Synopsis
Trilogy Of The One G O D
(Originally released in 2011 under the title
'Heather Skye Wilson Is The PSYCHIC WARRIOR')
by T.D. McKinnon
Speculative Literary Fiction
In a world gone mad, seemingly, hurtling towards its own inevitable doom - I'm not describing some futuristic science fiction nightmare, but the here and now - it seems we have little choice but to accept our fate; 'God's will' some might say. There is an existential alternative to man's downwardly spiralling destiny: one in which we take control; however, that means taking responsibility, complete responsibility; enter 'World Unity'.
A little later in this century, global warming has resulted in radical weather patterns, rising sea levels, changing land masses; where depletion of the ozone layer, a limited nuclear war, and the life force of the Earth itself hitting back have all contributed to the shifting of the Earth's axis.
In a world where the main three, separate ideals of 'the one God' - Islam, Christianity and Judaism - have almost entirely wiped each other out; taking control involves altering or rearranging mankind's basic belief structures about the nature of reality: accepting that we, individually and collectively, create and are responsible for our own reality.
This is a world where equality is not just an ideal, a pipe dream; a world where mankind begins to recognise that objective reality is an outcome and the direct result of the way we deal with subjective, inner realities. A world where reincarnation is not a loosely hinted at, largely laughed at concept; but is accepted as a complex, intricate part of mankind's spiritual development. A world where a serious attempt is made to understand the 'Ego', its distortions - particularly in the male of the species - and its real purpose. A world where physical and psychic discoveries leave no doubt that we have been around, and in advanced civilisations, for many millions of years.
This story is told as seen through the eyes of Heather Skye Wilson, our protagonist, daughter of two of the worlds leading diplomats for 'World Unity', and begins with her abduction by terrorists when she is twelve years old. The traumatic experience brings Heather into a phase of psychic development that helps to save her life. Destined by her abilities, genetic heritage and inclinations Heather is drawn more and more into the 'World Unity' cause.
A lot of the action is centred around a newly settled land; a land that, until recent times, had been covered in massive ice fields since before Atlantis' final rise and fall: Antarctica.
With the rebirth of the one God religions, a Messiah is born, and there is a very real danger that the planet will plunge, once more, into religious turmoil.
'Trilogy of the One GOD', two survival stories rolled into one: Heather's and planet Earth's. Both inexorably linked; they both survive or nobody does.
CLICK ON ANY ICON TO BUY YOUR BOOK!
A little later in this century, global warming has resulted in radical weather patterns, rising sea levels, changing land masses; where depletion of the ozone layer, a limited nuclear war, and the life force of the Earth itself hitting back have all contributed to the shifting of the Earth's axis.
In a world where the main three, separate ideals of 'the one God' - Islam, Christianity and Judaism - have almost entirely wiped each other out; taking control involves altering or rearranging mankind's basic belief structures about the nature of reality: accepting that we, individually and collectively, create and are responsible for our own reality.
This is a world where equality is not just an ideal, a pipe dream; a world where mankind begins to recognise that objective reality is an outcome and the direct result of the way we deal with subjective, inner realities. A world where reincarnation is not a loosely hinted at, largely laughed at concept; but is accepted as a complex, intricate part of mankind's spiritual development. A world where a serious attempt is made to understand the 'Ego', its distortions - particularly in the male of the species - and its real purpose. A world where physical and psychic discoveries leave no doubt that we have been around, and in advanced civilisations, for many millions of years.
This story is told as seen through the eyes of Heather Skye Wilson, our protagonist, daughter of two of the worlds leading diplomats for 'World Unity', and begins with her abduction by terrorists when she is twelve years old. The traumatic experience brings Heather into a phase of psychic development that helps to save her life. Destined by her abilities, genetic heritage and inclinations Heather is drawn more and more into the 'World Unity' cause.
A lot of the action is centred around a newly settled land; a land that, until recent times, had been covered in massive ice fields since before Atlantis' final rise and fall: Antarctica.
