs.

Bashar gazed penetratingly into Paul’s eyes as he gripped his hand to leave.

‘We’ll meet again Bashar,’ said Paul, returning the stare and acknowledging the intriguing power that Bashar’s presence generated.

Don stayed behind to brief Paul as the trio left.

‘That was easy,’ sighed Paul, still glad the exchange had taken place without a hitch and his minimal obligations over. ‘Although I still can’t see why I was needed to be present.’

‘Perhaps this transaction has more significance than you imagine,’ Don replied cryptically.

‘Who is Bashar really working for?’ challenged Paul.

‘I only know that today, he officially represented the Russians. I’m only ever told what is necessary.’

Paul sensed Don was at least half lying.

‘Bashar said that Fernando will be compromised,’ motioned Paul, attempting to stir Don’s interest.

‘We are only the Brokers. Concerning yourself with such matters is most unwise,’ responded Don.

Don rarely showed even a hint of an emotion, positive or otherwise. Neither would he discuss his past. Paul knew he was a 37 year old American investigative lawyer, born in Galesburg, Illinois, and ex CIA. He knew also, that Don had risen quickly up the ranks in the Central Intelligence Agency, both by his talents and from knowing the right political contacts.

Don was a choice recruit for the Syndicate.

One of Don’s duties included, reporting back to Paul’s father on his progress (or lack thereof). He was both ever reliable and capable. And yet Paul harbored lingering doubts as to where Don’s ultimate allegiance lay. Paul respected Don’s fastidious eye for detail. Don always methodically crossed every ‘t’ and dotted each ‘i’. And his express computer like mind had helped Paul on several occasions to avoid making embarrassing errors. He had access to computer files on virtually any noteworthy individual. Files that contained such details as personality profile, financial status and bank details, religious and political leanings - and other important items - like exploitable weaknesses and sexual preferences. Combined with his regular advise and instruction on company policy, Don proved handy to have around.

To Paul, Don was ‘the devil you might think you know, against the devil you don’t’ principle.

Don turned to Paul inquisitively, as he was about to leave Paul’s suite. ‘What do you intend doing this morning, if I may ask?’

‘Nothing particularly interesting, I thought I might visit the Rijksmuseum. As you know, art is one of my passions. I particularly wanted to view Rembrandt’s Nightwatch again. Why do you ask?’

‘Don’t go near Spuistraat, that’s all.’

‘Is Spuistraat on the way to the museum? What’s happening in Spuistraat?’

Don paused before replying, and lifted his eyebrows feigning indecision.

‘Why shouldn’t I go near Spuistraat?’ Paul prompted, his voice now sounding determined.

‘I’ve received a report. There is to be a disturbance. The Peace Keepers - they intend clashing with the peace protesters today. To go near the vicinity will be inadvisable and highly dangerous for you.’

‘So the peace movement has been infiltrated as well?’ responded Paul, framing his words as a question rather than a statement.

Don answered indirectly. ‘It’s important that this civil unrest continues until the Peace Keepers are accepted by the general population. The media needs the ammunition to sway the public mind. The peace movement, unlike the Radicals are gaining public sympathy. They have to be stopped.’

‘So the aim is to make the peace movement look as crazy as the Radicals,’ said Paul, his curiosity now firing on all six cylinders.

‘But of course! The peace movement must not be allowed to sabotage the primary objective.’

A nagging ball of impatient frustration began to bind in Paul’s chest. The secretive ‘cloak and dagger’ mentality of those associated with the Syndicate made him angry. Even after his 18 months of peripheral involvement, a conspiracy of silence remained in force, restricting him to a perpetual state of ignorance.

‘Don, surely I have a right to know. What exactly is the primary objective?’

Don scrutinized Paul and spoke guardedly, ‘All right. I’ll tell you the whispers, but for God’s sake don’t tell your father that I told you! He’d have me castrated.’

‘Hell no. You can trust me Don!’

Breathless excitement replaced Paul’s frustration. He listened with the acute intensity of a hungry panther in the black of night.

‘It isn’t far off Paul. One Global Unified Government!’

And imprisoned in Don’s next statement was the nucleus - or destructive seed - of the horrific nightmares to come.

‘Ultimate control for ever, Paul! And you are destined to be one of the leaders!’

‘And you are destined to be one of the leaders.’

For a protracted time after Don had left his words reverberated with sheer disbelief in Paul’s mind.

As did the unanswerable nagging question.

‘Why would I be appointed for leadership? Sure I’m Heinrich Ravenscroft’s son! But at thirty years old, and with only eighteen months experience; the facts just don’t add up.’

He paced his room - the panther was now caged. His forehead felt clammy with humid perspiration. He felt claustrophobic - and utterly alone - but for some intuitive reason there was no excitement.

Paul called the hotel’s reception and ordered the Mercedes to be made available. ‘Oh, and you can throw in a bottle of Bollinger,’ he exclaimed, reacting to a panicked after thought. He replaced the phone and noticed his fingers were trembling.

‘Hell, I need a drink,’ he gasped silently.

Three hurried glasses of champagne later and a purposeful detour on the way to the Rijksmuseum, he instructed his uniformed chauffeur to cruise alongside the far side of the canal that ran parallel to Spuistraat.

‘Pull in here please, Hendrikus.’

‘Certainly Herr Ravenscroft,’ answered unpretentious Hendrikus from under his oversized cap.

Paul relaxed comfortably in the back, lowered the electric windows and poured himself another glass of Bollinger.

He felt a morbid attraction, or perhaps an intuition, to view first hand the demonstration that Don had warned him of.

A sense of voyeurism rose within him, suffusing him in a glow of anticipation. His eyes fixed unflinchingly across the canal, as if viewing the first dramatic scenes of a Hollywood blockbuster. He heard the noisy chants and the derisive cheers of the protesters. Black smoke billowed up over the roof tops.

Paul sipped his Bollinger with amused and vainglorious style and wishing that he’d ordered a dozen natural oysters with the champagne.

His relaxation was short lived.

Suddenly the first shots rang out. Terrified screams of hysteria and anguish echoed hauntingly between the bell and neck gabled buildings across the canal.

The second and the third volleys cracked.

Paul now gulped rather than sipped his drink. The shrieks intensified. The pandemonium seemed unending. A frightening chill swept down his spine as he heard the cries of pain as the clubbings extracted their toll.

Hendrikus cussed in Dutch something about the Peace Keepers, and then spoke in English.
‘Those poor bastards must be really copping a battering. Would you like me to drive on, sir?’

‘No, not yet,’ and his voice could only whisper huskily. Paul felt oily sweat on his hands. His face drained wax white. Not that he felt guilt or the slightest responsibility. Just the realization that a logical business mind mattered little, when one allows emotions of the heart, any means of expression.

Perhaps, he thought, the sheep in the slaughterhouse do understand and are fearful of their impending deaths.

He first saw her flash out of a lane way and jump into the dirty canal water. The vision must have been for only a split second.

Yet she was tall - long haired - and even from that distance he knew she was strong and sensuously beautiful.

She surfaced and struggled valiantly across the canal to the side where the custom built Mercedes was standing.

And he realized he was meant to be there waiting for her. He now understood at a deep, almost subconscious spiritual level, why fate had brought him to Amsterdam that day.

The Peace Keepers laughed as they took pot shots at her. She managed to drag herself out of the water and clamber up the bank, before collapsing.

‘Pull along side her Hendrikus!’ he ordered, and even as he spoke the first word, Hendrikus turned the ignition.

The Peace Keepers lowered their rifles and stared mystified.

He lifted - gently, and with brave pride - his dazed, drenched and muddied mermaid into the back seat. Her arms embraced Paul with gratitude. Her clear blue eyes gazed dreamily into her rescuer’s lonely face.

Paul felt this unmistakable but strange feeling.

No this feeling isn’t sexual - sex I understand - this sensation is warm - alive - and glows with tenderness. What on earth could it be?

And lost boyish tears came to his wistful eyes.

Rebecca fell into a deep restful unconsciousness.

----00O00----

The Cauldron By Charles Goodwin Chapter 3

2006-06-18T10:50:00.000+09:30

The Founding of Chiron

Chapter 3

Visions and Dimensions

‘Rebecca, come to me. Do not be afraid. Come!’

Rebecca clearly heard the voice echoing through the deep recesses of her mind - a voice of authority - yet resonating such sweet kindness and warmth.

‘Do not resist - drift to the light. Come!’

Rebecca could ‘see’ before her a long dark, ethereal vortex being formed. A distinct and whirling, circular opening, penetrating through the grim and gloomy clouds of astral matter.

She watched with baited expectation.

The far end of the ‘tunnel’ suddenly opened to a pulsating and luminous golden light. A Super Nova of creative brilliance.

Rebecca gasped with elated excitement. The shining radiance of colors burst forth down through the tunnel in an efflorescent rainbow of abounding love. Her eyes transfixed to the light. A strong compulsion to move forward and upwards saturated her spiritual body.

‘Do not resist - drift to the light. Come!’ the gentle voice repeated.

The empowering words assisted her to surrender her sense of attachment. She let go of her burdening fears. And with the release of limitations came the state of etheric buoyancy - she began to drift. Slowly - up through the tunnel of love - up - higher, towards the effulgent attraction. Her body felt weightless and supremely calm. Total peace and serenity engulfed her being.

‘Keep your eyes focused on the light. Do not look to the sides,’ prompted the guiding voice.

‘I must be dying! But oh, this feeling is so beautiful.’ Rebecca’s solitary thought arose from a distant part of her consciousness.

She continued drifting, higher, ascending always towards the light.

And finally, emergence.

Absolute bliss, permeated into and rejuvenated, each and every atom of her spirit - totally overwhelming her with sacred love. Her moist eyes, at first shyly shielded, gradually became accustomed to the powerful illuminating energy. She could ‘feel’ celestial music. Loving natural vibrations, creating exquisite melodic chants. An indescribable infinite spectrum of bright colors, appeared to be dancing in a constant celebration of creation, in exquisite harmony with the music.

Rebecca cried with intense gratitude - and her gratitude was showered with boundless joy.
She felt to be separate, yet at the same time, there was an experience of intrinsic oneness. Immersed in a kaleidoscope of intense loving, spiritual creative energies. A total awareness of the cosmic wholeness of the Divine Creation.

In this near perfect state of being, Rebecca’s thoughts seemed to originate from far, far away.

‘I am home - I am.’

Her bliss overflowed as the realization imploded in her. The nirvanic realization that the ‘I’ in the ‘I am home’, no longer had validity. There was only ‘being, awareness and bliss’. The purest enlightened state of non-duality.

‘Now walk towards me, Rebecca.’

And upon hearing the gentle command, her spiritual eyes automatically adjusted back, back to the lower, denser level of existence. The intense feeling of loss was like being torn violently away from the state of heaven and cast down into a rat filled sewer.

She immediately understood in her heart, the sacrifice that is offered by higher souls, when they reincarnate into the physical dimension to serve and guide the sleeping and lost souls of our Earth.

The astral smog cleared.

Gradually she saw him. He wore a white robe and was beckoning her to him. And her heart began to throb with the devotional love of a Bhakti.

Wakonda stood in a small clearing by a river, in natural bushland setting, only two hundred metres from the community he had formed.

The exquisitely beautiful Australian Blue Mountains presented their healing majesty to Rebecca, acknowledging that the Earth Mother is also a form of the Divine presence - the largest and most ‘permanent’ physical form experienced by human souls.

The air felt clean and crisp.

Eucalypts towered over the wattles as the sun blessed the varied colors of the foliage through the cloudless azure blue sky, creating the perfect balance of dancing shadows and shimmering white lights. Kookaburras chortled in a springtime chorus with the multi colored rosellas and finches.

‘Thank you for coming Rebecca. Welcome to Chiron. Please do not attempt to touch me. Believe me, you are not dreaming.’

Rebecca felt an instant heart felt connection. She was struck with both awe and profound humility in Wakonda’s presence. Her eyes flowed tears of supreme joy.

‘I know, I understand,’ Wakonda spoke in the most sympathetic and understanding voice that Rebecca had ever heard.

The intense feeling of love flowed from this great spiritual Master like the waters of the Ganges in flood. An incarnation of the Divine in human form, once again on Planet Earth.

Rebecca gazed deep into Wakonda’s clear brown eyes.

From his youthful and beautiful, thirty year old face shone incredible compassion and purity.
His long shiny hair and wispy beard reminded Rebecca of the paintings that had portrayed another Master two thousand years before.

She remained speechless, trembling, not with fear but with overflowing devotion. Devotion, earnestly trying to explode from the centre of her heart.

‘What...what do you want with me? Am I dead? I.. I don’t understand.’ Rebecca finally, etched out the words, and then she added, ‘Wakonda, I am feeling so much love.’

‘I know,’ he repeated softly, as cleansing tears of devotion streamed down her cheeks once again. As he spoke, an aura of etheric hues beamed outwards from his body, expanding far into the infinite ethers.

‘Rebecca, you are love. Love is your all pervading essence. The sensation you are feeling is your own expression of unrestricted love.’

‘But... Wakonda...’

‘No not now, our time together is limited. Please listen carefully.’ Wakonda’s voice changed from the motherly to the paternal aspect.

Rebecca nodded respectfully.

‘The Celestial Guardians from the most high asked me to assist you to astral travel through the hells to the lower spiritual realms, where you could experience the nectar and Divine love of the heavenly spheres.

‘Through the lower hells!’ Rebecca gulped. ‘Is that why you instructed me not to look into the sides of the tunnel? What would have happened?’ she flashed, her Mercurial curiosity kindled.
Wakonda smiled at Rebecca’s inquisitiveness, and his smile radiated into her spirit, blessing away lifetimes of karmic dross.

‘The fear and depression corresponding to that vibrationary level would engulf your spirit. Your personal vibration rate would slow and begin to adjust to the lower level. Your awareness would become entrapped in an illusion of despair and enslaving sensual desires.’

‘Sounds familiar - similar to the physical plane - I mean,’ offered Rebecca, noticing the correspondence.

‘Quite so. As above - so below,’ replied the Master, and then added, ‘It is extremely difficult to release yourself from the attachment of fear gained in the lower hells. The hells are a most unsavory place for an extended visit.’

Rebecca shuddered. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Neither, could I allow you to proceed into the higher spheres. Your spirit would have been unable to cope with the increasing awesome power of the Creative Divine Light. Like a prisoner entrapped in a dark dungeon for centuries, released into the bright sunlight would be blinded, you too require a patient readjustment. But be assured, that which you experienced as supreme bliss was only the periphery. Far ‘higher’ realms and spiritual treasures await you.
These experiences were offered to you, so that you’ll be able to retain your courage through the dark trials and tribulations ahead for Mankind.’ Wakonda spoke with an authority that completely negated any reservations Rebecca may have had.

‘Wakonda , but why me,?’ she asked humbly, and as she whispered each word, waves of ecstatic love trembled from her crown chakra down through her body.

‘Rebecca I can only answer your question allegorically. The words I am about say will be most difficult for you to comprehend.

The symbolic struggle that began when the ‘Angels’ were cast out of the higher realms, believing passionately they were able to utilize the power or force of the Divine, without accepting the existence of the personal Creator from whence all power is derived, thus turning the power of creation into the powers of darkness, is now close to the final conflict.’

Wakonda paused, allowing Rebecca to take in the immense ramifications of what she’d just heard.

‘By final conflict, do you mean the much prophesied end times for the planet have now begun? Are you saying the new age of love is about to commence?’ asked Rebecca, choosing her words carefully, and speaking with enthusiasm rather than horror.

Wakonda’s reply was strong and absolute, yet still charged with compassion.

‘You must understand, the parables and the prophesies to which you refer, are symbolic. They have to be. The languages of the world have insufficient words to explain the unexplainable.
But know that, the physical existence you experience from day to day is but an illusory dream of your true reality.’

She nodded and sighed inwardly, and thought of the many times when life had seemed to revolve around her like a huge carousel. Each pony representing an ever changing period of her life, while her inner self remained silently undisturbed in the centre. Her consciousness shifting from pony to pony as she’d grown older - yet realizing that she was also the whole carousel in the eternal ‘present’.

Wakonda gazed to the heavens as he continued. ‘As the expanse of space appears infinite spatially, similarly, the different dimensions of being are also infinite. Humankind is beginning to fully comprehend that size and distance are both relative and limitless, yet science still needs to understand that dimensional reality is also limitless. The long awaited breakthrough into spiritual enlightenment, when our scientists will prove extra dimensional existence, is now not far off.’

And then Wakonda made a statement that rocked Rebecca’s consciousness, like an earthquake measuring 7 on the Richter scale.

‘Rebecca, know this next statement as truth absolute.’

She nodded with expanded awareness and anticipation.

‘The entire perceived universe, is but a bubble on the ocean, compared with true reality. That is, all that science could possibly perceive, is akin to a small isolated bubble on the surface of the Pacific Ocean, compared with the magnitude of infinite reality. The mind cannot cope with this immensity, but know that it is true. And consciousness, which is all pervading, is even far beyond this limitless state.’

His words imploded in Rebecca’s heart. The realization flooded her being, that she would never be able to comprehend the absolute via her limited conditioned mind - that she would have to discover another pathway to self awareness - the pathway of direct heart experience.

Wakonda’s patient instructions continued.

‘This potentially catastrophic struggle I speak of, has its roots in dimensions of existence, past even the astral regions. And neither will the catastrophe be restricted to the Earthly species. If the Earth is allowed to die, the whole of existence, encompassing all the myriad dimensions, will be affected. The harmony and balance of the cosmos is a required natural law at all levels.

Perhaps you have heard it said, that a butterfly flapping its wings in the Amazon, could result in a cyclone being created in the tropics?’

Rebecca remained star struck. Her head twitched a slight nod.

‘Well the Earth dying of suffocation from astral darkness is the flapping of the butterfly’s wing. Can you imagine, even for a moment, how destructive the corresponding ‘cyclone’ across the infinite reaches of dimensional space will be?’

'No, I don’t think I can imagine,' answered Rebecca solemnly, and her mind begged the question once again: Why am I being told this?

A magnetic smile came to Wakonda’s cheeks as if to infer he’d understood her transient thought.
His electrifying response was direct.

‘A ‘lost sheep’ named Paul, a person to whom you will soon re-connect in a most profound and loving way, is an important balance in this final conflict. Like the ‘lost sheep’ of the well known parable, Paul is a near enlightened soul, unaware of his close spiritual awakening. He is as vulnerable as a strayed lamb amongst a hungry wolf pack. The wolves are those who embrace the powers of darkness and have planned to conjoin the lower hells with the Earth as their kingdom. To underestimate their powers and evil intent would be tragic. The entities of the never worlds use the Divine gift of ‘freedom of choice’ to the ultimate, for the fulfillment of their selfish desires and for the destruction of all virtuous actions and motives.’

‘I don’t quite understand, Wakonda,’ she asked, ‘There seems to exist a contradiction between freewill and destiny. How can freewill and destiny co-exist?’

‘One is the opposite polarity of the other. Like two sides of one coin. Freewill creates destiny. Our will is the master - the creator, and our thoughts and mind the servant As the will, fed by our thoughts, creates movement in the cosmos, an equal and opposite reaction is also created to balance the change. Thus destiny co-exists with the expression of freewill.’ Wakonda paused to allow Rebecca time to digest his words.

‘I think I’m beginning to see,’ she said, meditatively.

‘The freedom to make choices allows each of us to exist as a separate consciousness upon our individual karmic paths to enlightenment. Our choices forge our karma and our destinies. Even at the most elementary level, you Rebecca, may choose to breath deeply and enjoy health in abundance, or choose to breath shallow and suffer the reverse. You may choose to eat correctly, or to think pure thoughts, or you may choose the opposite. At the highest level, this natural law manifests itself into the self awareness that humans are truly made in God’s image.’

He held out his arms with palms cupped upwards. ‘We are all Divine co-creators of this magnificent universe! But use this creative gift of the will selfishly, for evil instead of service, then destruction or correction become the fruit of such actions.’ He paused for a bare second and she knew that the psychic link was about to be severed.
‘Rebecca, be as a good shepherd, and help lead Paul away from the shadows of suffocating attachments and into the light. And be on guard always! Follow the path of discrimination, rather than the path of foolish judgment.

In turn I will guide and instruct you, in various ways...’

Paul gazed wondrously at the alluring features of Rebecca as she lay temptingly upon his bed in the luxury suite of the Amstel.

Her serene face emitted an auric vigor and a composed self assurance - qualities that seemed to unleash within Paul, a distinct yearning of security - and warm sensual desires.

He smiled with cheeky delight as he studied the cute dimple in her chin and her few remaining childhood freckles. Her long natural eyelashes, perfectly matched the auburn highlights in her shoulder length hair.

Rebecca’s eyelashes began to flutter. Her eyes opened.

She was aware that someone - a stranger - was watching her. She turned and stared into Paul’s beaming boyish face.

‘Where....am I,’ she whispered. She gazed magnetically, deep into his Aryan blue eyes - as if in some strange hypnotic way, she was able to see past his facial features and into the repressed depths of his being.

And then she heard Wakonda speak once more.

‘Look Rebecca. Observe!’ the penetrating voice although audible, sounded distant.

Her sense of consciousness remained expanded far past the extremities of her physical body.
Her eyelids closed gently.

Rebecca’s pituitary gland began to stimulate her psychic senses. The myriad dancing atoms and particles of pranic light energy, miraculously grew denser and took form. Time appeared to reverse years, in seconds. She felt, not an awareness of traveling ‘back’ in time; but rather a re-direction of her consciousness, from one defined period of an illusionary play of creation to another.

Back, back to a point in time, she’d eventually realize as being 30 years previous. Slowly, yet with clarity, an ethereal vision unfolded before her third eye. A vision of a bizarre and unfamiliar darkened office in Vienna.

She felt her consciousness pervade into the room = like an uninvited and unwelcomed, invisible spirit ‘from the other side’, gate crashing a séance.

A wave of depressive, icy energy engulfed her.

She trembled, and with the trembling, a vibrating evil shudder ran up her legs to her lower spine. A stabbing pain in the back of her lungs hurt like cold liquid splashed onto a sensitive tooth.