With the rebirth of the one God religions, a Messiah is born, and there is a very real danger that the planet will plunge, once more, into religious turmoil.
'Trilogy of the One GOD', two survival stories rolled into one: Heather's and planet Earth's. Both inexorably linked; they both survive or nobody does.
CLICK ON ANY ICON TO BUY YOUR BOOK!
Reviews
Lynne Cantwell @ HEARTH/MYTH - THURSDAY READS
Review 11th July 2013
This is kind of an odd book. I would put it squarely in the sci-fi quadrant of the speculative fiction roundhouse, except for a "whoa!" twist at the very end that kind of made me wonder what McKinnon was on when he wrote it. And I mean that in a good way.
Here's the setup: Heather Skye Wilson is the daughter of two diplomats for World Unity, an organization which seems to have superseded the United Nations since the world's three biggest monotheistic religions have more or less destroyed each other. (You see why I was intrigued initially.) So Heather is a well-traveled diplomatic brat. But she's also got a highly-developed psychic ability that causes her to regress to past lifetimes. When this happens, she is actually inside the head of the person she was, but she retains her modern-day knowledge. So she is able to influence the actions and decisions of these past selves, and makes life better for those around them. At the same time, some of the people she visits in these past lives are adults, with adult experiences -- experiences that she lives right along with them.
When World Unity catches wind of how adept she is at this sort of thing, they pretty much beg her to join their peacekeeping force. One of her first missions is to rescue a friend (who might become more than a friend) from a cult centered around the birth of a new Messiah -- the sort of cult that World Unity believes will bring about a return of religious war and the eventual destruction of the planet.
McKinnon has written a ripping yarn. I recommend it. And when you get to the last few pages of the book and go, "whoa," let me know what genre you think it ought to go into.
Review 11th July 2013
This is kind of an odd book. I would put it squarely in the sci-fi quadrant of the speculative fiction roundhouse, except for a "whoa!" twist at the very end that kind of made me wonder what McKinnon was on when he wrote it. And I mean that in a good way.
Here's the setup: Heather Skye Wilson is the daughter of two diplomats for World Unity, an organization which seems to have superseded the United Nations since the world's three biggest monotheistic religions have more or less destroyed each other. (You see why I was intrigued initially.) So Heather is a well-traveled diplomatic brat. But she's also got a highly-developed psychic ability that causes her to regress to past lifetimes. When this happens, she is actually inside the head of the person she was, but she retains her modern-day knowledge. So she is able to influence the actions and decisions of these past selves, and makes life better for those around them. At the same time, some of the people she visits in these past lives are adults, with adult experiences -- experiences that she lives right along with them.
When World Unity catches wind of how adept she is at this sort of thing, they pretty much beg her to join their peacekeeping force. One of her first missions is to rescue a friend (who might become more than a friend) from a cult centered around the birth of a new Messiah -- the sort of cult that World Unity believes will bring about a return of religious war and the eventual destruction of the planet.
McKinnon has written a ripping yarn. I recommend it. And when you get to the last few pages of the book and go, "whoa," let me know what genre you think it ought to go into.
Melissa Bowersock
Author Melissa Bowersock
Melissa Bowersock @www.newmoonrising.net.
Blogspot: http://mjb-wordlovers.blogspot.com.au/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/748360465
Review 24th October 2013
4 of 5 stars
Read in August 2013
I found the concept of this book intriguing, as it takes a very advanced view of the foibles of human nature and tries to find solutions to the struggles we have dealt with for millennia. I was especially caught up by the invention of the “sting,” an implanted capability that suddenly and irrevocably levels the playing field between men and women in a very surprising way.
As Heather Skye Wilson evolves in her psychic and diplomatic training and takes on more and more responsibility in this future world of 2087, the story accurately describes the ongoing struggles to create a perfect world full of very imperfect people. Even as the most progressive thinkers work toward the goal of ensuring everyone has access to the safest, most productive potential they can achieve, other predatory forces continue to plumb the deepest, darkest corners of the human soul. The story wrestles with the most profound questions of humanity, and the answers are more complex and more surprising than you might guess.