The over-sized extravagant office, although expensively furnished, felt miserable and drab. Classical gilt framed portraits with menacing eyes, hung morbidly on aging oak paneled walls. Blood red, deep pile carpets insipidly matched the heavy scarlet curtains that were drawn shut, blanketing the natural light.

Two bronze statues, depicting ancient mythological devils, were placed on carved mahogany pedestals either side of the double entrance doors. An old chandelier dangled threateningly from the centre of the ornate ceiling.

In short, the room stank of evil and tasteless proficiency.

And behind a studded leather topped office desk sat a conservatively dressed and wrinkle faced businessman.

Rebecca watched with morbid fascination as he hastily cleared files and reports from his work area, as if preparing for the arrival of an important visitor.

She felt his ragged nervousness and agitation.

And she knew instinctively that this haunched distraught person, with his wispy moustache and thinning gray hair, was Heinrich Ravenscroft the First, Paul’s grandfather.

Three resounding knocks on the door rang out. Rebecca jumped with fright.

The heavy oak doors were violently flung open before even the plaintive words, ‘Come in’, could be uttered from his pursed lips.

Heinrich Ravenscroft was visibly scared, if not terrified. He rose to his feet and rested his hands on the desk to avoid losing his balance.

A large ominous figure of a man, wearing a flowing black gown stood glaring in the doorway. A hood partly shielded his face and his hands clutched an ebony cane with a brass devil’s handle.

The atmosphere went frigid cold as the sinister being entered.

Rebecca felt paralyzing fear. She tried to swallow but her mouth felt as dry as a fiery lime pit. Her pulse raced.

Naked evil, emanated from the stranger’s presence to a degree, that she wouldn’t have conceived plausible.

Both her mind and body became mesmerized and controlled.

And she felt a perverted, sensual fascination engulfing her. A powerful feeling asserting that ‘even all base desires demand experience’ overwhelmed her being. Repressed frustrating desires became exaggerated. Her nipples stood erect and her root chakra vibrated with lascivious passion. Red charcoal fires of intoxicated lust demanded gratification.

A chain with the heavy silver medallion, containing the familiar Peace Keepers’ logo, the circle with the inverted pyramid and panther’s head, hung ignominiously around his neck.

She stared seductively, deep into the amorphous facial area under his hood, as if she was offering her body as an entranced sacrifice. His face appeared to be non-physical - and as powerful as a fully grown male panther.

A dark and lifeless yet sinister feline ‘vacuum’.

A rescuing omniscient thought flashed through the ethers. Rebecca suddenly remembered Wakonda’s warning,

‘The fear and depression corresponding to that vibrationary level would engulf your spirit. Your personal vibration rate would slow and begin to adjust to the lower level. Your awareness would become entrapped in an illusion of despair and enslaving sensual desires.’

She empowered the strength of her will to force her enslaved mind to centre upon the selfless love she’d experienced in Wakonda’s presence. Her will demanded the ordained right to ‘choose’ her own destiny.

And the seductive spell instantly shattered.

‘Please... welcome, ehm...Do come in,’ stuttered Heinrich Ravenscroft.

The stranger with intimidating reticence sat down on the high backed carved chair opposite the desk. He scrutinized Heinrich who’d re-seated and now remained silent.

Seconds seemed like an eternity, before Marduk, the Master of the Black Arts finally spoke.
Rebecca’s heart quivered with spiny tension.

‘Heinrich, you have been a most devoted and loyal servant. And may I remind you, over these past years, you’ve been justly compensated for your unquestioning loyalty.’ Marduk hissed with all the epicurean cunning of a sadistic viper.

The piteous Heinrich, his eyes lowered, only nodded.

‘Yes indeed, utilizing my occult abilities, you have, reaped the monolithic benefits of immense wealth and power.’

Marduk leaned forward at Heinrich. ‘Now my friend, as my ultimate plan and destiny unfolds for the world, I want you to know that even greater wealth and power lies ahead for both you and your son.’

The occult master spoke in a potent, deliberate voice of intensity.

‘My staunchest enemy, one who already walks upon this Earth, is the catalyst who could bring about the destruction of my plans. Plans that had their auspicious beginnings at the time when man as a multi dimensional being, first descended to rightfully claim the steward-ship of Earth.’

The enemy he refers to must be Wakonda! thought Rebecca excitedly.

‘Heinrich, it’s utterly imperative, my enemy’s mission be thwarted - whatever the cost.’

Rebecca felt the fierce hostility venting in his face.
She gasped!

His facial features changed dramatically as his anger intensified. A hideous black panther face with bloodshot cat eyes could now be clearly seen.

‘But....of course Marduk, as you said, I am your devoted servant. ‘Whatever the costs.’ But how.., how can I help?’ interrupted Heinrich meekly.

Marduk ignored the question but noted dementedly, Heinrich’s unquestionable agreement relating to the ‘costs’. ‘An Esoteric Master’s or world spiritual leader’s mission is preceded by a harbinger, a messenger. In occult spiritual law this must be so. The messenger prepares the way through words and ritual, to awaken the hearts of the spiritually dead. A spiritualized vortex of manifested energy, through the astrals, and into the consciousness of man is created. The messenger’s work is to pave the way for the Avatar’s or Messiah’s mission. Each different Earthly dimension occupies the same ‘space’ as the other dimensions, so a circuit or link has to be manifested before the channel from the ‘higher’ to the ‘lower’ realms is possible.

Rebecca thought of John the Baptist.

Marduk paused and glared ferociously at the pitiful Heinrich.
‘A baby born nine weeks ago, within these borders of Austria, is destined to be the prophet to precede my enemy’s mission on Earth.’

‘That’s easy, we kill the baby,’ enthused Heinrich.

‘Ah, you unenlightened fool, if it were only that simple. Only the body can be killed! His mission would proceed in the astrals and be even harder to influence.’ Marduk head wafted sideways, he peered about the room as if sensing a foreign presence.

Rebecca felt that he was now aware of her presence - or her psychic interference?

‘No killing him is not the answer,’ he retorted.

‘But what then? What can be done?’

‘Listen carefully to my words,’ The voice lowered to a repugnant monotone, ‘Remember you agreed a minute ago, that ‘at all costs’ we must succeed - well you too will have to make a small personal sacrifice!’

Heinrich clenched his eyes - his face hardened to granite - as if awaiting execution before a firing squad.

Rebecca heard the crazed delight of sadism in Marduk’s voice as he continued..
‘Your pregnant daughter in law will have a miscarriage. She will lose her baby in 6 days time.’

‘No, please I beg you! Please,’ he pleaded, his eyes bulging from their sockets in graven misery.

‘I am sorry Heinrich. The miscarriage is unfortunate, but most necessary. She’ll accidentally slip in the shower. I assure you no permanent harm will come to her, but she’ll no longer be able to bear children.’

‘But why? I don’t understand. I need an heir,’ he cried, and his sordid and dark heart sank deep into the quagmire of despondency.

‘That’s right you do need an heir. However, no grandson will be possible. But wait, first hear me out.’

Ravenscroft’s face quivered with uncertainty.

Marduk reached under his robe and handed a piece of paper to Heinrich. His venomous instructions seared razor sharp.

‘Written on this card is the location of a cabin in the Austrian Alps where the baby is to be located. Send three of your most proficient agents to execute the mission. Once inside the cabin, your men are to throw the protective Christian symbols they find there, into the fire. Only then, will my disciples in the astrals be able to assist. The parents of the child are to be murdered! Robbery and lust must appear to be the motive. Afterwards, your agent’s car will plunge into the lake. They will be found dead, together with damning evidence linking them to the murders.’

Ravenscroft listened passively, stupefied like a cornered rabbit.

‘There will be wide media coverage of the double murder and the orphaned baby. Out of ‘sympathy’, and in exchange for the adoption of the child, your son will offer a large donation to the orphanage. Naturally the anonymity of the adoption must be a pre-requisite of the donation.’

A psychotic gleam crossed Marduk’s face, and then he thundered, ‘Do you understand the importance of these orders?’

‘Your instructions will be carried out,’ stammered Heinrich, his nerves now at snapping point.

‘The adopted child will be raised as your grandson. His destiny will be changed. He will be conditioned and taught to be one of the Son’s of the Earth. By the power of the rituals and the occult teachings, he will embrace and accept the powers of darkness. Complete victory will be finally ours!’ An abhorrent hideous laugh filled the room. The creature’s murderous instructions drew to a close.

‘Yes I will be pleased indeed, if he ends up as effective in the art of disintegration as the prophet of darkness that preceded my coming. Also an Austrian - he who gained power on the symbol of the swastika!’

The scene faded. Rebecca’s consciousness began to drift.

But the vision was not over.

Rebecca could see a small but cozy log cabin, set on the slopes of the beautiful Austrian Alps. Snow gently fell, and the wispy smoke from the chimney silently levitated, to merge with the low fluffy clouds. Dusk was approaching, and the blackcocks and hawks began flying home to the warmth and safety of their perches amidst the forests of spruce, pines and beach trees.

In the far distant valley, a small village could be seen, with its Catholic church steeple serenely pointing to the heavens.

And inside the home, the baby lay sleeping peacefully in a crib in the upstairs bunk area.
The husband, a woodcutter, his day’s toil completed, rested in his favorite rocker by the fire meditatively reading the local paper.

At the other end of the cabin, Rebecca heard the woodcutters attractive young wife humming as she put the washed and dried dishes away in the cupboards.

Over the fire place hung a bulky wooden crucifix. An opened worn, well read bible still laid on the simple dining table, after the evening’s reading.

A loud impatient knock on the door broke the serenity.

Rebecca’s heart stopped. Her profound horror and repugnance intensified. She realized she was to be a witness to the vicious, odious double murder, so coldly planned by its perpetrators.

‘No!’ she cried.

She felt total helplessness. Yet the visions were so real. Disparate images crashed her mind into submission. Her soul cry wailed unheard into the molecular ethers.

Both the young parents looked up startled. The woodcutter glanced anxiously at his wife. He crept to the door and gingerly slid back the iron bolt.

The door crashed open into his face.

Rebecca watched devastated.

The karate knuckles from nowhere, smashed into the unsuspecting woodcutter’s stomach and head. The boots crashed into his shins and groin. He collapsed bleeding to the wooden floor.

The 3 unshaven agents pounced.

He struggled, trying in blind desperation to scramble to his feet. A steel reinforced boot cracked into his rib cage shattering his ribs. With the force of the blow, pieces of rib bone pierced and ruptured his internal organs.

His wife screamed with white terror.

A long dagger was creased into her husband’s Adam’s apple by the tallest of the attackers. The other two, one with a crescent shaped scar across his face, and the other, who had the appearance of a hairy Asian orangutan, bound his legs and hands.

‘Please, take anything, we are poor. We have nothing of value!’ he pleaded in intense pain.

‘Shut your mouth!’ The reply came curtly in German. A heavy fist thudded into his left eye.
The three men turned to the hysterical sobbing wife. They laughed sadistically and shuffled towards her.

‘Guess what we intend doing to you?’ sang the orangutan.

‘No, I beg of you. Please don’t hurt me!’ she sobbed, her hands clasped together in steadfast prayer.

The scarface grabbed her long braided hair and yanked it cruelly back, forcing her face upwards. His other hand clawed at her breasts. She screeched with sharp pain and humiliation.

Her legs were violently pulled out from under her, jolting her frail body to the floor.

The taller of the trio, ripped the crucifix and the pictures from the wall and flung them into the fire.

And as the orange flames quickly took hold, the Bible was in turn, ritually torn and placed into the grate. The fire consumed and devoured the protective Christian symbols.

And the baby cried shrilly from his crib.

Rebecca in paralyzing horror, now witnessed the possession of the trio, as the satanic black master had foretold.

Their faces became hideously distorted. They began laughing hysterically and foul blasphemous language filled the cabin. Disgusting, putrid smelling green slime began to flow from the sides of their mouths as they shouted their contemptuous obscenities.

Rebecca could feel the room temperature drop to a frigid zero. She felt numb with fear and cold - and she smelt the stench of rotting leprous death.

Articles and furniture began shaking and vibrating. Doors opened violently and then slammed shut.

And as the cabin rattled with evil, the battered and bound dying husband screamed and shook insanely from the floor - forced to watch helplessly, his wife’s brutal ordeal.

Now semi unconscious, the attractive young mother, was systematically stripped of her clothes till she lay ashamedly naked. Her legs forced wide apart by the three monsters from the hells. Their faces now so grotesque they were indescribable in human terms. Their walk was now the haunch of a chimpanzee.

Between the haunting shrieks and laughter, they communicated to each other by hissing and murmuring in low monotones, like an old cracked 78 record on low speed. The orangutan’s appearance had mutated - now more like a fly blown rabid black wolf.

One after the other, they repeatedly raped and bashed their sobbing, dazed victim. She was subjected to all manner of indecencies. Her body brutally flailed and probed.

Rebecca’s stomach squirmed. She felt deliriously sick as the horror before her unfolded.
She kept repeating the words. ‘I am dreaming. This can’t be real. I’m having a nightmare.’ And yet....

‘Heat the knives in the fire,’ Rebecca heard one of the monsters drawl, as another crawled over to the grate in abeyance.

The wife screamed in mind splitting terror. Her eyes clenched tight. She heard the chanting of some evil ritual as she felt the burning knife sear into her supple flesh.

And the demonic chanting grew louder.

Rebecca’s psyche vibrated explosively. Her terror filled eyes cemented to the evil repugnance.

The human-beasts now gouged bloody, occult satanic symbols into the mortified woman’s white breasts and then into her stomach and inner thighs.

The energy in the room intensified with the chanting. The evil presence magnified. Rebecca sensed an horrific channel into another dimension was opening.

The chanting reached crescendo.

The young woman, her desire for living and survival now extinguished, cried out to her God to take her. She felt the red hot knife again slicing into her chest. She grabbed the hairy slimed hands that held the dagger. With one almighty heave and with all the energy she could muster, she thrust her fatigued body upwards, into the deadly knife.

‘Jesus, I give my soul to you....,’ she gasped, dying - victoriously denying the sadists from any further evil pleasures.

The vile murderers hissed with venomous uncontrollable anger. They leapt like starved panthers onto the praying woodcutter.

He closed his eyes with surrender.

A ritualistic slash across his throat became the last sensation of his earthly sojourn.

And even as the clotted blood flooded his lungs, his spiritual unbiblical chord severed.

Rebecca watched the ethereal miracle. Tears of thanksgiving filled her eyes. The woodcutter’s spirit of light consciousness, could clearly been seen conjoining with his wife’s spirit - merging in a sparkling ecstasy of love. And linked together, ascending through the same lit tunnel amidst the vile darkness, and up into the brilliance of the heavenly spheres.

The light refracted into itself and disappeared in a split second. The cabin was now pitch black.

Absolute icy silence!

Suddenly Rebecca realized why the cabin’s stifling energy had intensified.

The phenomenon began as a whirling fluid mist. Wave particles crossing the illusion of time and into her vibrationary rate Eerie mist that danced and vibrated and became denser. Mist that seduced her soul into providing a villainous link. Mist that formed at first into a ghostlike steam image.

Mist that was now as solid as ice.

The manifested Satanic Black Magician stood just one metre away and directly in front.
Marduk stared into her petrified eyes. And he kept staring. With those morbid nightmare eyes. Powerful enslaving eyes.

Rebecca trembled uncontrollably. He seemed to penetrate her every cell - physically, mentally and spiritually: His hellish panther face - his blood dripping eyes.

‘No!’ she cried.

‘No!’ she screamed.

‘Wakonda, Wakonda - please help me.’

‘You will never escape from my power, Rebecca.’
‘You will never escape from my power, Rebecca.’
‘You will never escape from my power, Rebecca.’

The words echoed with stark penetration into her being, sowing the seeds of germinating fears.
And the vision faded.

Her consciousness drifted, back through the spiral flux of time, and dimensional reality.

Rebecca knew in her heart of hearts, she had experienced the heights of nirvanic Heaven and the pits and the depths of the tormentuous Hells.

‘Paul.... Oh Paul Ravenscroft,’ she uttered, and this time her frightened eyes gazed at Paul with compassion and understanding.

‘You’ll be all right now, you’ve fought a terrible fever,’ replied Paul softly.

And his virgoan mind grasped to understand, how this captivating woman lying there before him could have possibly known his name.

----000O000----

Copyright 2004 – 2006 © Charles Goodwin. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, storage in a retrieval system or otherwise, without the prior express written permission of Charles Goodwin.

All characters - other than obvious historical figures - in this book 666 The Cauldron are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Prospective publishers with expressions of interest are invited to contact Charles Goodwin at cgoodwin@wealth-creators-club.com

The Cauldron by Charles Goodwin Chapter 4

2006-06-17T07:16:00.000+09:30

The Founding of Chiron

Chapter 4

Shattering Through Barriers

My awareness and senses feel strangely expanded! But where am I?

Rebecca’s sleepy eyes drifted around the elegant hotel bedroom. Bright rays of sunlight, shimmered through the part open window - momentarily blinding her. Her sense of hearing felt amplified, as she heard the bird’s early morning raucous cacophony.

Beautiful sweeping scenes of the Amstel River, the picturesque gardens of elm and linden trees, and the quaint old Amsterdam step-gabled buildings, legacy of the great Dutch sea faring and trading era, greeted her.

‘You are in a suite of the Amstel Hotel. Remember, yesterday morning? The Singel canal - you swam across to escape from the demonstration.’ Paul spoke gently in English, as he sat on the edge of the bed.

Rebecca remained silent.

An amnesiac stare of bewilderment welled in her eyes. She gazed at Paul reflectively.

And her mind was desperate to understand.

She re-connected momentarily with those alert Prussian eyes. God he’s handsome, and so steadfastly ‘Austrian’, she thought, admiring his almost arrogant Germanic features. His hair was more brown than blonde, and his distinct cheekbones and high forehead gave him an ‘officer of the regiment’ bearing.

He was grinning at her cheekily, and displayed a set of strong teeth that any dentist would be proud to own. His presence radiated a healthy glow of spiritual (or perhaps sensual) energy. He wore an expensive Italian wool and silk blend suit that served to remind her of those strong arms and secure shoulders. And she noticed his opened necked shirt partly exposing his chest. An inviting chest - a chest revealing just her preferred amount of sexy hair.

She swooned silently and with her swooning she felt her own nakedness. Rebecca caught Paul’s admiring glance at her breasts. Her ‘out of character’ expanded sensual awareness changed to pure embarrassment. She realized she was wearing only a new white satin petticoat that only just touched her nipples. She modestly pulled the soft cuddly eiderdown up under her chin.

‘How did I get here? Who undressed me and put me to bed?’ she whispered.

Rebecca was well educated and liberated, but her conflicting attitudes relating to her strong willed father and her rigid Protestant upbringing, still resulted in her feeling inadequate, alone in the presence of men who were intellectually her equal.

Especially in this situation - feeling so vulnerable - and so damn sexual.

Relationships had always left her with a confused and empty, lonely feeling For reasons she didn’t understand, she attracted partners into her life, who she could control mentally and emotionally. Unchallenging men - men she’d end up resenting - or pitying. The lack of lasting love in her life had left Rebecca defensive and insecure - but stubbornly independent.

Paul found Rebecca’s modesty a sharp contrast to the girls with whom he’d previously associated with.

‘We drove to this hotel in the back seat of my car. Do you remember? You were soaked to the skin from the filthy canal water, and virtually unconscious from shock. You have bruising from the rubber bullets.’

Rebecca did remember and could feel the bruises. She nodded.

Paul continued. ‘I arranged for the house maid to clean you up and put you to bed. The hotel doctor gave you a strong sedative. He said it’s best that you be allowed to sleep it off.’

‘And where did you sleep?’

Paul grinned and feigned surprise. ‘Who me? Why, I slept in the other room all night of course - restlessly alone with my weakening self discipline! So as you can see, your honor has in no way been compromised, I assure you.’

Rebecca’s eyes displayed utter relief and she risked a slight smile. ‘I obviously have a lot to thank you for. How may I show my gratitude?’

Paul’s eyebrows lifted with optimistic anticipation.

‘That is - I mean,’ she stumbled, ‘at least allow me to help pay for the room for the night?’

‘No, certainly not. That would be an insult to a gentleman’s hospitality. However, you may repay me, by being my guest for breakfast. I bet you feel hungry and I can most definitely recommend the food here at the Amstel.’

Rebecca hesitated demurely.

Paul spoke with enthusiasm and confidence. ‘I’ll book a table for two, for let’s say, thirty minutes. Then you can repay me for my squash buckling heroic actions of rescuing the fair damsel - no, ‘fair’ is the wrong word,’ he paused and eyed Rebecca’s face and her covered body, ‘beautiful damsel in distress.’

Rebecca blushed. ‘It’s my clothes Paul. I have nothing to wear other than my wet clothes. I would love to have breakfast, but...’

Paul stood to attention, clicked his heals with Teutonic precision and snapped his fingers. ‘Oh madam, I completely forgot to tell you! I arranged with the house maid to have your clothes especially cleaned and pressed. They are in the wardrobe, ready to wear.’

Rebecca shrugged with happiness. She shook her head. ‘Paul, I’m lost for words.’

Paul’s expression cut slightly from the jovial to the serious. He momentarily studied her. She felt his edge of apprehension. ‘By the way your name. I don’t know your name?’

‘Rebecca - Rebecca Childs.’

‘Rebecca, yes I do like that name. It suits you. Thirty minutes then in the Spiegelzaal.’ Paul strode to the door.
‘By the way,’ he said turning, ‘when you awoke, you spoke my name; even my surname. Perhaps over breakfast, you might explain how you came to know who I am!’

‘Morning Don - Paul here.’

‘Yes Paul, how are you this fine Sunday morning?’

‘Fine thanks. Listen, I want you to find out, as soon as possible, as much as you can about a woman by the name of Rebecca Childs. English I think, and connected with the peace movement.’

‘Rebecca Childs,’ repeated Don slowly, writing the name on his message pad. ‘And may I ask, why you want to know about this woman?’

Paul hesitated and felt a little defensive. ‘Just a bit of fun Don. I happened to pick up a semi unconscious girl escaping from the demonstration yesterday. When she awoke in my suite this morning, the first words she uttered happened to be my name - surname and all! Can you imagine how shocked I was? There may be an innocent explanation, but just the same, I’m curious about the girl.’

‘I take your point. Only a select few know you are in Amsterdam.’

‘Exactly!’

‘Hey Paul, did you say you went to the demonstration yesterday. After I advised you to avoid the area?’

‘And what if I did? That was my decision! Why are you getting your knickers in a knot?’ snapped Paul.

‘Hell, you may have been hurt. Your safety and security is my first priority. Naturally I’m concerned.’

‘Don, you should know me better. I stopped the Merc in the next street at a safe vantage point. There was even a canal separating the two streets.’

Don flinched slightly. ‘Well all right. It’s just that - well, is it wise to be getting involved with these Radicals? Associations of that nature can hardly be of benefit to you - now can they Paul?

Paul’s fired answer conveyed resentment at Don’s over patronizing manner. ‘You said yourself, the peace movement aren’t connected with the Radicals. Anyway, I haven’t the time or inclination to argue with you! When can you deliver Rebecca’s file to the hotel?’.

‘By two o’clock this afternoon.’

‘Right. Two o’clock it is then. I’ll be waiting.’ Paul slammed the phone down angrily in Don’s ear.

Don Ormsby was certain he smelt trouble brewing. His nostrils quivered with odorous expectation. At the CIA headquarters in Langley he’d been taught to first study the facts - and then above all else, trust that gut feeling. Even as he replaced the phone, his analytical mind weighed up the potential problems that may occur over this woman - this Rebecca Childs.

And that feeling in his gut was there - stirring - wriggling like fat tapes worms.

He clamored from his bed and allowed his half read morning paper to fall to the carpet Perhaps the smell of fresh brewed coffee might sweeten the air. He cursed out loud - angry that his Sunday morning relaxation had been destroyed with one bloody phone call.

‘Rebecca Childs,’ he held the message pad and stared blankly. A worried strain appeared on his trained poker face. He trudged to the kitchen of his Amsterdam serviced condo. He knew that if events ran out of control he’d be held personally responsible. The thought of a violent confrontation with Paul’s father made him gulp. He spooned nearly double the amount of coffee in the plunger and added extra sugar. If he made the brew strong enough, the coffee would kill the worms.

His head thumped with a tension headache.

And his mind attempted to understand.

Sure Paul is the heir to the Ravenscroft Trust, but he’s been raised so differently. Especially in his relationships with women. From the start Paul’s mother all but disowned him and hired a coldly efficient craggy nurse to be his nanny. He then attended a harsh boarding school, somewhere in Switzerland.

Most Syndicate members, protected their families from the nastier realities of their business, but in Paul’s case, the contrary happened. As a teenager he’d been encouraged to experiment with mind altering drugs. Escorts and sex parties were often arranged. Paul had indeed, been conditioned to accept, that women were at the most, play things to be used, abused and dumped. Women wandering into Paul’s life, capable of offering love, were quickly bought or scared off.

Don poured the boiling water into the plunger. The aroma of the fresh brewing coffee cleared his nostrils and lightened his head. He swallowed two aspirins and gulped some water.

And his thoughts continued searching for a logical explanation for Paul’s unruly upbringing. And the tape worms in his gut still wriggled.

He remembered vividly one unfortunate girl who happened to fall in love with Paul. She didn’t scare easily and refused to be bought. She was found dead a short time later with an overdose of heroin injected into her veins.
Oh yes! Paul had certainly received a letter from her, prior to her death. She ‘admitted’ that her interest in him had only been motivated by money to feed her drug habit. He hadn’t suspected for a moment that the confession had been gained through torture. Even the coroner’s report named her falsely, as a known prostitute and addict.

The news had shattered Paul’s heart.

Heinrich Ravenscroft gave new meaning to paternal protection. He played and ‘slayed’ to win!

After careful deliberation, Don reached for his mobile and dialed a special number - the Amsterdam intelligence wing of the Peace Keepers.

He spoke directly into a message machine.

‘Donald Ormsby speaking - number 42-66-51 F.L.’ He waited for the computer to accept the code and voice pattern reference.

‘Hans, look I’m sorry to hassle you on a Sunday morning, but I need an urgent dossier on an alleged English woman. Her name’s Rebecca Childs and is an active member of the peace movement. Have the file sent round to my Amsterdam office within two hours.’ He replaced the phone.

‘Tread warily Don old boy,’ he murmured to himself, ‘Trust your instincts. There’s a smelly pile of droppings on the road ahead so best watch your step.’

And he decided against ringing Paul’s father in Austria for guidance on a Sunday morning. ‘Perhaps he’s still asleep - and perhaps I’m too scared,’ he snickered.

He drank the first of three cups of hot black coffee - and the wriggling began to ease.

‘First I’ll study the report, and then - well, we’ll just have to wait and see.’

‘Life can be so magic. If only I would always feel this alive!’ purred Rebecca as she made her way to the famous Spiegelzaal at the Amstel.

She was ten minutes or so late but time wasn’t at all important. Paul would simply have to wait. A poetic sensual awareness engulfed her being. She felt attractive and for a change, felt good about herself.

The vibrant dance of creation flowed into her spirit like the play of the Divine through the symbolic flute of Krishna. And like the beautiful parable of Krishna’s flute, Rebecca also was a soul on the path of experience to enlightenment. The painful experience of being cut down and removed from her place in the forest - hacked, chipped, carved, burnt and drilled - through the long dark night of the egoless soul, until finally emerging, as a channel and instrument for the spiritual music of the Divine.

The promised destiny for all souls. Yet the long dark nights can seem insufferably unending - and occasionally like today, blissful!

As soon as Paul had left the suite, some forty minutes earlier, Rebecca had slithered from her bed with exuberance. Her bare feet touched the soft piles of the carpet, prompting an exquisite tingling sensation to rise slowly up her legs. She shuddered with stimulation. She stood in the warm light at the end of the bed and gazed out of the open window. She lifted the white petticoat seductively over her shoulders. The delicate silk caressed past her sensitive nipples, and initiated waves of chilling sensuality to flood her being. Her reflection in the mahogany cheval mirror revealed her sunlit cameo nakedness. And she cupped her breasts in her hands with delightful self admiration..

‘I feel so damn horny. The visions must have induced this heightened state,’ she whispered, and then added cheekily, ‘Or perhaps it’s the result of awakening in a strange bedroom with an exciting man like Paul, sitting beside me.’

She tiptoed to the bathroom, turned the tap on full and added scented crystals to the steaming bath water. It had been a long time - too long in fact - since Rebecca had truly experienced the joys of being a total woman. Wonderfully relaxed, stretched out in the soothing fragrant water, her head resting against the rim, she gently lathered her body.

And her mind began to erotically imagine Paul again sitting on the bed beside her.

She would have struggled - probably screamed - if Paul had attempted to seduce her. But in the quiet privacy of the locked bathroom, safe from conventions and obligations, her powerful inner urges would be allowed to soar free.

In her imagination, Paul once again admired her breasts, but now there was no rush to cover them from view.
Instead she gazed deep into his eyes. Her body trembled with longing. Paul’s slender hands slipped slowly under the quilt.

She gasped!

An instant sharp electrifying feeling consumed her, as his cool hands touched and caressed her heated inner thighs. His gentle exploring fingers, exquisitely probed and massaged. His lips kissed and suckled at her now firm nipples.

And she held on to him securely - as if she wanted her hold to be permanent - as if that inward seeking, and intense feeling of alone-ness could be satisfied at last. Her eyes closed tight to enhance her fantasy. Her breathing became heavier as her busy fingers under the soapy water, stimulated her willing clitoris.

‘Paul, for god’s sake take me, I want to feel you deep inside.’ Rebecca pleaded into the steam, in more than a whisper.
And now she felt Paul’s warmth throbbing within her. His muscular body against her pulsating skin securely embracing her.

‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘My darling, yes!’

And Paul continued his thrust of pleasure. Her intensity increased like a pregnant volcano ready to explode.
With a final peak of stimulation Rebecca’s whole person erupted in an exhilarating ecstasy of love and passion longing for itself.

In the breakfast room Rebecca glanced around. The elegant Spiegelzaal opened onto a wonderful terrace overlooking the canalized River Amstel. The room seemed full but relaxed and friendly.

Paul waved, to gain her attention from a table by the far window.

She returned the wave, and grinned with the innocent eyes of a cheeky little girl who’d secretly eaten a chocolate cookie from her mother’s cookie jar without asking. ‘Paul, if you only knew how much pleasure you gave to me,’ sighed Rebecca under her breath as she glided so ethereally towards him.

‘You look absolutely enchanting!’

Paul politely rose out of his chair as Rebecca took her place at the table. Seeing her for the first time with clean clothes and brushed hair, he could now partly understand why he found her so hauntingly attractive. He’d admired the way Rebecca sauntered across the restaurant floor. She exhibited a rare natural grace and style. Her shining hair swayed so seductively as she moved.

And her alert face radiated an aura of unique vitality.

‘Thank you Paul,’ she replied sparkling.

For a few eternal seconds, Paul focused into Rebecca’s eyes. He felt his pulse and heartbeat quicken, followed by an embarrassing adolescent hot flush. Never before had he experienced such nervousness in the presence of a woman. ‘Well, what would you like?’ he asked, picking up the menu to break the agonizing silence.

‘I would like, yogurt and fruit salad, followed by scrambled eggs with tomatoes and plenty of toast and marmalade. I certainly do feel hungry.’

‘No bacon with the eggs?’

‘No thank you. I’m part vegetarian. I eat seafood and eggs but I don’t eat meat or chicken,’ answered Rebecca.

‘Ah, I see. Well I’ll have the croissants instead of the yogurt, and bacon with my eggs,’ decided Paul summoning the waitress.

‘What, no ‘schinken, kase und brot,’ I thought all Austrians preferred their cheese and cold cuts for breakfast,’ she smarted playfully.

A whip cracked! His ears heard the word Austrian - his heart stopped a couple of beats - a knot of mistrust tightened in his stomach.

‘Do you speak German?’ asked Paul a little fidgety, once he’d placed the order.

‘I’m a school teacher. I used to teach German. I’m a little rusty though now. I suppose if you don’t use it, you lose it.’ Rebecca paused, peeped around at the other guests to satisfy herself that she didn’t quite look out of place, then grinned. ‘It’s funny really, isn’t it Paul?’

‘What is?’

‘I mean, here we are having breakfast at the Amstel - I’ve just slept in your bed all night - yet we know nothing about each other. Where should we start?’ She gleamed at Paul teasingly as she spoke.

The tone of Paul’s voice lowered to a more business like level. His forced smile disappeared momentarily. ‘Perhaps we could start with you explaining, how you knew my name. And for that matter, how do you know I am Austrian?’

Ah, I’ve put my foot in it, she thought, I knew I was making a mistake the second I mentioned ‘schinken, kase und brot.’. Rebecca had tried rationalizing as merely dreams, the visions she had experienced. But in her heart she was sure they were somehow ‘real’. Indeed, she too wondered, how on earth could she have known Paul’s name? She needed time on her own to reflect.

‘I’m afraid I can’t give you an explanation, right at this moment. I don’t honestly know.’ She shrugged lightly. ‘Perhaps I heard your driver or the house maid - or for that matter, I might have even over-heard the doctor speaking while I was semi unconscious.’

Paul interrupted, his voice defensively serious, ‘I’m sorry but I’ve considered that possibility. No one mentioned my name or the fact I’m Austrian from the time I picked you up. I’ve never had a photo in the papers, and other than my closest aids, nobody knows I’m in Amsterdam!’

Rebecca was startled. She again peered apprehensively at the other guests. She felt cruelly attacked.
‘I’m sorry Paul!’ she defended strongly, ‘I simply do not have a rational explanation for you right now. Why is it so important? Am I a threat to you in any way? Or perhaps you suspect a sinister plot!’ She could feel the anger in her voice mounting. ‘Look, I had no way of knowing you were driving past yesterday. What on earth are you worried about?’

Paul back peddled only slightly. He glanced out of the window at the river and relapsed into momentary silence.
A frail man with the appearance of ill health and self neglect, trudged past on the terrace and returned Paul’s stare with an unfriendly snigger. His olive yellow skin reminded Paul of Fernando. Perhaps she’s working for Fernando, he thought and then instantly chastised himself. No - now I am being over suspicious and illogical. Besides Fernando may be dead by now!

‘Basically I don’t trust people,’ he said turning. ‘And when it comes to females I’m even more cynical. One of the problems of being wealthy, is that I have to watch out for the potential ‘gold diggers’ or worse.’

‘Your breakfast madam, sir.’

Stony silence prevailed while the waitress served the meal and poured the coffee and tea.
Rebecca felt more than agitated by Paul’s remarks. God, he’s like my father - making me feel guilty even when I’ve done nothing wrong! Who the hell does he think he is? She gulped her hot tea. The boiling water burnt her tongue. She locked her lips and shuddered inwardly to avoid revealing her painful discomfort.

The dismal silence continued throughout the breakfast. Rebecca refused to look up from her meal. She sensed his brooding lost eyes studying her. And she suspected she might melt if their eyes re-connected.

And Paul knew he’d planted his fist into his own mouth. He was angry at himself, but he also felt an inner resentment towards her for re-opening his past hurts and wounds. One side of his jaw twitched erratically as he fought to find the right words to break the deadlock. His thoughts jabbed at his mind. She’s so bloody confusing, yet so hauntingly attractive. Why do I react to her like this?

Rebecca placed her knife and fork to one side on the plate to signal she’d finished eating. Her eyes remained downcast as she spoke. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t eat anymore.’

Paul grasped the opportunity. ‘Rebecca,’ he asked gently, almost timidly, ‘If I’ve said anything to upset you, then I am sorry.’

‘Sorry!’ exclaimed Rebecca out loud.

‘Sorry! she repeated, her face turning crimson with pained anger. ‘Understand Paul, I will always be grateful to you for rescuing me, but in this whole world, the one type of individual I despise the most is an arrogant chauvinist!’ Her moist eyes flashed with saddened loss as she continued. ‘Yes! I do find you attractive. For some stupid unknown reason I feel close to you! So you can put another feather in your oversized cap.’

She stood up tears now streaming down her cheeks.

Paul stared up at her, aghast at the sudden and over reactive outburst.

‘And as for your money, your little boy’s play paper - if you would have bothered or cared enough to get to know me first - before making up your mind I’m a ‘gold digger’ - you would know that, because of your so called ‘wealth’ and the way you gained it, I couldn’t possibly have entertained any ideas of romantic involvement with you!’ Rebecca glared at the other guests at the adjacent tables and realized they were more than intrigued at the goings on.

‘Good bye Paul, and I’m sorry for embarrassing you in public.’ Her voice lowered as she regained some composure. ‘You know? I really feel sorry for you - a spoilt little boy possessed by his possessions. Well I hope you enjoyed your weekend’s entertainment!’

She turned, nose up - and strode to the door before he could utter a single word. He glanced at the dumb-struck other guests and shrugged as if to say, ‘I wouldn’t have a clue what all that was about!’

Paul remained seated and stared blankly out of the window. The river traffic was limited to the occasional water taxi and the cold wind now began to blow across the surface of the water creating a stream of ripples. He downed several cups of coffee and brooded over Rebecca’s fit of raw anger. He tried unsuccessfully to come to terms with his own bewildered feelings. Can she be that over defensive against men in general - or did my remarks alone precipitate her outburst? Such a high strung lady. I know I was wrong suspecting her but... Oh well, why should I care? Women and relationships only ever bring pain and disorder into a guy’s life.

Paul’s protective walls were like a dyke shutting out his vulnerable emotions. A resolute barrier against the flow of insecurities within. Yet all of a sudden there it was - a gaping hole in the dyke named Rebecca. Paul’s only solution was to plug the hole with the proverbial finger - unless that is - he was prepared to let the dyke burst and take his chances swimming with the unleashed torrent!

His mind drifted back to the previous afternoon. He could feel her body clinging wantonly while he lifted her into the Mercedes. So warm - so soft -so damn positively lovely. He sulked his way to his rooms. He crashed face down onto the made up bed vacated by Rebecca, angry that even the sheets upon which she’d laid had now been replaced by the sterile smell of starch.

He waited impatiently for the file to be delivered.

‘I’ll find you Rebecca. You haven’t seen the last of me yet. My elusive mermaid isn’t slipping away that easily!’

‘Come on in Hans. You didn’t have to deliver the file personally.’ Don Ormsby showed surprise. The 240 pound frame of the huge granite faced Dutchman stood puffing out of breath at the door of Don’s unassuming second floor office.

‘Well, I had to come this way anyhow,’ grawed Hans Van der Hyde unconvincingly, as he flopped uninvited into the teak visitor’s chair to the side of Don’s desk.

‘I’ll get my receptionist to bring in the coffee. How are you these days Hans?’

‘Oh, as well as can be expected in these unsettled times. Of course if I knew the overall strategy, instead of these bloody rumors and the flood of disinformation, I’d be able to do my job more effectively, that’s for certain!’
Hans patted the sweat beads from his warted cheeks with his stained un-ironed handkerchief. ‘Amsterdam, nothing but damn staircases. Old buildings and stairs. Anyone would think that lifts were never invented.’

Don spoke into the intercom as Hans caught his breath. ‘Yennie, bring up some coffee please.’ He turned back to his visitor, ‘You look like you could use a cup.’

Don didn’t take to the ugly hulk slouching opposite. But then again, no one liked Hans Van der Hyde. The mere energy of his presence inculcated evil. His forehead protruded as broad as it was high, and his penetrative gaze signified debased alertness. Hans was the Director of Amsterdam’s Intelligence wing of the Peace Keepers. He was both respected and feared - he was efficient, coldly cunning and absolutely ruthless - but certainly not liked.
His interrogation methods were as infamous as they were barbaric. And he’d often boast of his proud one hundred percent success rate in obtaining information from his detainees. Hans could extract information and confessions from his victims that would have done a Spanish Inquisitor proud.

‘Here’s the file you asked for on this Rebecca Childs woman.’ Hans unceremoniously threw the thick manila folder onto the desk. The file landed with a thud and slid across to Don. ‘Being a renegade teacher with the peace movement, the bitch deserves her category one rating.’

Don opened the file but then quickly closed it as Yennie tiptoed into the room with the coffee tray. Hans stripped naked the slim 17 year old, with one perverted stare. His thick hungry tongue slurped at the sides of his lips.
He stooped forward and panted loudly on purpose. The teak chair creaked from his weight. He ogled up Yennie’s short skirt as she leaned over at the desk to pour the coffee. She felt his hot breath on her thighs.
‘Why Yennie, your pretty little knickers are half way up your bottom. You know if you play your cards right you could win me, that’s for certain,’ he scoffed in Dutch.

Yennie froze, and glanced at Don, her eyes pleading for help.

Don motioned to the door. ‘That will be all Yennie thank you, off you go then,’ he interrupted, saving her from further embarrassment.

Hans roared with mocking crazed laughter. Yennie rushed to the door, her face about to break into tears.
‘I hope we meet again Yennie,’ he yelled brusquely.

Don glared at Hans, disgustedly. ‘Behave yourself for Christ’s sake. You scared the poor girl. She especially came in this morning on short notice to help me tie up some loose ends.’

‘You wouldn’t begrudge me a bit of fun Don, would you?’ he asked sneering. ‘I bet you give her a length across your desk now and again - especially on Sunday mornings, yes!’

Before Don found the words to protest, Hans abruptly changed the subject. He snorted green phlegm back up into his nostrils. ‘Does the file contain the information you need?’

Don shook his head with abhorrence and reopened the file. A passport photo of Rebecca, five or six other candid photos obviously snapped without her knowledge, and a dozen or more double sided pages of laser printed computer information were neatly arranged within plastic covers inside the folder.

‘She’s a pretty piece, that’s for certain. Would you like me to pick her up?’ asked Hans, his left eye quivering as he spoke. ‘Having her as a house guest for a few days would be a pleasure. I could teach her a thing or two in the bargain.’

Don wondered if Hans purposely acted obnoxiously for shock value, or whether his beastliness just came naturally. Either way Hans succeeded. He was by far the most loathsome creature Don had ever had the misfortune to meet. ‘No at this stage that won’t be necessary. I need to get instructions first. For now, keep her under surveillance and have her phone tapped for me.’ Don closed the file and then added,’ but don’t allow her to suspect anything.’

‘Is your interest in this Childs woman in any way connected to Paul Ravenscroft? I heard he flew in yesterday.’

‘You cunning bastard! So you just happened to be in the area, were you?’

Hans’ face showed displeasure at being called a bastard. ‘It’s my job to know what’s going on in Amsterdam. When a chauffeured Mercedes stops at a demonstration and the owner helps a peace activist escape. I naturally have to make enquires.’

Don leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Look to be honest I am a little concerned. Paul admitted picking up the half unconscious woman. And it seems she stayed in his suite last night.’ Don paused.

‘Well go on, there’s more,’ sneered Hans.

‘When she awoke she somehow knew his name.’

‘I see, that’s interesting,’ replied Hans, and stroked his blemished nose with his thumb and forefinger. ‘I would be the first to know if the Peace Movement had found anything out about Paul. Their leaders are working for us undercover.’

‘Yes, I’m aware of that. By the way, thanks for forewarning me about the demonstration.’ Don continued in a normal voice. ‘But that’s the mystery Hans. They met by chance. She was only just conscious. When she awoke she uttered ‘Paul Ravenscroft’. Paul felt intrigued enough to order the file on her.’

‘Are you reporting the matter to Heinrich Ravenscroft?’

‘Later. I want to scan her file first. Obviously, there could well be a logical explanation. To make matters worse though, Paul seemed antagonistic and off balance this morning when he rang. I think he may be falling for her.’
‘Picking up some slut in a canal and fucking with her, doesn’t mean he’s falling for her,’ spat Hans.

‘Your words Hans, not mine - however my instincts tell me that he’s interested in her. As you know, the ramifications could be a damn nuisance. I don’t want to be held responsible for any stuff ups relating to Paul’s relationships.’