Blogspot: http://mjb-wordlovers.blogspot.com.au/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/748360465
Review 24th October 2013
4 of 5 stars
Read in August 2013
I found the concept of this book intriguing, as it takes a very advanced view of the foibles of human nature and tries to find solutions to the struggles we have dealt with for millennia. I was especially caught up by the invention of the “sting,” an implanted capability that suddenly and irrevocably levels the playing field between men and women in a very surprising way.
As Heather Skye Wilson evolves in her psychic and diplomatic training and takes on more and more responsibility in this future world of 2087, the story accurately describes the ongoing struggles to create a perfect world full of very imperfect people. Even as the most progressive thinkers work toward the goal of ensuring everyone has access to the safest, most productive potential they can achieve, other predatory forces continue to plumb the deepest, darkest corners of the human soul. The story wrestles with the most profound questions of humanity, and the answers are more complex and more surprising than you might guess.
Sample Chapters
Trilogy Of The One G O D
by T.D. McKinnon
Speculative Fiction
Introduction
Following the limited nuclear war in the Middle East and Southern Europe in 2018, when the most ardent followers of the One God blew each other out of existence – after two thousand years of wars, murder and mayhem, in His name – the general view was that there ‘might be’ a God; although the verdict was still out on that particular theory. Oh yes… Him. Female gods, for the most part, had been thrown out a couple of thousand years previously.
Prior to World Unity, ego focus was considered the only way to view reality; no other state of consciousness was trusted, or indeed recognised and they did not believe that they had any real control over the circumstances of their lives or the events in which they found themselves. Thinking that sleeping was merely for resting, they had wasted one third of their entire lives; most of them not even permitting memory of their altered states to register in their totally ego focused reality, remembering little or nothing of their dreams.
When World Unity came to power; a hangover from the previous, mainly patriarchal society was an inordinate number of physical and sexual assaults on females; as well as abductions for the international slave trade. The male of the species still possessed far superior size and strength, and because of his ego problems the 'Sting’, as it quickly became known, was considered a giant step forward in the balance of order within that society. Karla, my grandmother, was a pioneer with World Unity for the Sting, leading the campaign that eventually swayed the voters in the world ballot of 2030. The first Sting was implanted in 2030, and by 2040 The Sting was available to most females on the planet.
Implanted in early childhood, the microchip can activate a stunning charge through the nerve endings. For those who don’t know, for the female the experience is not unlike a static electricity discharge; for the male it is like receiving a shot from a stun gun.
After the Sting campaign, World Unity focused a major amount of its resources to the study of the ego, and so a debt of gratitude is owed to those pioneers for our current, evolutionary psychic stance within 'All That Is'.
I am a third generation ‘awareness child’, I was born on the 10/01/2075, at Sanctuary Forest, WA, Australia, in a refurbished 19th century colonial house that my mother and grandmother were born in, and in which now four generations of my family have lived.
My name is Heather Skye Wilson, and this is my story
Chapter 1: Awakening
"Halt!... We have a stinger missile trained on you… resistance is futile!" boomed the disembodied voice over a loud hailing system. "You are being monitored… if any outgoing signal is detected you will be blown out of the sky. You will land in the clearing just ahead of you… Now!"
As we faced the ancient helicopter gunship across the heat shimmering blue sky, the very serious nature of the situation failed to dawn on me. In fact, I wondered, almost absently, who would want to attack us? It all seemed a bit surreal. This was 2087 after all; WUSFU had mopped up most of the terrorist cells around the globe, and there were so few causes left to fight for. However, obviously, isolated pockets still survived.
We were forced down. Surrounded and hopelessly out numbered my personal security, Gerard, dropped his weapon. "Do not be afraid, little one, they will ransom you very quickly," he said, and then smiling, grimly he added, "You won't be harmed: you are extremely valuable merchandise."