‘Better to be safe than sorry, that’s for certain. I’ll get my most efficient men to watch her closely.’ Hans grunted, snorted once more and then stood up. ‘You will have my report within 48 hours. We’ll soon see if she’s up to no good.’

‘Or earlier, if any circumstance arises which you feel I should know about.’

‘But of course!’ sniggered Hans. ‘There is however, one other matter.’

‘What might that be?’

‘Don, you know I value our friendship. And naturally I am willing to help you at any time, even Sunday mornings - but I’ve always thought that one special favor deserves another.’

‘Oh, and what is the favor ‘this time?’ asked Don, showing his disapproval at the hulk’s crawling manner.

‘Are you at liberty to tell me any news on the rumored big operation? Surely there must be some factual information you can pass on.’

Don’s mind flashed quickly. If he wanted the surveillance carried out on Rebecca efficiently he’d have to feed Hans. ‘Fair enough. I’ll tell you what I’ve been able to find out.’ Don stood up as he spoke. Hans listened intently.

‘All I’ve heard is that they are pushing for the project to commence within the next two months - maybe even earlier. An international coup! Global Syndicated Government! To be followed by a drastic five year plan.’

‘So the rumors are right. And what does the plan entail?’ enthused Hans.

‘The scientists, the economists, the bankers... they’ve all been intensely involved. They’ve created computer models, for the future of the planet; sustainable population levels, different world zones, one army, one currency, and so on.’ Don paused as Hans slowly nodded in understanding. ‘They can prove that the world’s reached maximum population. Basically the Earth is stuffed. A new social order will be introduced and rigidly enforced.’

‘How will the new order work?’ asked Hans, hiding his enthusiasm.

‘I don’t know any of the details yet. Headquarters is keeping a tight lid on the project. All I know is that it will happen soon. Nothing can stop the changes now!’

Don marched to the door ushering Hans to follow. ‘You’ll keep me informed then on Rebecca Childs.’

Hans nodded. He smirked satisfyingly and shook Don’s hand with a painful vice like grip, before plodding off muttering, down the stairs. ‘That will teach that smart arse. Calling me a cunning bastard and having the cheek to tell me to behave myself. Hah! He’ll think twice next time, that’s for certain.’

‘You sadistic uncivilized animal, you belong in a zoo.’ Don spoke out loud to himself, nursing his squashed aching hand. Locking his office door, he sat down and began to study the contents of the folder. He shuddered at the fearful prospect of contacting Paul’s father, Heinrich Ravenscroft the Second.

‘You were instructed to keep an eye on him. Where the hell were you at the time?’ roared Heinrich into the phone. Don’s heart slammed into his ribs.

‘With respect sir, my instructions were to let Paul complete the transaction,’ defended Don, ‘He picked the girl up on the way back to the hotel after a drive. I had no way of foreseeing that he...’

‘Now listen hard, I don’t want your lame duck excuses. You have no idea what’s at stake. I’ve been warned to be on my guards that a meeting of this nature may arise!’

Don noticed the nervous agitation as well the anger in Heinrich’s voice.

‘I don’t care how you dispose of her. If they contact each other again, buy or scare this Rebecca woman off. And if that fails arrange an accident. Or let that Hans Van der Hyde fellow down there, get rid of her. From what I’ve heard, that would be right up his alley. Do you understand Don? You’re finished if you fail. Indeed, we all could be finished! Be sure to keep me informed.’

The phone was crashed down violently.

Don reached for a glass and poured himself a double brandy from a decanter. He felt those worms awakening inside. ‘What on earth was he talking about?’ he wondered, his hands still trembling, ‘Who advised him of the meeting? How could anyone have known about a chance meeting? And what the hell did he mean by, we all could be finished!’ Don’s inquisitive mind grappled for answers that weren’t forthcoming. He knew it was out of character for Heinrich Ravenscroft to be so paranoiac and intimidated - especially over an unknown woman.
‘If they contact each other again - buy or scare her off - or dispose of her!’ He grimaced as he pictured the attractive young woman in the photos, in the groping hands of the sadistic Hans.

Don clutched the glass of brandy and leaned back into his chair to steady his nerves.

‘Oh well, orders are orders. Make haste slowly Don old boy. The plot’s only starting to unfold. The outcome may well yet run in my favor. That is - with a little managed manipulation!’

‘Two twenty.’ With an impatient eye on the clock, Paul anxiously paced the floor of his suite. Rebecca’s tearful face taunted him. The file now meant far more than simply a means to satisfy his natural curiosity. The file would have an address - a phone number. It had become the only link to Rebecca.

Paul’s apprehension turned to worry.

‘There must be problems. Don Ormsby is never twenty minutes late. He’d ring if there was a delay.’

Paul twice reached for the phone to check with Don. Twice he gingerly replaced the receiver before dialing, his better judgment overriding his impatience. ‘If he’s reported this back to my father, I’ll...’

The phone rang. ‘That must be him now!’ And he leapt for the phone in anticipation.

‘Mr. Ravenscroft, good afternoon. It’s the concierge calling. We have a package marked ‘urgent’ here for you at the desk - delivered by special courier. Would you like the package sent up?’

‘Yes of course. Send it up straight away. I expected it twenty minutes ago.’

‘Please accept our apologies. A terrible mix up I’m afraid. The courier in fact came 15 minutes ago. We have been rushed off our feet with a bus load of guests checking out.’

‘Oh....all right. Look, just send the file up immediately.’

‘I hope the delay hasn’t been an inconvenience to you, Mr. Ravenscroft.’

Paul hung up and took two mighty breaths. Excitement now replaced his nervousness. Pure excitement at the prospect of seeing Rebecca again. Intuitive excitement of destiny unfolding. ‘An Amsterdam address. The file must include her current address! Calm down, I must be calm. How can she get to me like this? In one day I’ve felt so depressed and yet so damn exhilarated!’

‘Thank you sir.’

Paul tipped the smiling porter a few euros and immediately collapsed onto the chesterfield. He fervently untied the string securing the package and opened the folder. Rebecca’s photos jumped out at him. For the second time that day, he felt his pulse and heartbeat quicken.

He gazed at the unposed pictures of Rebecca.

A sharp conflict began to arise from deep within. His excitement was part sexual or sensual, yet for the first time Paul felt uneasiness and a little shame. A passionate voyeuristic curiosity had empowered him to order such personal details on Rebecca’s life without her consent or knowledge. He remembered an occasion, when he was out for an evening stroll and saw through a part open curtain, an attractive scantily clad girl, making her final preparations for a bath. Where is the line drawn, he’d pondered, between an admiring interested glance and the perverted and licentious stare of the voyeur? Like the eventual outcome of that evening, Paul realized that his actions ordering the file, certainly exceeded ‘an admiring interested glance’.

He scanned the pages.

Under the heading ‘FAMILY BACKGROUND’ he noted that Rebecca was the only surviving child of her parent’s marriage. Her older sister had died when Rebecca was seven years old. He studied the extensive information with total alertness. Birth details - education profile compiled from old school assessments - university subjects and grades - her political affiliations - financial and taxation details - even confidential health and dental records. Paul sniggered as he read of her ‘radical tendencies’ when teaching. And her constant refusal to keep to the new global education programs and curriculum.

‘Ah, here we are ‘PERSONALITY PROFILE’. Now let’s see!’

‘Intelligent - independent - motivated - and non conformist.’ ‘Yes I certainly agree with that,’ he said as he scanned the primary words in each paragraph. ‘Tendency for over emotionalism - too idealistic - vegetarian - follows weird spiritual cults - associates with reformers and radicals...’

He turned to the next section heading.

‘SEXUAL PREFERENCES AND TENDENCIES’ ‘No current boyfriends.’ ‘Hmm - that’s handy.’
Lives with female flat mate - presumed non-lesbian relationship. (unconfirmed) Flat mate: Monica Laatum: 25 years old, blonde hair, blue eyes. Born: Dordrecht Netherlands. Occupation: Shop assistant. No known convictions. Refer Report no. 336 4206. Category Three: Due to association with Rebecca Childs.

‘Former known boyfriends...’

Paul felt unmistakable twinges of irrational jealousy. His face flushed hot as he read details of Rebecca’s previous three relationships. A school teacher named Dieter, 7 years her senior. The relationship lasted 2 years. Before that an unpublished ‘ageing’ writer named Frederick - lasting 18 months. And before old Fred, there was Lyndon - an astrologer - again an older man?

Paul’s fierce competitive nature ignited a fiery challenge. He now struggled with an even stronger desire for Rebecca - and he felt spoilt resentment towards her. She had dared allowed others to taste her delights before him!

‘CURRENT ADDRESS’

Yes, here it is!’ Paul reached for a pen and notepaper and nervously scribbled down Rebecca’s address and telephone number.

‘Rebecca Childs!’ he hollered - like an excited schoolboy at the annual college regatta - ‘You fantastically beautiful - and tormentuous - creature you. I’m coming after you!’

But first I’ll send her the largest and most colorful bunch of flowers in Amsterdam.

Rebecca peered aimlessly out of the window of her small second story apartment. The cloud laden, gray skies gradually claimed the remaining light left in the day. The street lights sadly illuminated the glistening rain drops that fell in streams to the slippery cobbled road and footpaths below. People, some with umbrellas, shuffled briskly with purpose, as if making their way home to their warm cozy fires and families.

Why can’t I fit into this world somewhere? They all look so pre-occupied and contented. Like busy little ants on an ant hill.

Her depressed unforgiving thoughts gnawed away at her heart.

Either I feel I’m in the right place at the wrong time - or the wrong place at the right time. The world seems like a big cold lonely airport - and I’m left alone waiting for the plane that never arrives to take me home.

‘By God I feel empty and lonely,’ she whispered. And yet another tear rolled unhindered down her cheek.
Rebecca turned away from the window and fell with indifference upon the couch.

Oh Paul, why..?

I finally meet in the most extraordinary circumstances, the only man that ever has really excited me, and I stupidly walk out on him. He rescued me - gave me a room without imposing any obligations - and then invited me to breakfast.

Oh hell I stuff everything up!

Rebecca hugged the cushion and sobbed. ‘I’m such a fool. He only asked how I came by his name - even then he tried to apologize to me.’ Rebecca battered away at herself and her emotions. Am I so defensive and insecure, that I had to react with such torridity? Had the whole experience of the demonstration, the canal and the rescue, simply been too much to cope with?

She felt a deep attraction to Paul. He seemed younger and of course he was. He had so much going for him. The last thing she wanted was to re-invite the pain of disappointment into her life.

Her running out in that manner signified an ultimatum to fate. Before she would risk the vulnerability of rejection, Paul had to prove to her that he cared. If a relationship was meant to be, he would find out her address and try in some way to contact her.

Yet the doubts lingered.

Wakonda in the visions, had foretold that I would be seeing a great deal of Paul. Maybe now - by being so immature and stubborn - I’ve ruined any chance of that ever happening.

Rebecca hadn’t given much consideration to the visions. The harrowing emotions she felt over Paul, eclipsed any attempted effort of trying to consider logically, the dreams she’d experienced.

‘It’s only pride. My stupid stubborn pride! Perhaps I should ring him at the Amstel to apologies - before he leaves Amsterdam for good.’

Rebecca heard the downstairs door slam. She could hear footsteps echoing up the wooden staircase to her flat.
That must be Monica returning from work, she thought, and sat up and dried her eyes with a tissue.

A weak tap on the door reinforced her belief that it was Monica. She casually unbolted the door and stepped aside to let her flat mate in.

‘Remember me? I’ve brought you these flowers!’

‘Paul! But how ....’ Her face showed shock and embarrassed dismay.

From behind a huge array of the most exquisite flowers, popped Paul’s audacious grin. ‘Rebecca, sorry for just dropping in like this - I thought if I rang first, you might hang up on me. I desperately needed to see you again.’

Rebecca was caught completely off guard. She didn’t know whether to scream with delight or screech with anger. She was clad in her dressing gown, without make up, and with hair uncombed. Instead she just stood speechless - blushing - as if petrified to the floor. Her heart raced.

‘And I’ve come to apologies for the cross examination I gave you this morning. Please, may I come in?’

Still without uttering a word, she moved two paces backwards - and nodded.

Paul entered and gently closed the door.

They gazed wondrously into each other’s eyes. Both feeling the unhindered outward flow of love from each to the other - enchanted magical bliss - experienced only when the mind is permitted to cease its incessant thoughts.
And with delicate gentleness, he placed the flowers on the coffee table. He reached out with both caring hands to hold Rebecca’s. At that precise micro-second of touch they felt a magnetic radiance enveloping their beings.
Two people of the same group soul - each with resonant unsatisfied attraction for the other - remerging. The circuit of energy instantly re-connecting - linking them as one, in unconditional love.

Oh my God! thought Rebecca. Wakonda knew. I’ve re-found my soul mate. It’s as if I’ve known and loved Paul for lifetimes.

‘Oh Paul, please hold me tight. I’ve missed you like crazy.’ And Paul hugged her longingly. Rebecca leaned her head hard up against his chest. She felt his strong safe arms securing her - his warm body throbbing against her own. And she could feel his arousal. She pressed her body in tighter. Their breathing explosively intent.

Rebecca gazed up lovingly into Paul’s gentle eyes and he kissed her so lightly on her lips.

They smiled.

And she pounced with her lips in retaliation like a devouring cat. With thrusted hunger and passion, she returned the kiss - her desire totally consuming. Her mouth wanting to take of his essence, and to give of her essence, all that was possible.

Paul had never before experienced such natural, almost maternal, loving warmth. A warmth reaching into every recess of his heart and soul. A mature warmth of belonging - and longing. Heart stuff - not mind stuff. A mind that was usually proud of its stiff Tantric control. A mind that ceased to exist at this blissful moment beyond time.

His elevated state of passion seemed to erupt into the infinite.

Rebecca instinctively felt Paul’s ardor close to peaking. She moved her hand with exquisite tenderness to Paul’s erection. Her maternal instincts - powerfully combining with her own sexual desires - erotically massaged Paul. She lowered his head onto her left shoulder.

And she felt a sense of power and control.

Paul clung to her so wantonly. He gasped breathlessly. Her hand moved firmer and faster. ‘Rebecca...Oh Rebecca,’ he gasped. She felt his throbbing climax. A climactic state she was subtly suspended in herself.

Paul rained her with loving gentle kisses upon her face. He felt an all consuming gratitude and thankfulness - a profound experience of complete oneness.

Rebecca led Paul by the arm to the couch.

‘Rebecca, I feel so....’ He tried in vain to convey his confused inner feelings. Shyness and inferiority overwhelmed him. ‘You are just so beautiful - I feel so close.’

‘Don’t try to talk now,’ soothed Rebecca, putting her index finger over his mouth. She paused smiling softly. ‘Could you excuse me for a few moments while I get dressed. I was ready for an early night. And my flat mate Monica is due home soon.’

Paul nodded graciously and symbolically blew her a kiss. ‘Rebecca?’

‘Yes Paul,’ she answered turning, as she tip toed to her bedroom.

‘Thank you. You really are so wonderful.’

Rebecca smiled, accepting the compliment with dressing robed elegance.

‘Whew!’ she gasped drawing three deep breaths, and leaning her back defensively up against the closed door in her bedroom. She stared momentarily into nothingness, and her mind struggled to rationalize her surprising actions - and possible motives. It’s so unlike me to be uninhibited, she thought. Paul seems strong and confident, yet has such an incredible need of mothering. And the energy between us - it’s just so phenomenal! Or maybe my motives were more practical. Perhaps I took control of the situation purposefully. We both felt so passionate. And being caught offside looking like a drab in a dressing gown - with Monica returning - hardly the right time or place.

Rebecca composed herself and quickly dressed.

‘Paul,’ she asked, adjusting her silver Aztec earring, ‘Would you mind awfully if we were to go out to a bistro or coffee shop to talk? I’d prefer that Monica didn’t see us together right now.’

Paul jumped to attention. ‘Of course not. My car is parked right outside. I know an excellent restaurant not far from here.’

‘That would be lovely. It’s just that Monica is so curious. And I’d have a devilish time explaining you to her.’

‘I understand completely. The restaurant is a great idea. We can have a champagne to celebrate!’

‘And by the way, thank you for the flowers - they really are absolutely gorgeous. I’ll place them in a vase before we leave. It will only take a jiffy.’

Paul’s expression glowed as he admired Rebecca arranging the flowers.She looks both appealing and homely, he thought. Not that I’d really know what ‘home’ feels like. But being with her sure feels comfortable.

‘All done. How do they look Paul?’ Rebecca eyes flashed seduction as she spoke.

‘Oh, wunderbar,’ he replied, without switching his gaze from her.

She gleamed once again into those Prussian blue eyes.

The love still flowed.

‘Fine. Best we be off then.’

The rain was now heavy.

‘Let’s run for it!’ shouted Rebecca at the steps.

They sprinted and clamored into the black Mercedes and fastened their seat belts. Their gasping breath fogged up the windows almost immediately

.
‘It’s freezing. Quick, turn the heater on,’ she said excitedly.

Paul turned on the motor and the wipers, and rang the restaurant from his mobile phone to make the booking.
‘All set,’ he said, and leaned over and pecked a kiss at Rebecca’s cheek.

Through the rain they failed to notice the two unobtrusive dark sedans parked either side of the road - and the two male occupants in each car peering intently in their direction. Paul drove off. One of the sedans pulled out from the curb and began to follow. The Mercedes turned the corner and out of sight.

‘Right, off you go!’

The second occupant of the remaining vehicle, jumped out into the rain, and sprinted up the stairs to Rebecca’s flat. He wore a black, tight fitting skivvy that matched his trousers and a dark sports coat. Once at the door of the apartment, he donned a slit eyed Balaclava. His expert fingers picked the lock, gaining entry in seconds.

‘I’m inside the flat, and beginning the search,’ he whispered in Dutch, into his transmitter unit strapped to his wrist.

‘All clear down here,’ came the reply. ‘Proceed.’

The intruder with finesse, system and artfulness probed Rebecca’s bedroom. He examined each drawer and cupboard and rummaged through her personal belongings. He inspected under the bed and searched within pages of books. He took photos of several of her personal letters and communications from the peace movement - and he violated her diary.

Within fifteen minutes he was working his way through to the lounge and kitchen, methodically searching each and every item from the bookshelf to the freezer. He then turned his attention to Monica’s bedroom. Her smiling innocent photo greeted him on the dressing table as he opened the door. The search continued.

‘Finding anything?’ asked the graveled voice from the receiver.

He lifted up a lacy pair of Monica’s knickers from her underwear drawer and ran his fingers over the satin.
‘No, nothing of consequence, but I wouldn’t mind finding the owner of these panties,’ he replied smirking and ogling the photo.

‘Keep your blasted mind on the job. You’ve been in there for over thirty minutes.’

Another six minutes passed.

‘I’ve finished the search.’

‘Then if you’re done, plant the bugs and get the hell out of there. Remember - Hans said - no foul ups!’

‘I’m about to position the bugs now. I’ll slip one behind the corner pedestal in the lounge and one in each of the bedrooms. Three should be adequate.’ Using a skewer, he punched a small hole in the carpet up against the base board, and slid the thin sophisticated listening device into the opening.

‘Mission accomplished!’

He opened the door to leave. His hand reached for the switch to turn off the light. He quickly scanned the room once more to ensure it looked undisturbed.

As if materializing out of a spooky hell, she saw the black Balaclava face in front of her.

‘What.. what are you doing in my apartment?’ stammered Monica Laatum, alarmed and totally frightened in the doorway.

He was startled - but his training and experience had taught him to react with lighting speed. He drew the gun from his shoulder holster and with the other hand grabbed Monica - wrenched her inside and slammed the door with his boot. ‘Turn around. Up against the wall!’ he ordered, almost shouting.

She leaned forward and rested her forehead hard up against the cold plaster. He forced her to raise her arms above her head and to extend her fingers flat against the wall.

‘Spread your legs!’

Her heart began to thump as she obeyed, and she sensed his shallow breath on the nape of her neck..

‘Wider!’

Monica heard his snigger. He’d now regained control of the situation and had her at his mercy. She felt the cold silencer end of the gun pressed against her bare calf at the hem of her dress. And she knew he was now squatting in a haunched position behind her. Her dress began to lift as the gun rose slowly upwards. His free hand stroked her exposed skin.

His breathing became louder. ‘Your long legs are sure turning me on, sweetheart.’

‘What are you doing? Please stop,’ she pleaded.

‘Just want to see if those knickers look as good on you as they did in the drawer,’ he responded crisply.

‘What the hell’s going on up there?’ snapped the impatient voice from the wrist piece.

‘Pretty knickers is here. You were meant to keep a look out and warn me,’ he answered. And he lifted the gun with her ruffled dress up to her waist.

‘Oh hell! There must be a side entrance. Look, you know what you have to do - fix it and hurry - that’s an order!’

Monica felt his cold hand slither up and grope under her pale blue bikini panties. Her spine twitched and went rigid. Her complexion death white. His fingers and palm now slid slowly around her hip to her tummy, then down to her pubic hair - and then even lower.

‘What a waste. You sure got such a sexy backside.’ ‘I wished there was more time. Sorry love. But orders are orders!’ The gun was released. Her dress fell.

He stood up.

Monica locked her eyes tight and waited petrified for the shot.

----000O000----

The Cauldron By Charles Goodwin Chapter 5

2006-06-16T15:06:00.000+09:30

The Founding of Chiron

5

Belief Systems Crumbling

‘Subjects are entering a restaurant. Do we continue the surveillance?’

‘I’ve told you - as long as those two are together, you stick with them!’ snapped the heavy voice through the mobile.

‘Yes sir, Mr. Van der Hyde.’

The driver turned sullenly to his partner. The corners of his protruding lips turned down like a pouting chimp. ‘It looks like we’re in for a fiendishly cold evening.’

The seafood restaurant Oesterbar-Sluizer, proved to be for Rebecca, a most memorable culinary discovery. Memorable that is, in more ways than one. Paul led the way down the rustic stone steps into, what must have been originally, she thought, the large basement of an old warehouse. The entire basement, lit with flickering reproduction ship lanterns, was now impressively refurbished into a busy restaurant with an imaginative nautical Dutch sailing ship theme.

Mural sized oil paintings hung on the walls representing Amsterdam’s Golden Age, namely the first 6 decades of the 17th century, when the small city on the River Amstel dominated the world’s spice and silk trade. Billowing sails were stretched overhead between the wooden rafters. Rope ladders dangled from the ceiling to the floor and turned spindle railings and steps divided the different ‘decks’ of tables.

‘Please follow me. I will show you to your cabin.’ The head waiter, fancifully dressed as a deckhand complete with eye patch, spoke in English with only a slight accent.

He led Rebecca and Paul to an intimate booth representing ships officer’s quarters - with portholes that peered into a large well lit aquarium.

‘It feels we’re in the bowels of a ship under the water line rather than an old building,’ exclaimed Rebecca light heartedly and elated at the Disneyland atmosphere.

‘Aye! All the waiter needs is a wooden stump leg and a parrot on his shoulders - and he’d really look the part,’ quipped Paul winking. ‘Perhaps I should have brought my Viking’s helmet!’

Rebecca chuckled. ‘Personally I think the gaudy decor is quite brilliant. It gives the restaurant a warm and happy feeling.’

Paul relaxed back into his seat. ‘Gaudy or not, the quality of the seafood here is definitely first class. I’ve been here before for a business luncheon - although I have to admit, at the time I thought the place was strictly for the romanticists.’

‘And do you feel romantic tonight,’ asked Rebecca, teasingly stroking Paul’s leg under the table with her foot.

Paul red faced, feigned a self-conscious smile. ‘You obviously have no idea what you do to me. Kindly stop teasing.’

‘Maybe I do. Why? Are you complaining?’ she asked cheekily.

Paul grinned and ignored the question. Instead he virgoanly studied the menu. ‘Perhaps we should order. What would you like to eat?’

Rebecca only glanced at the English menu and responded fleetingly. ‘May I have the spicy prawns with a side salad? I need a little spice in my life and I certainly still feel ravished!’ She peered up provocatively at Paul and added, ‘And no doubt you will go for oysters, I presume.’

He looked at her bewildered. ‘Now how did you know that? - I absolutely love natural oysters! I eat them by the cart load.’

Rebecca laughed out loud.

‘I’m missing something. What’s the joke?’ he asked insecurely, shrugging his shoulders.

‘Oysters are known to help the appetite,’ teased Rebecca.

Paul felt perplexed. He shrugged again, then turned and summoned the waiter.

‘A bottle of your best vintage Bollinger please.’

‘Ah, yes sir. You are celebrating, sir?’

‘Indeed I am! I’m celebrating the fine catch of a mermaid who didn’t get away!’

‘Of course sir. I’ll get the champagne for you right away.’ The waiter signaled to a waitress. ‘Yvonne will take your food order when you are ready.’

‘By the way,’ asked Paul thoughtfully to the waiter.

‘There was something else sir?’

‘My lady friend just told me that oysters assist the appetite. Is that so?’

The waiter glanced at Rebecca and fought to retain his formality. ‘They are sometimes considered an aphrodisiac sir. Perhaps that is what the lady is referring to.’

Rebecca’s face displayed a controlled smile of embarrassment.

‘An aphrodisiac, that’s a sexual stimulant isn’t it?’ asked Paul naively.

‘I believe it is sir. Will that be all?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Paul blushed like a ripe tomato as the waiter left. ‘Well I sure fell for that one, didn’t I?’

Rebecca broke into a teenage giggle. ‘I naturally thought you knew what I meant. I didn’t think for a minute that you would go and ask the waiter.’

‘The embarrassment could have been worse. I might have asked the waitress,’ he replied, finally realizing the humor of the situation.

Rebecca studied Paul affectionately while he ordered the meals. She observed how the young waitress reacted to Paul’s endearing charm. And she thought, he seems to have that certain charisma about him that makes him so unique.

Rebecca recalled Wakonda’s parable about the prisoner in a dark dungeon being blinded by the sudden exposure to light. If she’d interpreted the visions correctly, she rationalized, Paul too, would have to become gradually accustomed to the truth of his parentage and destiny. Perhaps the experiencing and acceptance of unconditional love will be his first step out of the darkness.

‘You seem miles away. What are you thinking?’ he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

‘Oh love, and how illusive it can be,’ she answered quietly. ‘But then I’m a romanticist at the best of times.’

‘Love! Ah, now there’s a subject I know little about. Perhaps you can enlighten me,’ he mused, more to start a conversation, than to discover any omniscient truth.

Rebecca was reticent and thought carefully before replying.

‘Love cannot really be explained Paul. Love springs from the heart rather than the intellect. Love is experienced - not analyzed.’

Paul was undeterred. ‘Well if you can’t explain to me what love is, perhaps you might explain what it isn’t. Does that seem a logical question to you?’

‘No, not exactly.’

‘I mean - I once heard a story about an Italian sculptor. He created beautiful angelic beings out of marble. A journalist asked him how he did it. ‘That’s simple,’ he replied. ‘I take a block of marble and chip away all that isn’t an angel.’ Paul imitated the sculptor, by shrugging his shoulders and gesturing with his hands, as he spoke.

Rebecca had heard the original Vedantic Hindu version of the profound parable before. However, instead of angels, the sculpture created elephants. She knew that the story was really alluding to the long torturous path of the spiritual aspirant. Namely the painful chipping away of all impermanent desires and attachments from the rock of ignorance until all that remained was the Divine unchangeable soul or Brahma.

Yet she was enjoying both the light hearted conversation and Paul’s company. She replied jovially, ‘All right, to show you how absurd that principle is - let’s say you have never in your life experienced the sight, touch or taste of water. It would be futile for me to explain water by describing what it isn’t. As an example - this is a rock - water is not at all like a rock! This is a tree - water is not at all like a tree!’

‘Yes I take your point,’ agreed Paul meditatively. ‘But seriously, I did feel a fantastic oneness - it was like a wonderful sense of belonging - when we kissed tonight.’

‘Have you never felt that feeling of closeness with anyone else before?’

‘Regretfully no. But who knows, maybe I have yearned for some degree of love all of my life,’ he answered and his eyes became glazed with desolate tears.

Rebecca felt compassion. He really is like a lost little boy, she thought. She caressed his hand with precious tenderness. ‘Paul darling, believe me, on a scale of one kilometer, the oneness you experienced earlier tonight, is only the first centimeter.’

The deck hand, minus the parrot, refilled the champagne flutes.

‘All the same,’ said Paul after the waiter had left, ‘thanks to you, I have now experienced love. So even if love is difficult to talk about, you are a teacher - you could try to teach me.’

Rebecca didn’t answer immediately. The discussion was sailing into unchartered waters. Paul’s innocence on such matters touched her heart, but she also sensed his emotional vulnerability. She would have to lead the conversation away from the subject.

‘I intend to leave the teaching profession. It’s too frustrating being a teacher in these tumultuous times.’

‘Oh, why is that?’

‘Teachers should be able to assist or guide their students to discover themselves - their true potential as worthwhile individuals. But teaching the human values is virtually impossible in today’s education system. I can no longer be a part of a system that seeks to destroy children’s spirits by force feeding their impressionable minds.’

‘So what would you like to see changed?’

‘The whole global unification policy for a start. Secondly the principle of competitive achievement...’

'Hey, what’s wrong with competitive achievement? Competition is healthy,’ interrupted Paul, straightening his back..

Rebecca paused. Her eyes sparked indignation. ‘Paul it’s like putting all of the children in a race. Forcing them to strive against each other. There can only ever be one winner. The others re-enforce the loser complex in themselves. Even the winner loses eventually. All competition is a subtle form of violence.’

‘You seem most passionate on this issue - too idealistic perhaps?’

‘Perhaps I am. But at least I care! Children first need to learn self love. They will never learn to love themselves while they are forced to compete with their fellow students - or are compelled to live up to some egotistical false ideal or model.’

‘So here we are, back to the word love again.’ Paul grinned as he spoke, but also partly related to the points she was making.

‘I’m being serious, Paul.’

‘I know you are,’ he answered softly. ‘But you are also getting all fired up. And I don’t want to risk you being upset with me again.’

Rebecca relented, took a deep breath and sipped her champagne. And she knew he was justified in making that assumption.

Yvonne brought the meals to the table. Paul remained contentedly silent as he relished the ‘oysters aphrodisiacs’, and he wondered how quickly they would start working?

Rebecca still deep in thought, wanted to explain so much to Paul but felt restrained. The conversations stayed light during the meal. Paul ordered a second bottle of Bollinger.

Barriers slowly evaporated, assisted by the champagne - the romantic background music - and the relaxed atmosphere.

‘I suppose you believe in God?’ asked Paul, stunning Rebecca by the suddenness of the question.

‘You don’t - I take it,’ countered Rebecca, stalling for the time to refocus her mind.

‘No. I’m afraid I am a devout atheist.’

‘Tell me Paul, what is the nature of the God you don’t believe in?’

‘Well I certainly don’t accept there is a wise old being or creator up there in some heavenly sphere, who meters out justice to all,’ he answered, pointing upwards with his fork as he spoke.’

‘Could you expand on that statement? ’

‘Are you asking, if I feel there is a continuing conscious existence after death?’

‘Yes I suppose I am. I mean by definition, an atheist only denies the existence of a God. An atheist still might believe in life after death.’

A studious expression appeared on Paul’s face. His voice lowered to a more serious tone. ‘As a matter of fact Rebecca, I do accept consciousness continues after physical death - in expanded states or dimensions, of course. However, as in the physical universe, natural scientific laws must prevail to those states. The existence of these higher dimensions isn’t yet provable by science. But the day will eventually come when a communication breakthrough will be possible.’

A satisfying sparkle of acknowledgment beamed from Rebecca’s eyes. ‘Well, if that is your definition of an atheist then I also must be an atheist. I accept totally what you have just said.’

‘But you haven’t answered my original question. You purposely turned my question back on to me,’ persisted Paul playfully.

Rebecca grinned. ‘I always ask self proclaimed atheists - what is their particular concept of God that they don’t believe in. I then accept the fallacy of the concept. The technique is always successful, and saves lots of heated arguments.’

‘So you don’t accept that a God exists either?’

‘I didn’t say that. You asked me if I believed in God. It’s the word ‘believe’ I find unpalatable. I don’t believe in ‘belief.’

‘Aren’t you being a little pedantic? You have to believe in something. I mean, you believe the earth is round don’t you?’

She sighed and shook her head knowingly.

‘Paul I ‘know’ the earth is round. It is a fact. Not an intellectual concept evolved from past conditioning or customs. A belief is just an opinion - given special validity.’

Paul’s curiosity began to intensify. ‘I don’t understand what you are driving at. I live by my intellect My mind is a collection of beliefs and attitudes.’

‘Wisdom is true knowing borne out of experience. It is the knowledge of the heart entwined with love. Wisdom is beyond debate or argument and never divides or causes conflict. Beliefs on the other hand, end inquiry. They imprison the believer in ignorance from reality. Beliefs divide! Humans will go to war and kill for their beliefs. They are prepared to even die for what they believe in. But if you proclaimed that the earth is flat, they would simply laugh at you. They would know the statement to be untrue. So you see there’s a huge difference between knowing and believing!’

Paul leaned back in his chair and remained silent for a few moments. ‘Wow! I’m impressed. And part of what you say, I certainly relate to in business.’ Paul thought of the likes of the idealistic Fernando. ‘Peoples belief systems are viewed as their Achilles heel - to be used and manipulated for profit.’

‘I could never condone exploiting anyone’s weaknesses for personal gain,’ replied Rebecca frowning, ‘That might be your present world but it will never be mine.’

Paul’s lips tightened, then quickly accepted the wisdom path of postponing his response for a later date.

‘Anyway, as I was saying,’ Rebecca continued. ‘The word ‘God’ is not God - but a label in each of us, symbolizing our particular concept of God. A belief in a concept of God can never be a substitute for direct experience. Hence the question - Do you believe in God? - is irrelevant! ’

‘And do you feel that beliefs are also a barrier to love?’ asked Paul.

‘The ego mind by its nature, wants to possess beliefs and material commodities as well as people. The ego needs to dominate because of the inherent fear of its own death. The ego mind is the ultimate barrier to complete freedom.’

Paul contemplated deeply, before replying. ‘I suppose we are all scared. Everyone is scared of something.’

‘Yes, our fears are like anchors around our necks. We fear the unknown. Even the need to hoard wealth and possessions is based in fear - arising from our insecurities. I hope to see a world where all fear and suffering is abolished.’

‘I’m afraid you will be disappointed,’ said Paul sympathetically.

It was Rebecca’s eyes now that grew moist. Paul hadn’t said, that she could be disappointed or even might be disappointed. No - he had said she will be disappointed. And that’s the problem in a nutshell - the consciousness of the whole human race has been conditioned to the acceptance that fear and suffering is a natural state of existence - as if life was a traumatic slave-train ride to death and oblivion. Only some souls either by fate or choice are traveling express! No, Paul, she thought, you are wrong - you have to be wrong!

‘If love is given a chance there is hope - hope for the survival of the planet - and hope for all its inhabitants. At least the word LOVE is universal.’ And then she added pointedly, ‘Even an atheist can embrace and experience love, Paul’

‘Ah, the circle is complete. We have returned to love.’ He gazed into Rebecca’s glistening eyes and spoke tenderly. ‘All I know right now is that I love being with you.’

She stroked his hand across the table. ‘Be patient with yourself Paul. Remember, learn to love yourself first. And expect to feel naked and vulnerable as you begin to drop the protective walls and barriers.’

‘Yes Frau Professor. And you should never give up teaching. I can see you are a born teacher.’

As they drank their coffee and Benedictines their minds drifted with the haunting background music. Dolphin calls, beautifully combined with the sound of soothing waves and meditative French horns, serenaded peace into their heart chakras.

And he looked up searchingly. ‘Rebecca.’

‘Yes Paul’

‘I cant help feeling that fate has brought us together for some strange reason. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘Yes I do. I admit I have the same eerie feeling. Time will tell.’

‘Yes - time will tell.’

Paul cruised unhurriedly back to Rebecca’s apartment. Both virtually oblivious to the passing of the three hours that had sped by in the restaurant, and utterly oblivious to the sedan following in close pursuit.

Neither wanted the magical evening to end.

He stopped reluctantly outside. The rain drizzled morbidly. Paul glanced at the clock. The time was 11.04.

Rebecca refrained from mentioning her intended move to Australia. Likewise, Paul chose to keep off the topic of his pending business commitments.

‘Paul, the evening was wonderful.’ She held his hand with resolute affection. ‘Please don’t think I’m rude. But I can’t ask you in tonight.’

‘I understand - your flat mate Monica,’ he replied, hiding his disappointment.

‘Thank you for your understanding. Besides, I’m now really tired. It has been a long and eventful day.’

‘So when can I see you again?’

‘Oh Paul.’ Rebecca looked into Paul’s pleading eyes. She put her arms around his shoulders and embraced him lovingly. ‘Tomorrow is Monday. What about ringing me tomorrow evening. We could organize something for Tuesday night.’

‘Six o’clock tomorrow evening?’

‘Six will be fine.’

Paul hugged and kissed Rebecca. ‘It’s hard to say goodbye to you. I don’t want us to separate.’

‘I’ll still be here on Tuesday. Give our relationship time Paul.’

She gave a quick parting kiss as she opened the car door. ‘And thank you once more for the enjoyable evening. I’ll wait with baited breath for your call.’

Rebecca could hear Paul’s Mercedes drive slowly away as she tip toed up the stairs to her apartment. She opened the door quietly and turned on the lights.

‘Monica!’ she gasped in terror.

She gaped down at Monica’s sprawled out body lying face down on the carpet. Blood visible through her blond hair on the back of her head.

‘Oh my God.’ Rebecca crashed to the carpet along side Monica. She gently turned her over.

Monica was still breathing.

‘Monica, can you hear me? It’s Rebecca. What happened?’ Rebecca carefully lifted Monica’s head onto her lap as she spoke.

Monica groaned. Her eyes painfully opened. She strained as she gazed - as if her vision of Rebecca shimmered through a distant haze.

‘Rebecca?’

‘Dear sweet Monica. Oh thank God. When I came in - seeing you out on the floor - I thought you were... You can hear me can’t you?’

Monica nodded - her white face grimaced. She managed a brave forced smile. ‘I think I’m all right. But my head - oh my head throbs.’

‘I’ll ring for an ambulance. Try not to move.’

‘No please don’t,’ she replied. The words came slowly but in earnest.

‘I don’t want to go to hospital. You know I loath hospitals. Please Rebecca.’ Monica’s disarming innocent eyes, could not be argued with.

‘If I help you, do you think you can manage to walk to the couch?’

‘Yes... I think so. Thank you.’

Rebecca leapt to her feet and nervously shut and bolted the apartment door before assisting Monica. Monica carefully stood up, holding her head, her drawn face drained of color. She swayed weak kneed and flopped onto the couch.

‘There now. Put your legs up. Lay your head on the cushion. I’ll get you an ice pack and aspirin.’ Rebecca looked at Monica’s bloodied head. ‘You sure have one large lump there. It’s been bleeding. I’ll get a bandage as well.’

Rebecca returned with the first aid kit from the bathroom and washed the wound. ‘I think I should ring for the Doctor, just in case.’

‘No, let’s see how I feel in the morning - Please!’

‘You are probably concussed. Hold this ice pack - that’s right. Now tell me what happened.’

‘There was this horrid man with a gun. Here in the flat when I came in. He made me turn around. Oh Rebecca, I thought he was going to shoot me. I was so scared.’ Tears welled in her eyes as she recalled the terror.

‘What did he look like? What was he doing in our apartment?

‘I don’t know. It happened so fast. He wore a balaclava so I didn’t see his face. He must have been a thief - I think I surprised him too.’ She began to slur her speech, panting in short gasps.

‘Easy now. Take your time. I shouldn’t have pushed,’ consoled Rebecca apologetically.

Monica paused. ‘I’ll be all right once I’ve caught my breath.’

‘Take some deep breaths.’

Monica wheezed and felt dizzy. ‘He was talking into a phone of some sort. His partner must have been out in the street watching the front door... I arrived home early and popped up to Kasandra’s apartment for coffee... It’s her birthday tomorrow and I had a present for her...’

‘That’s probably the reason you surprised him. So he ordered you to turn around and then knocked you out?’

‘Yes.... Rebecca, the stupid man lifted up my dress with his gun to look at my knickers. He called me ‘pretty knickers’ to his friend. How sick!’ I was so embarrassed.’

‘Did he molest you?’ asked Rebecca protectively.

‘No not really - he felt my bottom. He put his hand up under my pants. Said he wished he had more time. Isn’t that queer? Can you believe it?’

‘The bastard.’ Rebecca could believe it, and her resentment began to boil. ‘It’s more than sick. It’s lower than an animal.’ She shuddered. Images of what could have happened - if he’d had more time - flooded her mind. Monica’s life would certainly have been disposable!

‘I’ll be fine Rebecca. Stop worrying. I’m all right,’ she whispered.

‘Monica, you really are so sweet. I hope you never lose that refreshing innocence.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. I must look horrid.’

‘If you know you’re innocent - you’re not,’ replied Rebecca, quoting an ancient Zen proverb.

Monica shrugged her shoulders and smiled sheepishly.

Rebecca’s mind fought to understand.

‘You could be right about the intruder being a burglar. Amsterdam has such a mammoth drug problem. He could be any one of thousands, looking for money or valuables to buy drugs. Not that we have anything worth stealing.’

‘My silver locket my mother gave me. He didn’t steal it, did he Rebecca?’

‘I’ll check, don’t try to get up.’

Rebecca went into Monica’s bedroom. ‘No, it’s still here,’ she called. ‘There doesn’t appear to be anything missing. I’ll have a quick look through the rest of the flat.’

After a few minutes, Rebecca returned with Monica’s yellow night dress.

‘I’ll put a bandage on your wound and then get you undressed so we can get you to bed. Then I’ll bring you in a nice cup of hot chocolate with a marshmallow.’

‘Make it two marshmallows and I’ll be a good girl,’ giggled Monica.

‘It’s good to see your color returning. God I was worried.’ said Rebecca relieved, as she helped Monica to sit up.

‘You are like an older sister to me - such a wonderful friend. I don’t know how I could get along without you. What’s going to come of me if we part? she asked as she undressed. ‘I feel so secure when you are with me.’

Rebecca hugged her with loving affection. ‘Don’t worry, I am sure everything will work out for the best.’

‘I do hope so.’

‘Now wait there while I make the hot chocolate.’

Over the three years, Rebecca had flatted with Monica, their relationship had bonded steadily into a strong friendship. In Monica’s eyes, the world appeared as a beautiful fragrant botanic garden, and she the butterfly, flitting joyfully from flower to flower. Monica exhibited a natural humility that allowed others to feel elevated in her presence. To Monica, evil and selfishness didn’t exist. She had an honest way of sharing how she felt, without being judgmental or critical. Her English was fluent with just a cute hint of a musical Dutch accent.

Monica is correct, pondered Rebecca as she made the hot chocolate, I protect her like the way I protected my frail sister, before she passed over. The sense of guilt I used to feel when poor Ruth needed to exert herself so while I enjoyed such perfect health. I didn’t really know what leukemia meant at 7 years old.

‘Into bed with you, and I’ll tuck you in.’ Rebecca leaned over and kissed Monica on the forehead.’

‘I love you Rebecca.’

‘I love you too. You are such a special person - in both mind and spirit. You are sure to meet the right man soon. I know you need someone to shield you from the world.’

With more a cheeky grin than a smile, Monica replied in her customary cute way by raising both eyebrows, while shrugging her shoulders and nodding her head twice. ‘I noticed the flowers. They are so beautiful. Who gave them to you? Oh, please tell me. Is he a secret admirer? she asked, her eyes lighting up with the excitement of a child’s at Christmas time.

Rebecca’s smile widened. ‘God, you are a romantic. No he isn’t a secret admirer. But I admit, he is different. I met him for the first time yesterday afternoon.’ An extra glow came over Rebecca as Paul’s face flashed into her mind.