At twelve years old, I wasn't exactly small for my age – tall and gangly I would have described myself – but I suppose, compared to an adult, Gerard's habit of calling me 'little one' was not too misplaced; although, 5' 5" already, I was not going to be small. I was still shaped like a boy, almost; sometimes embarrassed because I was beginning to look like a girl, and at other times because I didn't look more like one.
By the time we landed the reality of the situation was beginning to dawn on me; as they ushered us impatiently from our craft I was so terrified I couldn't stop shaking and I desperately needed to relieve myself. One of the dour faced terrorists blindfolded me, bound my hands, and as he started binding my ankles, suddenly, there were two successive gun shots! Jumping with fright I nearly wet myself.
"Stand still!" ordered my captor harshly, in Spanish.
Please sir, I need to pee?" I said. There was a moment's silence, and then I heard my request repeated in Spanish. I could both understand and speak Spanish but, instinctively, I thought it best they didn't know.
Close by, in heavily accented English, someone said, "Go ahead and pee little girl," and when I hesitated he added, "Please yourself… but once your ankles are tied you'll be hung from a pole, and you'll have to pee your pants."
Blindfolded and hands bound, shaking with fear and embarrassment, I awkwardly pushed my pants down just enough as I squatted. I could hear sniggering as I started to relieve myself, and then someone said, in Spanish, "Look the other way, you perverts! She's only a little girl… and anyway she's far too valuable."
Carried like the carcass of a hunt kill, lashed to a pole; my wrists and ankles hurt so badly at first that I could think of nothing else, but eventually they numbed to a dull, bearable ache. However, with the absence of agonizing pain, I became aware of the ordinary, mundane discomforts: the unbearable heat and humidity of the jungle and the multitude of insects that came to gorge on my blood.
Several hours later when we stopped for a break and the blood was allowed to flow freely, my hands and feet hurt so much I cried. When we set off again, wrists and ankles already bruised, I thought at first I would die with the pain, but again after a while the numbness. When we stopped for the night, of course, I experienced the same excruciating ordeal. Later, after smelling something being cooked, someone hand fed me something spicy and unrecognisable.
On that first night, during the lucid periods – when I wasn't slipping, fitfully, into nightmare ridden sleep – I couldn't help but reflect that this situation was of my own making. From my earliest memories I was taught: we each create our own reality.
“Heather!… Heather Wilson!… Will you pay attention?” Re-entering my body like a gunshot, I almost fell off my chair.
It was a Friday afternoon in late August of 2080; I had been attending awareness education for a whole week and it was becoming harder and harder not to trip off into less boring realities. I was five years old and Ms Fabian was attempting to instruct me in ‘The Magickal Way’.
“You were at it again… weren’t you?!” she accused and then she droned on and on about the pitfalls of drifting pointlessly into other realities, or altered states as she called them. “And it could be downright dangerous, without solid ground training─”
“Excuse me, Ms Fabian!" I interrupted. There was no way I was going to let her think I was accepting that as fact. "I have tried to tell you on several occasions… I've already had more than basic training, in not only The Magickal Way; which is nothing more than creating your own reality through believable projections of your desired experience, in line with the proper intent; I also alter states of consciousness at will and can already project or astral travel, depending on which term you prefer. And I would thank you not to feed me your negative beliefs concerning what you regard as dangerous.”
Before she had chance to respond the end of day buzzer sounded and, leaving Ms Fabian open mouthed, I allowed myself to be carried out of the classroom on the tide of noisy, cheering first formers.
“Alright… alright, Heather!… It was just a trial run… to see if, perhaps, interacting with children of your own age would be of any benefit to you,” said my mother.
Looking straight into her soft, brown eyes I felt a twinge of nausea: I’ve always had the innate knowledge of whether someone’s intent, as they conversed with me, was honest, and the more intimate the relationship the more intense the nausea.