‘So that’s where you were last night,’ exclaimed Monica, her face wreathed in smiles. ‘I bet he’s good looking and filthy rich. He swept you right off your feet, and you fell instantly in love with him. Didn’t you?’

Rebecca blushed, and at that precise moment couldn’t answer her friend.

‘There you see - I’m right - you are in love. Your eyes betray you. Oh Rebecca, I’m so happy for you. When are you getting married? Can I be your bridesmaid?’

‘Hey, slow down. I didn’t say I love him. We have only just met. And besides - I don’t think there will ever be any chance of marriage.’ Rebecca’s eyes now showed that far-a-way look. ‘You are right though. He is rich and in a way he did sweep me off my feet,’ she added cryptically.

‘But why can’t you marry? If you love each other?’

Rebecca’s expression turned sad and serious. ‘Monica I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve decided to fly to Australia. Remember, I told you about the teaching position with Wakonda in the Blue Mountains? My work permit has finally been accepted.’

‘And he wont go with you. Is that why you can’t get married.’

‘You don’t understand. I’m thinking of you. I’ll have to leave this apartment. We may never see each other again.’

Monica frowned and her words were the forlorn sobs of a little girl. ‘You don’t want me to come with you do you. You want to go alone.’

‘No, you are wrong. I assumed you’d prefer to stay here in Holland. This is your home - your birthplace.’

Monica’s sulk instantly disappeared. Her face lit up. ‘I have a little money saved. I can find the rest. To see Australia will be wonderful. A real adventure. Oh, how exciting. When are we leaving?’

‘I would like you to think about it first - before you go making up your mind. Right now, we both need a good night’s sleep,’ replied Rebecca. ‘Now goodnight and sweet dreams.’ She turned to leave the bedroom.

‘Rebecca?’

‘Yes.’

‘What is his name, you know, the one who gave you the flowers?’

‘Paul... Paul Ravenscroft.’

‘Mrs. Rebecca Ravenscroft. I somehow know every thing is going to work out right for you,’ yawned Monica. ‘Goodnight, and thank you for being so kind to me.’

After switching off the light and quietly closing the door of Monica’s room, Rebecca fell wearily into the lounge chair. The worried strain showed on her face. She felt exhausted - her mind almost at meltdown. What on earth is going on? she grappled. It served no purpose to upset Monica even more - but the intruder was no clumsy burglar. The lock would have been smashed - the flat left in a mess - articles would be missing.

She began to murmur to herself. ‘No, the apartment has been professionally searched. They must have waited for Paul and I to leave for the restaurant. The assailants were obviously watching and waiting.’ And she pictured Monica sprawled out on the carpet. ‘The bastards! The search must involve Paul somehow. It’s too much of a coincidence. Poor Monica just happened to be in the way. What on earth am I getting myself into?’

Rebecca stood up and switched off the light. She crept to the window and nervously scanned the street below. She noticed a dark blue van parked a few doors down. She could make out through the drizzle an antenna and scanner protruding from the roof of the van’s cabin.

It took a few tired moments for the coin to drop.

‘They’ve bugged the apartment. That van is the receiver unit. Those bastards have been listening to every word!’ Rebecca’s heart stopped with a thump. Keep calm. Think. You’ve always prided yourself on your rationality.

‘Rebecca?’ Monica’s plaintive voice called from the bedroom breaking the silence. ‘Are you all right? You turned all the lights off.’

Rebecca recoiled from the window. ‘I’m fine - I’m going to bed now - try to get some sleep.’

‘Goodnight and God bless.’

Rebecca found herself trembling. Fatigue and fear engulfed her. She felt desperately alone. Subdued light from the outside street lamps beamed through the window and threw distorted images and threatening shadows onto the ceiling and walls. She stood mutely - deadly still - in the centre of the room. ‘Oh Paul,’ she whispered into nowhere. ‘I do love you darling. And by God, I need you right now - so badly!’

‘Now listen clearly!’ The voice thundered. ‘If Don Ormsby fails to get rid of this Rebecca woman within the next 48 hours, you are to make sure she disappears out of Paul’s life once and for all. Do you understand?’

‘I presume you mean a lethal disappearance?’ Hans Van der Hyde’s eyes narrowed with pungent cunning.

‘You know damn well what I mean. And if Ormsby does fail - he is to be compromised also. I will not tolerate disloyalty!’

'Yes sir Mr. Ravenscroft, that is for certain. You can definitely rely on me. Your orders will be carried out most efficiently - you can be rest-assured.’

Hans gingerly replaced the phone. He’d arrived at his office twenty minutes later that morning, having slept in, after being pre-occupied the previous night, eavesdropping in on Rebecca. ‘The plot thickens,’ sneered Hans to himself. ‘That’s the first time Heinrich Ravenscroft has rang me in person. It’s indeed an honor. My excellent record is at last being noticed.’

Hans had given in his usual crawling manner reserved for his superiors, a detailed account of Paul and Rebecca’s meetings. He’d also bragged to Heinrich about the surveillance he had personally organized. ‘Hmm, a most interesting situation. With a little cunning mixed with a measure of ingenuity, promotion might well be on the horizon, that is for certain.’With a sadistic smirk, he reached for a fat cigar from his burn-marked ceder cigar box.

He lit up.

His huge frame leaned back on his creaking reclining swivel chair. He placed his feet with a thud on top of the desk.

Acrid cigar smoke quickly filled the room.

‘Yes indeed, promotion! And a pretty English school teacher thrown in to the bargain as a bonus.’
His adrenalin began to pulsate. His eyes watered and his ugly face flushed beetroot red. His perverse fantasies fired. He imagined Rebecca stripped naked and strapped to one of his adjustable interrogation tables. He could almost hear her writhing and moaning through her gagged mouth as he fiendishly pierced and pinched her bare body with his special instruments - instruments of torture he’d so proudly collected over the years.

His hot mouth became as dry a tandoori oven. His thick long tongue slithered across his protruding cracked lips. Greasy sweat formed on his high forehead - and he sucked harder on the cigar. Without shifting his gaze, he reached for the intercom.

‘Suzanna, come in here.’

‘Yes sir,’ came the timid reply.

‘Don’t just stand there. Come on in. And shut the door behind you,’ ordered Hans, wheezing, almost breathless.

Eighteen year old Suzanna stood trembling before her hated evil monster of an employee. Her eyes lowered - too fearful to look at the sordid face of Hans while he was in his now familiar, crazed mood.

‘Come here my girl. This side of the desk.’

Suzanna meekly obeyed.

‘Now that’s better. You look so lovely today. Let me feel you.’ mocked Hans, and he ran that large hairy hand up her legs.

‘Please Mr. Van der Hyde. Please don’t,’ she begged, tears now ran down her pale cheeks.

Hans pretended to be offended and angry.

‘What did you say? How dare you!’

His fingers ripped and tugged at her underwear till they found their objective. He squeezed her vaginal skin together with an excruciating pincer grip - his strength lifting her - forcing her painfully up onto her toes.

And his salacious eyes stared like a cobra ready to strike.

Suzanna screamed. Her eyes cramped shut. ‘Let go you are hurting me,’ she cried, her acute pain and misery feeding his unquenchable sadistic appetite.

He yanked her light body spread eagled across his knees. ‘I need your tight little arse,’ he hissed without releasing his grip. ‘Let’s get you out of these pretty undies.’

‘No not again - I’ll do anything - please don’t do it to me.’ She pleaded in terror as he blew cigar smoke directly into her face.

‘You will do exactly what I say. Do you hear?’ His fingers squeezed harder as he spoke. Suzanna squealed in pain. ‘Your fiancée will be mince meat for the dogs if you don’t, that is for certain. And you know I am deadly serious when I say you’ll be forced to watch.’

Suzanna suddenly lost control of her emotions. She began to scream and kick hysterically. She intuitively clawed at Hans like a fierce cat protecting her kittens. She scratched deeply into his cheek, drawing blood. Her venomous rage took Hans by surprise. He released her and abruptly jumped to his feet nursing his wounded face.

‘You fucking bitch!’ he howled with a roar of a wounded grisly bear.

Suzanna crashed to the floor.

‘If you touch me again I’ll kill myself - I hate you - you’re an animal....a pig!’ she screamed, half crawling across the floor to escape and sobbing uncontrollably.

Suzanna’s hell had started just six weeks earlier. Hans had personally selected Suzanna from over sixty applicants for the position. He knew of her recent engagement and her vulnerability. Two days after she began the job, he forced her into his interrogation room where he viciously raped her. She submitted because he’d threatened to kill her boyfriend. There was no escape. Hans was the police. She dared not even tell her fiancée of the rapes. Her mental health now deteriorated to a point of utter collapse.

‘A pig! You dare call me a pig!’ thundered Hans, his oxygen starved face shaking with blue rage.
The telephone rang piercing the tension. He snorted at Suzanna and grabbed the phone.

‘Van der Hyde.’

‘Hans good morning. Don Ormsby here.’

‘One moment Don.’ Hans turned to Suzanna. ‘Get out of here you sniffling bitch and shut the blasted door behind you.’

‘Yes Don,’ he gasped remaining breathless, but with a calmer voice at least an octave lower.

‘I was wondering how the surveillance of Rebecca Childs was going. Has she seen or spoken with Paul yet?’

‘Why no Don, definitely not,’ lied Hans. As we thought, it’s all only a storm in a coffee mug. But you can be sure, that’s for certain, I’ll let you know the minute they do.’

‘Oh great. That’s a relief. Then we’re keep our fingers crossed that the situation stays that way.’
‘Of course we will - keep our fingers crossed!’

Hans threw down the phone and roared with laughter. ‘Don Ormsby you are not only a Yankee fool but a dead man. And I’m going to have my promotion and my English school teacher’s fanny to play with.’

Hans picked up and relit his cigar from the floor. His heavy steel reinforced boots thudded back onto his desk. He once again leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together behind his podge neck. He stared at the ceiling.

‘All I have to do is to wait most patiently - forty eight hours at the outside. An engrossing situation indeed.’ Hans puffed relentlessly on the cigar.

He spoke into the intercom - his voice a snorting whisper, ‘Suzanna my dear, all is forgiven. You may come back in now!’

‘Mr. Ravenscroft sir, good morning. Reception here. There is a young lady at the front desk, by the name of Miss Childs. Would you like me to direct her to your suite?’

‘No, that won’t be necessary. Ask her to wait a few moments and I’ll be right down,’ said Paul excitedly, jumping to his feet. ‘Offer her tea or coffee in the lounge.’

‘Madam, Mr Ravenscroft will be with you shortly. May I direct you to the guest lounge. Would you prefer tea or coffee while you wait?’

‘Thank you, strong coffee would be lovely,’ replied Rebecca, more than relieved to hear that Paul hadn’t left for the day. She felt uneasy at being at the Amstel Hotel without first phoning Paul. Having her own phones monitored had not only violated her privacy, but had left her with an irrational distrust for all telephones. She sat with legs crossed, uncomfortably erect but dignified on the front edge of the lounge.

In a chair opposite, she noticed a middle eastern businessman with sheet black hair and moustache and wearing a white suit, eyeing her from behind his Arabic paper.

He smiled at her, flashing his gold fillings, and looked her up and down as if he was selecting a woman in a brothel. She shuddered and pulled her skirt down defensively over her knees and looked away.

And she could smell the distinct aroma of the freshly brewed coffee arriving.

All my senses feel stretched to the limit since the visions, she thought as she poured herself a black coffee. Perhaps I’m in love. At least that would explain why I am so darn horny. She sneaked a glance at the Arab. God he’s still smiling at me. And this time she offered a tentative smile and re-crossed her legs a little more gainfully.

Or perhaps I’m remembering how it feels to be a woman again!

But Rebecca knew the evolving events were more sinister. She could feel herself steadily being caught up in powerful opposing energies or polarities. Her immediate problem was facing her own surfacing repressions and doubts. She earnestly desired to experience spiritual totality or oneness, but she thought, If God is all - and love is God - where lies evil and all the shades of gray between the polarities?

And what does the esoteric term ‘resist not evil’ mean?

Certainly the illusory and judgmental boundaries between right and wrong - goodness and evil - seemed to be gradually fading into confusion. Certainly her spirituality, sexuality and sensuality seemed to be driven by the same energy source. And she was certain that the Arab’s tongue was now drooling as he attempted to peer up her now slightly parted legs.

‘Rebecca. This is a pleasant surprise. You don’t know how glad I am to see you. You look deep in thought and reflexion. Is there anything wrong?’

Rebecca turned smiling to face Paul. His positive welcoming voice and beaming face gave her spirits a much needed lift. He was dressed casually. His fresh aftershave fragrance smelt paternal and secure.

Rebecca’s impulse was to jump into his arms for a hug. Instead she relented.

‘Good morning Paul.’ Her smile became a trifle shy, even a trifle insecure. She gazed into his morning bright eyes and realized instantly the magical mutual attraction still existed.

‘You look so beautiful. I’ve had such a restless sleep missing you. And here you are,’ said Paul, sitting down next to Rebecca.

‘I’ve missed you too.’ She hesitated and glanced about her. The Arab was now eyeballing Paul - but with less ardor.

‘Look can we go some place private. We have to talk. It’s most important.’

‘Of course. There’s a coffee house just a leisurely stroll through the gardens. Would that do? You know you are welcome to come up to my rooms,’ offered Paul, a little clumsily.

Rebecca shook her head. ‘Actually I’d prefer the gardens. A walk will do me good,’ she replied ruefully.

Paul mis-sensed Rebecca’s agitation and blushed.

‘Hey I didn’t mean for a moment that we should.... I mean I didn’t want to insinuate that we should go to.. Look please don’t go getting upset with me.’

She surveyed Paul fondly and sighed. If you only knew what I’m thinking - cuddling up in bed with each other - feeling all safe and warm with you - God it would be wonderful. You could hold me tight until all my anxieties vanish, and then - well we could make passionate love under the soft eiderdown. Instead Rebecca said teasingly, ‘Paul, convention dictates that a lady should never accept an invitation of that nature so early in a relationship.’

‘But I honestly didn’t mean...’

‘You are so cute when you’re embarrassed,’ she interrupted, ‘I am joshing you Paul. I didn’t suspect any ulterior motive on your part. However I admit my thoughts weren’t so noble.’

‘I am relieved.’

‘What again? You are quick. I’m impressed,’ quipped Rebecca feigning surprise.

‘God. Rebecca you are impossible.’ Paul was exasperated.

‘Shall we go?’ she asked, noting that she may have gone a little too far with her gibe.

‘I think that might be a good idea. I need the fresh air,’ countered Paul defensively and loosening his collar as he stood up.

‘I’m sorry. I was trying to be humorous. I didn’t intend to embarrass you.’ And from the corner of her eye, she saw that the chair upon which her Arab admirer was sitting, was now vacant.

‘There’s something else wrong, isn’t there? You seem nervous and upset for some reason.’

Rebecca could not dispel her trepidation. ‘Yes Paul. Something is odorously wrong! I’ll explain why I’m so agitated when we are in the park.’

----0000O0000-----

The Cauldron By Charles Goodwin Chapter 6

2006-06-15T13:33:00.000+09:30

The Founding of Chiron

Chapter 6

Seeds of Awakening

The shimmering lights remind me of a painting by Renoir - or even the genius of Turner, thought Paul wistfully. I wished I had taken up oil painting. Maybe it’s not too late - maybe when I’m older...

The sun’s warmth shone bravely between the clearing clouds causing the dew on the foliage to glisten and sparkle. Shafts of golden light beamed down between the shadows, and the many differing shades of green bestowed form and shape to the trees and the grass. A slight mist still hung in the scented air.

In the pond amidst the rushes, a mother duck glided silently through the water, with her ducklings paddling less elegantly in formation behind her. A fresh clean, pranic sanctuary of peace and tranquility - away from the hustle and pain of the city.

Rebecca strolled arm in arm with Paul, along the winding narrow pathway through the gardens, experiencing the connectiveness of creation. Observing with alertness - beyond the mind - without allowing thoughts to create comparisons to past memories.

‘It is beautiful,’ remarked Paul, breaking the enchanting spell.

‘It is,’ Rebecca whispered, not in judgment but acknowledging a profound yet simple affirmation.

‘You said you needed to talk to me. What about? asked Paul softly.

Rebecca halted and turned her eyes upon Paul. She uttered her opening words carefully to avoid conveying any hint of accusation. ‘Last night - when we were at the restaurant - my apartment was professionally searched and ‘bugged’. Monica was assaulted. She was viciously pistol whipped on the back of the head and left unconscious.’

Paul’s face looked stunned. ‘Pistol whipped! Is she all right?’

Rebecca nodded. ‘Yes thank God - but she just as easily could have been killed.’

‘I see....’

‘No you don’t see!’ she snapped, her voice now distraught. ‘Paul - I’m being watched - listened to - and probably followed! I’m scared out of my senses. I want you tell me what the hell is going on!’ Her eyes became moist with tears of frustrated release.

Paul held her protectively at arms length, his surprise now replaced with suspicion. ‘Hey, I can see you’re understandably upset. But try to calm down. Let’s go through it a step at a time. Now tell me - how do you know your flat is bugged?’

Rebecca wiped her eyes, then sniffed and took a deep breath before answering. ‘A receiver van was parked outside all night. It was replaced by a similar van this morning. I’ve seen them before - identical vehicles - used by the Dutch Peace Keepers!’

Paul’s expression became grave. ‘I understand,’ he said slowly. ‘But what did you mean, when you asked me to tell you ‘what is going on’? You don’t suspect that I put them up to it, do you?’ He paused looking offended. ‘You are active in the peace movement and would obviously be on their files. Surely that would be the logical reason for the surveillance.’

‘Of course I don’t think that you put them up to it! But the surveillance must be to do with our meeting - it has to be! I’m simply not that important. Otherwise, why would they go to so much effort?’ Rebecca was emphatic.

She has a point, he thought as his mind grappled for the solution. The Dutch peace movement’s membership alone, numbers in the hundreds - so why Rebecca? And besides - there was no mention of surveillance in the file.

‘Don Ormsby,’ said Paul dryly. ‘That snake Ormsby must be having us watched.’

Rebecca glared with both curiosity and fermenting anger. ‘Who the hell is Don Ormsby? And why would he have my apartment searched?’

Paul was hesitant. His eyes flashed uncertainty. ‘Please - let me think for a few seconds. I’m not sure where to begin.’

Rebecca removed his hands from her waist and took a half step back. ‘I’m waiting for an explanation Paul.’

‘I guess I owe you an apology as well as an explanation.’

‘An apology? I don’t understand.’

‘Look, firstly you can be assured the surveillance will be stopped immediately. No harm will come to you or Monica. I promise you.’

Rebecca listened intently. A stronger, more masterly side to his personality became apparent.

‘From the moment I first saw you plunge into the canal and then struggle up that bank, I had this mysterious spooky feeling - as if I was meant to be parked there waiting for you. I felt enthralled by you. And then when you awoke and knew my name - I had to know more about you. I couldn’t stop myself. It’s my business training - first do the homework! He paused and focused penetratingly into Rebecca’s eyes, grasping for a ray of understanding.

‘Go on Paul, I’m listening.’

‘And later of course, I desperately had to know your address. Anyhow, I rang Don Ormsby, who is one of our company’s lawyers, and asked to view your file.’

‘Are you saying this Don Ormsby character works for you?’

‘No he doesn’t work directly for me. Don Ormsby is employed by my father. One of Don’s duties is to keep an eye on me - albeit for my own protection, mind you.’

For your own protection! You’ve got to be kidding, thought Rebecca.

Paul continued. ‘I knew that Don has access to files held by the ISF, the International Security Force. So I asked him to obtain your file.’

‘By the ISF - do you mean the Peace Keepers?’ asked Rebecca.

‘That’s correct. The name ‘Peace Keepers’ is simply a marketing ploy to win public approval for the ‘International Security Force’ concept,’ justified Paul, unapologetically.

Rebecca was inwardly seething. ‘Hang on a minute Paul, the Peace Keepers are akin to the Gestapo under Hitler. They rule by intimidation and brutality!’

Paul smiled condescendingly. ‘I don’t think there’s any point, right now in explaining the necessity for their existence. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Try me!’ cringed Rebecca, and still attempting to hide her outrage.

Paul felt he was being drawn into a conversation not of his choosing. Rebecca had this annoying manner of making him feel that he needed to justify his very existence. A part of him felt like a sixth grader alone after school with his heart throb school teacher.

‘All right. If that is what you want!’ he said with eyes that crinkled with defiance.
‘The principle of Global unification was never going to be a possibility while the different secret services of the world insisted on mistrusting and spying on each other. The individual intelligence services, unlike the Governments and their armed forces, were the main stumbling block. Nor would they relinquish either their power bases, or their huge budgets, until it could be demonstrated that their domestic authority would be greatly increased to compensate for their loss. An incredibly amount of tough negotiations had to take place with the hierarchies of the major intelligence units before an agreement could be reached.’

Rebecca cut in firing. ‘So the Peace Keepers were created for two primary reasons - each as sinister as the other - firstly as a trade off in power, and secondly - to suppress any opposition for the Global unification policy, arising from their own people!’

Paul seemed to be confirming some of her own suspicions.

‘You seem to be justifying the Peace Keepers’ gangsterism!’ she continued. ‘And what about the Radicals? Were they also created - as an excuse for the establishment of the peace Keepers?’

‘Rebecca, I said you wouldn’t understand. At least first hear me out before you pass judgment,’ insisted Paul.

Rebecca remained uneasy but nodded for Paul to continue.

‘I agree that the Radicals are a poisonous phenomena which have to be eradicated. They are anarchists as well as terrorists. But please believe me, when I say that their origins are as much a mystery to me as they are to you.’

‘I believe you,’ said Rebecca calmly. ‘Please go on.’

‘The security services were huge power bases unto themselves. They simply became too difficult to control. Their existence and funding depended on the level of unrest and strife in the world. I mean - you can’t imagine, how many assassinations, wars, strikes and change of governments, they were responsible for.’

Paul’s expression turned deadly serious. ‘And I don’t just mean banana Republics either. All under the guise of national security. As the availability of nuclear and biological weapons increased on the black market - there were no alternatives!’

‘So the end justifies the means? You and your masters don’t desire peace in the world. You want an ordered and efficient world,’ challenged Rebecca.

Paul expanded his chest like a proud member of the Hitler youth. ‘If the end scenario is the correct and natural outcome, then the means to attain that end - within reasonable limits - has to be correct.’

Rebecca felt an acidic discomfort welling in her throat. She scowled at him displeasingly.

Paul noted her displeasure and again found himself justifying his statements.

‘Rebecca, I live in the real world - rather than some utopian dream state. Peace has never existed in nature at any level. And to assume that humans are apart from nature is vanity. Order and survival is the best we can ever hope to achieve.’ He paused and wondered if he’d overstated his remarks.

Rebecca’s fiery energy began to transform into compassion. Paul had been indoctrinated - brainwashed to the point of right wing fanaticism. He needed understanding. Further conflict in his life would only reinforce his restricted attitudes. She resolved to exercise patience and tolerance.

Paul however, saw Rebecca as an idealist. Loving, intelligent and sensual - but never the less, a poetic idealist.

‘If you are yet to experience peace in your soul, I can understand why you settle for less,’ she said gently. ‘But you presumably possess a conscious - surely the difference between what is right or just, and what is wrong, must influence your thinking. You sometimes talk so coldly - even when human lives are at stake!’

Paul was unrepentant. ‘And your world seems clouded by your personalized judgments of so called good and evil - and your persistent search to find a safe and secure meaning to life.’
He turned and gestured at the surrounding Park. ‘Why falsely assume there is meaning to this existence? This creation - this whole universe - is here because it is here! It exists! It’s only out of fear we seek the meaning - or reasons why! Science may answer ‘what’ or ‘how events happen. Philosophy and religion are left to make the crude attempts at speculating why things happen. All of the concepts of God you spoke of, are based in fear - not love!’

‘And yet in the restaurant last night you said that you intuitively felt that fate had brought us together for a reason,’ replied Rebecca accenting for a reason and illustrating the part destiny plays in the play of creation.

A frown creased Paul’s forehead and he answered her with exasperation. ‘It seems you are right. I’ve checkmated myself. See what you do to me? Right now - I feel my whole life is a contradiction. It’s so damn frustrating!’

‘Paul, you are one hell of a challenge to me too,’ she answered grinning. ‘Perhaps the truth encompasses both of our views. After all - truth is total.’

The unspoken declaration of truce resulted in a brief silence. Although Rebecca’s curiosity demanded to learn as much information as possible from Paul, her better judgment concluded that it was appropriate to return to the subject of the surveillance.

‘So this Don Ormsby took it upon himself to order the surveillance?’

‘Yes it looks that way. Because of your peace movement involvement - he must have become overzealous.’

‘In the mean time poor Monica was nearly killed.’

He held her once again in his arms. ‘Darling - I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Believe me - if Don is responsible - he will be made to pay for his actions. Please Rebecca, tell me you forgive me.’ Paul looked at her in earnest. His blue eyes pleaded for understanding.

‘Yes, I do believe you - and I forgive you,’ answered Rebecca with finality.

‘Thank you,’ he said and the tension in his face eased. ‘I will also arrange compensation for Monica.

‘Do you still have my file in your possession?’

‘No - at least I discovered that I do in fact possess a conscience. I destroyed the file as soon as I obtained your address. I actually felt a twinge of shame for the first time in my life.’

‘I suppose in a way Paul, I should feel honored. You cared enough about me to find out where I lived. I guess I am part responsible - I set you the task of tracking me down.’ A hint of seduction returned to those alluring eyes. ‘Darling, I have nothing to hide from you. If it is that important to you - you need only to ask. I’ll gladly tell you about myself - whatever you wish to know.’

‘I wanted to tell you about the file at the restaurant last night but I was afraid you may have abandoned me for good. I just couldn’t bare to lose you.’

Rebecca hugged Paul firmly. She gazed up into his eyes as tears of happiness trickled onto her cheeks. ‘On the contrary darling - I’m hopelessly in love with you. You seem such a lost little boy - It seems I simply can’t stay angry with you.’

‘Oh Rebecca, I love you so intensely,’ he replied breathless. ‘I can’t understand these feelings.... I’ve fallen for you completely.’

‘Kiss me Paul,’ whispered Rebecca and she closed her eyes.

Paul embraced her with hungry devotion.

Their lips met.
A tingling sensation - their auric fields attuned each to the other’s vibrational frequency. The surrender of unconditional love - releasing - letting go - merging; deeper into the blissful nothingness of totality. Chakric hues of gold and mauve - fused with passion red - enveloped them in a protective egg shaped cradle of manifested unity and exhilaration.

Like cosmic lightning, pillared staffs of brilliant healing light, burst forth through the astrals, powerfully dispersing part of the dense negative thought and fear forms that pollute and choke the planet.

And prompted by the joyful radiance, aware souls of the higher realms, celebrated Paul and Rebecca’s awaited reunion.

Rebecca’s heart heard the subtle inner whisper. ‘So mote it be. Soul marriages truly are made in heaven.’

When the cycle of each renewal begins, soul mates again merge - encompassing ever higher dimensions simultaneously - far beyond both the illusion of time and the conscious understanding of all but the highest enlightened beings.’

‘Quack, quack, quack!’

They glanced towards the pond. Through a clearing in the rushes, the mother duck and her ducklings were cutely lined up as spectators and were inquisitively eyeing the embracing lovers.

‘Oh darling,’ exclaimed Rebecca, ‘I told you I had a feeling we were being watched.’

For a few brief precious moments they peered wondrously at the pond and the intoxicating surroundings of the park.

Paul spoke first - his tone now serious. ‘Your comment about the ducks has brought me back to earth with a thud. We may be watched even at this moment. I think we’d better head back to the hotel, and I’ll make the necessary phone calls.’

Rebecca agreed without hesitation.

‘How long will it take to lift the surveillance?’ she asked, as they paced briskly towards the exit of the park.

‘Oh, once I make contact with Don - almost immediately. Give it thirty minutes at the outside,’ he reassured. ‘Now don’t worry -leave it to me.’

Rebecca still felt unease. Yet in some instinctive way, she also knew events were happening exactly as they were meant to. As if the outcome already existed on a different plane.

A chill suddenly shivered down her spine. She trembled and clutched Paul’s hands even tighter.

‘Is there anything wrong Rebecca?’

‘I just felt someone evil stomp over my grave.’

‘Superstitious nonsense! You are being too dramatic,’ mused Paul.

‘I hope so.....that is for certain,’ she replied, imitating a strong Dutch accent, without any understanding why!

‘Donald, it’s Paul here,’ shouted Paul in a state of near rage - his eyes flashing vehemently. ‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’

Rebecca shuddered. She could hear Paul’s penetrating anger coming from the bedroom in his suite. The sheer power of his voice alone, intimidated her.

‘What are you getting at Paul?’ Don replied in a subdued defensive voice that was almost a whisper.

‘How dare you snake with me! You know damn well what I’m referring to. You had the audacity to have Rebecca Childs placed under surveillance. Her apartment is bugged! Now don’t deny it! I insist you tell me why?’

‘I. .I don’t deny it. How did you find out?’

‘Never mind how I know,’ blasted Paul with all the thunder of Thor. ‘I asked you a question - I’m waiting for your answer!

Don hesitated, his mind raced to formulate the right reply. ‘Calm down Paul. Give me a chance to explain.’

‘Well get on with it!’

‘You know part of my job is to protect you. Rebecca Childs is an active member of the peace movement. To place her under surveillance was routine. I was only looking out for your interest! What else was I supposed to do?’

Paul trembled with restrained anger. He breathed deeply to draw in the necessary breath to answer. And then he let it rip!

‘I’ll tell you what you will do - you will have the surveillance stopped immediately. You will never - I repeat never - order anybody - even remotely connected to me, to be watched without my prior agreement. And further more - I’ve had enough of your contemptible ‘baby sitting watchdog’ attitude. Unless you give me a guarantee, right now, to be unequivocally loyal to me only - I’ll have you fired. Your name will be black-listed everywhere. Don, do you understand?’ Paul’s words lashed as cutting as a stock whip.

‘I understand Paul. I understand,’ replied Don, his doleful voice now almost at a whimper. ‘I’ll have the surveillance lifted. But we urgently need to arrange a meeting to discuss the rest. The situation is rather more complicated than you realize.’

‘And what do you mean by that?’ snapped Paul.

‘I am loyal Paul - however, I’m forced to answer to two masters. I end up the meat in the proverbial sandwich.’

‘You’re no doubt referring to my father?’

Don was quiet but forthright with his answer. ‘Yes of course - either way my job is threatened! I try to do my best - often in the most trying and difficult circumstances.’

Paul felt a large measure of understanding for Don’s unenviable predicament. He knew well what his tyrannical father was capable of. He calmed down and considered the situation before replying.

‘Now listen carefully.’ Paul’s voice was now more genial and reconciling, ‘It seems I’m going to be in a most advantageous position in the near future. I’ll need a reliable and pragmatic right hand man - a man I can trust explicitly - someone who will protect my back. You could be that person. We can overcome my father’s psychosis - as long as you always report to me first.’

‘I hear what you are saying Paul. Naturally I’d prefer to come to a workable arrangement with you.’

‘You haven’t any choice,’ replied Paul, ‘My father would not give a damn about letting you go if I insisted. And I would resign before I’d allow you to remain on the staff.’ He then added with a dagger like thrust, ‘Of course whether or not he would allow you to live is another issue - depending no doubt upon what you are privy to!’

Don replied with the solemnity of an undertaker. ‘There’s no need to threaten me. I’m in far too deep to get out of this alive. I realize I’m expendable...’ His voice trailed off to a faint whisper. ‘And have I your assurance that in return you’ll protect my back - particularly with your father?’

‘You have my word Don.’

‘Then it’s a deal,’ said Don sounding relieved. He paused then his voice suddenly changed to a more strident tone. ‘Paul - you realize you have been kept in the dark on quite a number of important matters.’

‘I can well imagine!’ said Paul stiffly. ‘Rather than risk talking over the phone, we’ll meet tomorrow morning and discuss this further. I will be most interested to hear what you have to say.’

‘And so would I!’ whispered Rebecca to herself, overhearing Paul’s words as she sat with ears pricked on the chesterfield.

‘Hell I almost forgot,’ exclaimed Don with urgency, ‘I tried to ring your rooms twenty minutes ago. You must return to Austria this evening on the 6 PM flight. When you began yelling at me - it completely slipped my mind. I’ll drive you to the airport myself and we can talk on the way.’

‘6 PM this evening!’ objected Paul. ‘No way! I’ll need at least a couple more days in Amsterdam. Why the rush? What’s on - do you know?’

‘The fax didn’t say. Only that it was imperative you catch the 6 PM flight and return to Austria. Apparently you will receive further instructions upon arrival.’

‘Well I won’t be on the plane and that’s final.’ said Paul defiantly. ‘I want you to organize the extra two days for me. Make up an excuse if you have to you.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ replied Don with reluctance.

‘Oh, and there’s one other matter Don.’

‘Yes Paul?’

‘You can send ten thousand US Dollars to Rebecca’s flat mate - Miss Monica Laatum. Monica had her head pistol whipped last night by one of your cronies.’

‘Pistol whipped! Are you sure? Believe me - I had no idea.’

‘Rebecca and I went out to a restaurant. They presumably waited for us to leave the apartment together. Monica unfortunately surprised the intruder by returning. Result - one stash on the back of the head.’

‘How is she? Is she all right?’

‘Other than mild concussion and a thumping headache, Monica seems fine this morning. However, compensation is in order, don’t you agree?’

‘Yes of course. I’ll attend to it right away,’ replied Don in an acutely depressed tone.

‘And you will let me know of the departure time of the Austrian flight on Wednesday.’

‘Yes Paul...I really am sorry about Monica and Rebecca.’

Even as Don replaced the phone, his heart pounded like a jack hammer. He felt dread spiraling up from the pit of his stomach. ‘That bloody odious Van der Hyde lied,’ he muttered with lips quivering. ‘He assured me they haven’t contacted each other.’

Paul’s comments about being at the apartment and the restaurant with Rebecca had hit home with an ominous crash.

‘There’s a double cross going on. But for the love of me, I can’t work out why - or how!’
He felt his fingers trembling and his palms perspiring. Like a stupefied cornered rabbit with no means of escape, he sensed his end near. Don unlocked his desk drawer and reached for his Swiss SigSauer hand gun - checked the cartridges and safety catch, and grimly placed it on his desk.

Don Ormsby poured himself a long brandy. He stared blankly into nothingness. His usual controlled logical mind now incoherent shattered with morbid doubts.

‘Thank you for compensating Monica. I couldn’t help overhearing,’ said Rebecca, as Paul strode confidently into the lounge. ‘She will be so thrilled with the money.’

‘It’s the least I could do. I hope she accepts the offering in the right spirit. I wouldn’t want her to think that I’m attempting to buy her silence.’

‘No way! Besides, it’s best she doesn’t realize the payment is connected to you. She thinks the intruder was a burglar.’

‘I guess you are right,’ he responded nodding. ‘Anyway, the surveillance will be lifted - so we can all relax now.’

Paul sighed and sat along side of Rebecca. His face showed despondency. ‘You may have gathered, I have to leave Amsterdam on Wednesday for Austria. Darling, now that I’ve found you - I don’t want to lose you.’

Rebecca kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘Be patient. We’ll work it out. You can phone me regularly. Besides, we still have two days,’ she added, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘So let’s make full use of them.’

‘I guess you are right. When my loneliness gets too unbearable, I’ll fly back and see you.’ The sparkle in Paul’s eyes returned. ‘Let’s go out to lunch? I know a simply wonderful restaurant that specializes in French cuisine and fine champagnes.’

‘On one condition, Paul.’

‘Oh, and what is that?’

‘Well....first you can give me a big cuddly hug, and then a super smoochy kiss - one I can tell my grandchildren about.’

‘Yes teacher!’ Paul obeyed without hesitation.

‘So, what do you think?’ prompted Paul, anxious for Rebecca’s praise, as they took their places at a table near the window of the elegant ‘Excelsior’ French restaurant in Nieuwe Doelenstraat.

‘As you said darling, it’s simply wonderful - just perfect. Thank you.’

Rebecca surveyed the Excelsior’s grand style decor, complimented by the views of the Amstel River. ‘You obviously know your restaurants, don’t you Paul? Quite a connoisseur in fact.’

‘I happen to know a few,’ he replied modestly and sensing a deeper significance to her statement. ‘But I can assure you, I’ve never had the privilege of such enchanting company before.’

‘You also know how to flatter a woman,’ added Rebecca, with a slight hint of sarcasm.

Disappointment flooded Paul’s face. His despondent eyes gazed into Rebecca’s. ‘You know I was offering a compliment rather than flattery - why do you keep me off balance? I want so much to please you. In return you throw loaded insinuations under the guise of compliments at me.’

Rebecca retreated and was inwardly angry at herself. ‘Paul, I am sorry - really I am. It’s my possessiveness showing its ugly head.’

‘Your possessiveness? I don’t understand.’

‘It’s irrational of me, I know. But I couldn’t help wondering how many other women have sat here in my place before me. I’m sorry.’

‘Personally I think a little possessiveness in a relationship is healthy. It shows that you care,’ remarked Paul. ‘Mind you, if you had seen the overweight and elderly businessmen I’ve entertained here you wouldn’t be worried.’

‘You are kidding me Paul?’ asked Rebecca with a surge of happiness.

‘It’s the truth. I wouldn’t risk insulting you, by inviting you to a restaurant I had frequented with other women. I’m not that insensitive. You are special to me - I love you!’

‘I love you too Paul.’ Tears began to form in Rebecca’s eyes.

Paul tenderly clasped hands across the table. ‘Please don’t cry. Darling I adore you.’

‘I’m so happy,’ she sobbed openly, her moist eyes sparkling like diamonds, ‘The park this morning - the cute little ducks - this lovely restaurant. And you Paul - it all seems so beautiful and wonderful. I feel so happy - I want to explode.’

Paul grinned. ‘Before you go exploding and making a mess all over the restaurant, do you think it might be better we eat first?’ Paul signaled the waiter. ‘I’ll order a bottle of good old Bolly while we decide on the menu.’

Rebecca giggled like an enraptured teenager. ‘You really love your champagne, don’t you?’

‘Ah, but I thought every one loves champagne!’ exclaimed Paul in jest and acting surprised. ‘Like angels dancing on your tongue’, that’s how the Dominican monks described the taste when they invented bubbly.’ Paul shrugged. ‘They tell me, even their master turned water into wine and not wine into water - so who am I to argue? Champagne begins with a bang - enters the mouth bubbling - and ends with a dignified burp. I drink champagne when I have an occasion to celebrate - and desperately need it when I haven’t!’

‘And are you celebrating now, or are you in desperate need?’ asked Rebecca playfully.

‘Oh quite definitively celebrating Mademoiselle. Being with you - life itself is a celebration,’ said Paul, unsuccessfully faking a comical French accent. And as her feet delicately stroked his legs under the table, he added softly, ‘Well perhaps I do have a desperate need as well!’

For the ensuing two and a half hours, the intimate French restaurant became the centre of reality for Rebecca and Paul. Romantic French vocals accompanied by the soft notes of a piano, played discreetly in the background. Time appeared to be transiently suspended - motionless - charitably granting to the two lovers, a precious extension of experience. As if the heavens knew only too well that the limited duration they would have together, was now rapidly expiring.

The waitress came with the coffee and ports. Rebecca sighed contentedly.

‘The crepes with the juicy fat strawberries and cream were scrumptious,’ said Rebecca, and gazed at him with champagne eyes that were filled to the brim with longing. ‘I will never forget today Paul. It has been so wonderfully special.’

‘I’m grateful to you for being with me. I value your company dearly,’ replied Paul humbly.

Rebecca sipped her port, her mind now deep in contemplation.

How will I tell Paul of my impending move to Australia? And how can I possibly explain Wakonda - without sounding like I intend ending this blossoming relationship. The likelihood of Paul ever sacrificing his way of life to join me would be zero - and yet Wakonda’s cryptic words in the vision - instructing me to help lead Paul to the light and to Australia? I wish I knew the answers.

Paul too, had notions he needed to express verbally. He possessed different aspirations and optimistic expectations for their future. Rebecca would make the ideal wife for a future Syndicate leader - and would be well suited for the glamorous jet setting life such a life would entail. Her intelligence and maturity combined with her charm, endowed her with an almost regal bearing. He found Rebecca’s independent personality alluring and refreshing. He’d also concluded that with a little encouragement and instruction, she may become a tad more practical on such issues as business - and the politics of power.

Paul first broke the gravid silence, capturing her a little off guard with his question. ‘Do you intend to stay with the peace movement, Rebecca?’

‘Why no - as a matter of fact my involvement with them is over for good. Why do you ask?’

He peered around the restaurant before answering and spoke with cautious undertones. ‘Well naturally I’m concerned for your safety. Membership is absolutely futile as well as dangerous. Up until now, the peace movement has been allowed to exist because it served a useful purpose. But Saturday’s crackdown was only the beginning. The Peace Keepers intend to destroy the movement worldwide.’

Rebecca’s relaxed mind sobered to attention. ‘When you said, served a useful purpose, what purpose did the peace movement serve?’

‘I thought that answer would be obvious. To segregate an opposition into an open and organized group, where it can be infiltrated and manipulated, is far better than individual cells of activists going underground. Potential trouble makers can be quickly screened and monitored.’

And disposed of at will no doubt, added Rebecca in her mind. How much dare I ask, she rationalized. And how much does this man really know. The temptation is too great to resist!

‘It became obvious to me,’ she ventured at last, ‘that the peace movement was hypocritically playing into the hands of the media by becoming increasingly militant - that’s why I’d decided that Saturday’s protest was to be my last. However, like you, I knew intuitively that for some bizarre reason I had to be there.’

‘If fate meant us to cross paths, it sure picked a crazy way of bringing us together,’ said Paul, attempting to be humorous. But the words rolling of his tongue didn’t seem at all funny. Instead they keyed into this terrible tenseness that was beginning to gnaw away at his insides - draining his psychic energy like a low level stifled and insane panic. The entire Amsterdam visit to date had felt absurdly ‘orchestrated’.

He relapsed into a quivering reflection for a few moments.

‘Who controls the Peace Keepers?’ Rebecca’s question was as blunt as it was sudden.

‘I’m not in a position to give you a direct answer,’ said Paul at last, choosing his words cautiously. ‘So many of the pieces in this deceptive global chess game aren’t what they appear to be.’
He leaned forward and spoke cryptically. ‘You see Rebecca, the battle is really lost when the white queen is defeated - a black bishop with a knight can then move to checkmate the vulnerable white king. The pawns exist to be manipulated and are expendable - and often sacrificed.’
‘Now you’re sounding like Nostradamus,’ she said undaunted. ‘But I’ll take up the gauntlet and attempt to decipher your words. The embattled white queen is I presume, virtue and honesty being defeated by corruption and selfishness - the vulnerable white king is the democratic government - and the pawns obviously represent the population. But that still begs the question - who is the black bishop?’

Paul offered a tentative smile and shrugged. ‘Interpret the game as you will.’ He then suddenly voiced four words that inflamed her curiosity into a raging bushfire’

‘Democracy does not exist!’

‘What did you say Paul?’

‘Democracy does not exist! You said the white king represented a democratic government. Democracy as a system of government simply does not exist! Democracy has never existed and never will!’

Rebecca’s felt her adrenalin fluctuate excitedly. Paul’s off the cuff remarks were more than she’d bargained for. ‘I don’t suppose you would elaborate on that statement?’ she asked squarely.

Paul smiled with a hint of smugness. ‘Ah, I sense a measure of agreement. Democracy - ‘for the people by the people’- is a load of codswallop!’

Rebecca did intuitively agree with Paul. But for what reasons? She decided that she would play the devil’s advocate to entice Paul into further debate. After all, she thought, who knows what might be revealed? Her eyes gleamed in readiness to meet the challenge. ‘Well I agree our individual freedoms are constantly being eroded! But even with all its failings, surely Democracy is still the only workable option left for the human race?’

Paul was adamant. ‘Rebecca, democracy isn’t an option. It simply doesn’t exist!’

She smiled. ‘Perhaps I’m not endowed with your intellectual understanding and experience of such matters. Please explain yourself.’

‘You never give up, do you?’

‘Not likely. And you’re not getting out of it that easily either. I’m still waiting.’

Rebecca’s temerity had finally worn down Paul’s reluctance.

‘Then I’ll attempt an explanation, he said leaning back in his chair and gulping down the last of the port. ‘Socialist communism as Karl Marx envisaged may have been feasible on paper. However in reality, the Communist regimes that seized power in the Eastern Block Countries, and in Asia and Cuba, were nothing but elitist power hungry dictatorships. They used the cloak of Communism as a propaganda tool for oppression.’

Rebecca nodded in agreement.

‘Karl Marx believed that communism would liberate mankind from the exploitation and control of the religious, business and aristocratic ruling elites of the time. The actual result was suppression and repression. One ruling elite merely made way for another elite. Rather than revolution, it was substitution.’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Rebecca with enthusiasm. ‘And as communism collapsed in Eastern Europe, it was even revealed that all of their economies were propped up by Western Banks - with loans totaling many billions of dollars! In effect the West helped finance both sides of the Cold War.’

Paul grinned, and his grin seemed to communicate, Well naturally - what did you expect? - if you only knew the full truth! He continued. ‘Then you may also accept that communism, because it’s untried as a system, is merely a theory or a philosophy. An illusory dream of a dead man. Communism is just a word. It never existed and can never exist in reality. Do you take my point?’ Paul stared at Rebecca penetratingly as he posed the question.

Rebecca thought studiously before replying. ‘I do understand, Paul. The premise fails in basic logic. An elitist dictatorship adopts the label communism and then subsequently fails - we then illogically presume communism has failed rather than the dictatorship. The label falsely describes the reality. But I still don’t understand what this has to do with democracy.’

‘Ah, but the principle is as valid with democracy as it is with communism. It has to be. Democracy is a theory or dream of perfectionism dating back to the early Greeks. It too is just a word or label. Democracy has never existed or can ever exist. It also is used as a tool by elite ruling dictatorships!’

Rebecca expressed annoyance. ‘That’s a quantum leap into cynicism,’ she responded disdainfully.

Paul merely shrugged. ‘You may well think it is cynicism Rebecca, but it is the reality. To speculate on any proposed utopian system for society is mere fanciful idealism. One must always take into account the inherent emotions and instincts of man’s quest for power - his survival instinct - the need to dominate - to lead or to be led. The truth is, all systems based on equality fail.’

‘Paul, at the risk of sounding naive - you know as well as I do that people living under democratic systems have the right to vote. We choose our leaders who we feel can best lead the country. And it’s the citizens who remove the politicians with their vote if they under-perform.’ And then she added, ‘And don’t forget there is also the right to demonstrate or strike!’

‘I’m sorry to tell you Rebecca. You are mistaken,’ said Paul attempting to attract the waiter for another port. ‘Would you like another port by any chance?’ he asked.

Rebecca shook her head. ‘Paul, please don’t try to change the subject. Why am I mistaken? I need to know.’

Paul ordered his port.

‘Firstly, you assume that the pollys are the real leaders. Secondly you assume the charade of the vote implies a significant meaning.’ Paul spoke with conviction and more than a trace of ebullience. ‘Both assumptions are totally wrong.’

‘But why are they wrong?’

‘In practice your so called ‘strong democracies’ consist of two main parties. Only two choices really exist. Control the two parties and the whole population is controlled. Governments that have an assortment of bickering parties and factions are disposed of. They are easily toppled - often to be replaced by straight dictatorships to regain stability.’ Paul paused but the glint in his eyes remained.

‘The two main parties still have to be influenced or controlled. That must take some doing,’ responded Rebecca solemnly.

‘Hell no,’ said Paul emphatically, and it was his emphaticness that shocked Rebecca. ‘No group of any persuasion can get to run a country without prior ‘deals’ being struck or certain understandings being reached. It’s inherent in the system.’

‘Agreed,’ nodded Rebecca as Paul continued.

‘Neither do they retain power unless they continue to toe the line internationally. Political parties and their leaderships answer to an assortment of pressure groups - big business - their central banks - their security services and armed services - the media - unions ....’

‘And so, towering over the governments are the global black bishops - the manipulators - the real controllers?’ interrupted Rebecca framing the statement as a question.

Paul didn’t answer. He just smirked knowingly.

‘So what you are implying,’ she persisted, ‘is that leaders are removed or assassinated or disgraced with scandal, if they step out of line - or their country is threatened with war or revolution.’

‘Yes, you are beginning to get the picture. Economic and media manipulation are facts of life. Self styled leaders and governments of different persuasions, come and go as needed - but the results are always the same.’

Paul shrugged his shoulders and quickly sipped his port. ‘It’s not possible for a country to be an economic island. The mass of global influences alone, renders the internal vote of a citizen useless!’ He straightened his back and sat erect. ‘Economic realism in this world boils down to this one simple truth - One global market place run by syndicated trans national corporations!’

‘So if the right to vote has little meaning, democracy, like communism, is still only a philosophy yet to be tested,’ prompted Rebecca. Contrary to the propaganda fed to us, countries are not run by the people or even for the people!’

‘Of course not! The flocks of sheep are allowed their Judas goats and sheep dogs to make inconsequential decisions on their behalf. The voting charade helps them to sleep at night. Populations really are just lambs, waiting to be shorn or in some cases slaughtered! Populations are a commodity - sometimes an asset - sometimes a liability.’

He paused and eyed Rebecca capriciously. ‘In Australia, they even force people to vote. The vote is compulsory. Can you imagine? The authorities actually jail their own citizens if they don’t pay the mandatory fine for failing to vote.’ Paul laughed gleefully before continuing. ‘No Rebecca, it’s all just a huge fallacy. Try to see economic rationalism from a global perspective - beyond borders and nationalism - rather than from the blinded eyes of the ignorant. Then you will begin to understand!’

Rebecca stared back at Paul aghast.

God, this guy can’t be real! she thought. At one level she understood the validity of his statements. But hearing him so blatantly confirming her own suspicions left her feeling frustrated and angry at a system that seemed without hope.

To Paul, he was only stating the obvious. After all, when was the last time a government dared ask the people directly if they wanted to wage a war - or for permission to borrow billions of dollars. Manipulation of governments was part of his experience. Once she understood such matters she was bound to see a more wholistic ‘global perspective’.

‘It is not a conspiracy Rebecca,’ he continued flatly, ‘The hierarchal systems of power in this world are now global and syndicated. Throughout history the ultimate dream for conquerors has been to rule the world.’ He shook his head and held his arms out in a half circle. ‘Circumstances haven’t changed! Except today with the advances in science and technology, global power is now not only possible, but utterly necessary for the world’s survival.’

Rebecca felt like screaming. She was inwardly seething with frustration and anger. She leered at Paul. ‘You know all this and it doesn’t bother you?’

‘Why on earth should reality bother me? It’s simply the way things are!’ Paul remained coldly calm as he spoke. ‘You see an image - an illusion of the way you think reality should be, and then become angry or frustrated when your false image you helped to create is threatened with the truth.’

‘God Paul, sometimes you scare me.’

‘Darling, I was brought up to accept the reality of man - with all inherent weaknesses included. The power of business at a high level. I live in the real world and you have lived in a make believe world of idealistic illusions.

Rebecca suddenly went stony quiet. She stared at the table blankly.

Paul now felt an uneasy acidity in his stomach. Even though he’d resolved at the outset of the conversation to ‘educate’ Rebecca, he suspected that he’d probably said too much - too soon.
‘I’ve managed to upset you again, haven’t I?’ he whispered. He leaned across the table and gently placed his hand upon Rebecca’s. ‘Rebecca, please come back to me. You are too far away.’

She peered up, and her eyes now showed both sadness and compassion. ‘I’m not upset with you... It’s just that... Well, I feel so sorry for you.’

‘Why darling? Why would you feel sorry for me?’

‘Because I love you. You must feel so lonely and empty inside - it hurts me to see you like that.’

Mystification flooded Paul’s face. ‘Now it is I, who is in a quandary. You’ve shown to me what love is. I thought that now I have everything a man could possibly wish for.’

Rebecca studied his pleading and earnest face. Behind the confident charade, Paul needed to justify his ethical stance on the business world he’d been conditioned into. He was being starkly honest with her. He is a lost lamb amongst hungry wolves, she thought. Wakonda... was... right...!

And then the inexplicable happened!

Precisely at the same instant her thoughts flashed the name of Wakonda, wave upon wave of ecstatic love energy began to descend through her body. She shuddered with exquisite joy as the blissful tingles continued to ripple down her spine.

And her eyes moistened with happy tears.

‘Rebecca, are you all right?’

Paul’s concerned voice sounded far off. Rebecca was unable to answer.

The feeling - it’s like experiencing multiple orgasms, she gasped to herself - I can feel Wakonda’s presence so profoundly! Her rhythmic breathing became increasingly deeper. A compelling urge to speak began to surface. Not mere random words and phrases from her intellect - but rather, empowering words which her spirit had so desperately sought to give to Paul - arising from an authoritarian source deep within her heart.

Rebecca’s eyes refocused.

Paul stared in astonishment. ‘Rebecca, what is the matter? You look strange...’

Her strengthened voice was determined but loving.
‘Paul, it is vital that you listen attentively to the esoteric meaning behind the words I’m about to speak. Please accept them without resistance into your heart, where they will germinate and flourish.’

‘I will certainly try to,’ said Paul, and his bewildered concern was now replaced with anticipation.

‘Know that your attitudes have been formed by a pre-ordained conditioning. For the most sinister of reasons, you have been purposely shown only one side of the portrait and reality of life.’

Paul looked puzzled but remained silent.

Rebecca continued. ‘Your statements regarding the material nature of humankind may well be correct. An all consuming lust for power is the natural outcome of a purely physical and material world. But man is also rooted in the spiritual realms. Thankfully, the physical and spiritual worlds are harmonically balanced by Divine Love.’

Her eyes now became glazed with tears. ‘You told me today that you loved me. Do you really wish to exploit me, enslave or manipulate me for your own selfish ends in some little game plan of egotism and power?’

‘Hey, just one moment!’ interjected Paul aghast and wounded, ‘That’s hardly a fair statement. Of course I don’t want to enslave or exploit you. I happen to love you Rebecca - not the whole damn world!’

‘You will soon come to realize - as you injure the world you are equally injuring both yourself and myself equally. Consciousness - love - truth: All is one. There is no separation in consciousness.’

Paul was stunned. Her face glowed with an etheric radiance as she spoke. Now it was his turn to be confounded.

She continued. ‘You cannot love only me. Directed love is restricted or partial love. True Love is unconditional. It is our very essence. It would be like the sun proclaiming, ‘I only shine on a selected few’ - or a tree saying - ‘only certain people can partake of my fruit or shade.’
And then she said. ‘Paul, I became the safe mirror of your own heart! Your spirit felt the security of connectiveness with me. This closeness enabled you to experience your inner love by removing some of the hardened barriers which encase your heart chakra.’

She paused and the radiance flowing from her now merged with Paul’s astral body. He also could feel the tingling sensation - and the golden compassionate warmth. He clutched at her hands tightly.

‘Please go on,’ he said softly.

‘Darling, realize that this phenomenal world is but a cinema screen upon which you project your perceived limitations. Your world has been created according to all your conditioning.
The movie that you have projected until now has been totally one-sided! You can equally project onto your screen a world of love, beauty and service. The screen is neutral, but your projections dictate the play.’

Rebecca again paused to allow time for Paul to take in the seeds being planted.

Paul thought hard for a few seconds and then responded conceptionally. ‘If we can choose to project either love or materialism onto the screen, then it follows that neither projections are real.’

‘Exactly!’ enthused Rebecca delighted at Paul’s immediate grasp of understanding. ‘We can take a simple example. We both presume to know what a tree is?’

Paul nodded his agreement.

‘Ah, but do we really know what a tree is? Can either of us ever see the same tree as the other sees it? Can either of us ever see the tree with our limited senses, as it truly is?
Three people are walking through a park and one remarks ‘Look! isn't that a beautiful tree?’ Each observer will respond in judgment according to his or her past conditioning. One's past experience may be the wonderful memories of falling in love with her beloved under a tree. Another's may be of the enjoyment of climbing trees as a youth. The third may have fell after being coerced into climbing a tree as a boy by his tyrannical father. All three are judging the tree according to their past conditioning. The tree is there - it exists in truth - but the tree for each will be quite different.’

Paul understood the example but looked hesitant. ‘I do see your point. However, if we can’t see the world as it is, then what is real? Where is reality?’

Rebecca replied in the same enthusiastic tone. ‘Buddha used to say that ‘only that what is unchangeable is real’. All else by nature is an illusion. Yet only by understanding and discarding the unreal, we can experience the real. Find out within yourself Paul, beyond your mind - your personality - your body and your emotions who is the director, the projectionist, the actor and the script writer of your own movie creation. When you find your real self, you will find total and unconditional love there waiting for you.’ Rebecca clutched Paul’s hands protectively and gazed wondrously into his eyes. ‘Though, I’m sad to be the one who has to tell you, love will come painfully to you Paul.’

Paul shrugged. ‘Why will it be any more painful for me?’

‘Love is surrender - and you have so much to surrender. A strong ego and a competitive nature - plus all the attachments that go with wealth. Your attachments are the barrier to true freedom. We are all possessed equally by what we possess! Letting go of attachments will be difficult for you.’

‘That is assuming I ever want to let go,’ countered Paul a little defensively. He contemplated momentarily and then added, ‘You mentioned ego - do you think I am egotistical?’

‘I use the word ego in the wider sense. The gaining and dropping of the ego is an intrinsic cycle of the spiritual path of each of us.’

‘I’m not sure exactly what you mean?’ said Paul intoning his words as a question.

‘Symbolically speaking, the soul descends with innocence into matter - tastes the proverbial tree of knowledge - gains desires and begins to build the ego. When eventually the ego is ripe, the winds of change begin to blow and life itself starts to shatter the ego. It is in the none acceptance of the inevitable changes that follow, lies the cause of suffering.’

‘So the ego and desires are synonymous?’ asked Paul inquisitively.

‘Yes. Desires and attachments build and create the ego. They are interchangeable. Nature has afforded mankind ‘desires’ for its earthly survival. The desire to procreate, to hunt, to lead, to dominate - even the desire to accumulate thoughts, knowledge, beliefs, and material possession - all arise from the survival instinct. Yet these are worldly. They become the spiritual barrier to enlightenment. All desires and attachments will eventually need to be dropped - like giving up the teddy bear or high chair when you are no longer a baby. Thus the beautiful symbology of the Christian crucifixion. The final dropping of the ego. The ‘I’ or personality, together with all its desires and attachments - offered on the cross of surrender - to merge totally into Universal Divine Love. The soul’s long and painful spiritual journey is finally over - unification with the absolute.’

Rebecca’s face radiated with an aesthetic beauty. She knew that the profound words of hope, were with Wakonda’s help, flowing miraculously through her and not from her. Words that were meant not just for Paul, but for her own heart also.

Paul felt entranced. The intense energy emitting from Rebecca’s statements, crashed through his barriers and thudded into his heart chakra. He felt utterly vulnerable - fearful as to what the consequences might be, should he allow his will to completely surrender. The words were like ancient golden keys that would unlock impenetrable doors deep inside his being. And on the other side of the doors - a love energy of brilliant light - akin to the illuminating power of a thousand suns - waiting desperately to explode forth.

But to allow such an opening would be the end of his self identity and his individuality. No, he knew he was not yet ready. His road to Damascus - or enlightenment would have to wait!

After some pregnant moments he spoke.
‘I have to admit I am captivated by the ramifications of this conversation. We began by discussing society as a whole and then talked about the individual’s struggle within society.’
He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his palms. ‘I suppose what I want to know now is - is there a correlation between the two? All of nature’s laws are universal. A law existing at one level in the cosmic spiral, also operates in all levels - we need only to observe the correlation.’

His eyes narrowed as if in deep thought. ‘So whether it be over one life time or many, a spiritual cycle for an individual, must have a correspondence in a society - or for that matter - the human race as a whole. If a correspondence does not exist - perhaps it proves the fallacy in the original principles that you are alluding to!’

Rebecca was impressed with Paul’s question. She understood exactly what he meant. In her mind she called out to Wakonda for help in framing the answer. She waited meditatively until her intuition told her that it was time to speak.

‘Paul, the question you have posed is most profound. There exists in Creation, a powerful spiritual law, known as Unification. Unification is the inner longing and subtle guidance that motivates souls of all species to return to the source - the yearning to go home.’

‘I relate to that,’ said Paul smiling. ‘I’ve always felt an urge to return home. The problem is I don’t know where home is!’

Wakonda’s words were now flowing unhindered through Rebecca. She hardly heard Paul’s comment.

‘The young soul born in innocence, begins to accumulate thoughts and desires. These experiences are at first scattered. The ego personality is forming. The child’s psyche is of course, conditioned by the environment, by the culture and religion in which the child is born into, by the transitory positioning of the planets at the time of birth, by genetically disposition and by the original sin of past life experiences.
Tens of thousands of scattered ideas, experiences and concepts are slowly drawn together by another spiritual law - the law of attraction - sometimes referred to as ‘like attracts like.’ A knowing glint came to her eyes. ‘You see Paul, all of existence vibrates at its own certain frequency. Similar frequencies attract each other.’

‘You mean like the way we attract each other?’

‘Yes exactly,’ she replied. ‘Thoughts attract thoughts of a similar nature as do people attract their own soul vibrational group.’

‘Sounds promising!’ quipped Paul, and his mind flashed thoughts of sexual longing at Rebecca.

Rebecca blushed slightly, then cleared her throat. ‘As I was saying, the child reaches adulthood and is now more opinionated and conservative. Life becomes ordered and structured. The ego begins to mature. However, with the ripening of the ego, a new conflict begins to arise. A conflict borne out of the spirit’s longing to return to the source and the ego’s desire to cling to the earth and the ‘known.’

Paul nodded wisely, to show Rebecca his mind was now back onto the esoteric rather than the sexo-tantric.

‘Every soul,’ she continued, ‘will eventually experience this final conflict or crucifixion. It is known as the dark lonely night of the soul. We all traverse this same path. We feel the inner spirit slowly discarding our cocoon of ignorance - the body and all its trappings.
We are really exchanging a mere grain of sand for all the gold reserves of the world - but nature would have it - that first we must die to the phenomenal world before we can be reborn and accept our celestial birthright.’

‘Wow, sounds exciting!’ Paul interjected almost defensively. ‘This is heavy stuff. So where is the correlation between the lone soul and the human race as a whole?’

‘I am about to come to that.’ Rebecca paused for a few seconds before continuing. So far so good, she thought. Please don’t desert me now Wakonda.

‘Mankind too was at first scattered over the earth. Through necessity, primal man first unified by creating families, then clans or tribes. These groupings were later followed by kingdoms, provinces, nations and empires. Union took thousands of years of civilization but because of the Unification law - it had to come to pass.

And now, as you have confirmed, there will soon be one world order. The ‘ego’ of the human race has reached maturity...’

Then Rebecca uttered the prophetic words. Words that would sent shock waves of cold fear reverberating through her nervous system.

‘The whole of mankind is about to suffer the crucifixion - the long dark night of the over-soul! The end times that will soon be upon us will be more catastrophic than the most terrifying prophesies ever uttered!’

Rebecca had to pause. The awesome meaning of what she’d just said had shocked her into a trembling numbness. The words had flowed from her lips with a force and authority that couldn’t be denied.

And she felt herself perspiring - yet she also felt strangely calm. Dead calm like the eerie purgatory calmness in the eye of a hurricane. Wakonda had now confirmed in her waking state what he’d said in the visions! Rebecca now had the personal proof she required.

Paul was first to break the resolute silence.

He also felt the power emitted with the words. He spoke solemnly. ‘Rebecca, are you telling me, you really believe that the whole of humanity is destined to go through some kind of ‘crucifixion?’

Rebecca looked dolefully into Paul’s eyes. Now it was hard for her to speak. She felt weak and drained. She shook her head slowly, ‘No Paul, not believe. I know it will.’ And then added with her last available energy. ‘Man, has not only been endowed with the conscious and subconscious mind, but also has the collective or super conscious mind. This collective conscious or ‘ego’ of the human race is now rapidly reaching its own day of reckoning. The end times, as you know, have been prophesied for centuries - and I’m afraid they are about to begin!’

Neither Paul or Rebecca could continue the conversation. Rebecca had never experienced being used as a channel before. She felt spiritually elated and humble - yet utterly exhausted.

Paul needed time to think. Rebecca is one hell of a challenge, he mused to himself. She is so damn wonderful - even if she is occasionally seems to be on cloud cuckoo land!’

He spoke forlornly. ‘Rebecca, all I know right now is that I love you intensely. I certainly feel confused and a little vulnerable with you - but I do feel so much love - directed - partial - or otherwise!

Rebecca managed a seductive and mesmerizing grin.

Paul gazed at Rebecca in confident anticipation. ‘And I’m going to take the risk in inviting you to return to my hotel suite to open another bottle of champagne. I certainly know I need it.’

‘Need what exactly?’

‘The champagne of course!’

‘Oh. Is that all?’ she replied feigning disappointment.

Paul blushed. ‘Well would you like to come, Rebecca?’

‘Yes Paul, I would love to come! but I must warn you, there is a full moon tonight.’

Rebecca felt mellow and blissfully in love. She knew what the consequences of her teasing affirmative answer would be. She also sensed that the remaining time she had to share with Paul was soon to expire.

And as Paul signed the credit card slip, an unseen grin be-twitched his face - and he murmured unheard spoken thoughts. ‘I wonder if in any of her previous incarnations, Rebecca had been a witch - or a seductive enchantress?’

----000O000----