"Alright… alright!” she said again, throwing up her hands in submission. “I should have known better than to keep anything from you.” Pulling up a chair she sat down, and with her best 'caught in the act' expression she continued. “I thought, if you liked school, it just might give me some free time.” The nausea abated. “Your father is working really hard on the merger of The Movement with World Unity, and I wanted to be of more help.”
She always, eventually told me the whole truth. I didn’t always understand the full import of what she said, but that didn’t matter as long as there was no accompanying nausea.
“Alright, Mummy… I’ll go back to school and give Ms Fabian another chance,” I said looking into her, now very moist, loving eyes. Then she smiled; she was very beautiful when she smiled.
“You are, without a doubt, the most wonderful child in the whole world,” she said, the tears making her eyes sparkle. I loved to see her happy and I rushed into her arms. I can still remember, vividly, the salty taste of tears on her cheek, and the heady scent of her perfume, like forest flowers on a warm summer breeze, as she cuddled me close.
Eventually, holding me at arms length and frowning, she said, “But… we won’t send you back to school,” and then, her face transformed by another beautiful smile, she added, “We’ll make arrangements that will suit us both.”
And so it was that I travelled the world with my parents, personal tutor in tow, for the next seven years.
August 2087, halfway through my thirteenth year, we were staying in Peru with the President of the United States of the South American Republic. My parents were taking part in a multinational summit to cement plans for the re-cultivation of – what had become a semi-arid waist land – the Amazon Basin.
Deciding to go on a sight seeing trip, I had been en route to the Andes when the old Dragonfly gunship had suddenly appeared. Quite obviously, a collection of my own choices brought me to this juncture.
From the terrorist’s arrival, fear, pain and discomfort had prevented me from making psychic contact with my mother. However, although I could give no clue as to where I was, sometime before morning I managed to send out psychic confirmation that I was still alive, and immediately received knowledge that a ‘World Unity Special Forces Unit’ was searching for me.
At the end of another agonizing day, hanging limply from a pole, in the insufferable humidity of the jungle, while mosquitoes dined on every exposed millimetre of my flesh, we eventually reached our destination. Unbound and blindfold removed, I was locked in a hut.
Alone for extended periods, I was able to project above the area on small reconnaissance excursions, and then send visual references to my mother. The hut was one of several in an encampment, in a valley, in the middle of the jungle, twenty miles from a distinctive mountain formation. A single, steep, narrow track wound its way out of the valley heading towards the mountains.
The knowing I received back from my mother was that the bandits had already been in touch and were demanding a ridiculous amount of unhampered credits, plus the release of ten captive terrorists; the 'relevant department' was negotiating with them. My parents had told the 'relevant department' to trade whatever, and to pay whatever it took to get me back. However I could read her fear loud and clear: the 'relevant department' might not do as she wished.
During the next few interminably long and stiflingly hot days, to help calm my fears and frustrations, I occupied some of my time with my martial arts training. I was aware of course that, half-grown as I was, my skills would be fairly ineffectual against these combat hardened guerrillas. I simply had to trust that WUSFU would find and free me.
On the evening of the third day at the hut, frustrated by the waiting and seeking an alternative solution, I went into deep meditation. I can't say how long I'd been under – time has no meaning in that state – but I began to experience the kind of vertigo associated with rapid acceleration, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, I was lost. I mean really lost. I didn't know where, who, or indeed what I was, and it seemed to last an eternity.
First contact: Out of the blue, I know who I am. I am me, but another me. A male me; a fully adult male me, thinking in a language I've never heard but understand completely. As I look around, a bracing wind sweeps the wild landscape of hills and mountains, and a damp, purple foliage caresses my partially bare legs as I walk.
Stepping out with the natural grace of a hill walker, I feel the flush of blood through my veins and the reliable power in my legs as they carry me over the rough terrain: across hills, through glens and leaping from stone to stone over swift moving burns. As the gap between me and the distant wooded mountainside steadily diminishes, I also feel the ridged comfort of the claymore, strapped to my back, and the warmth of the sun on my face; and the sensual feel of unmistakable maleness swinging beneath my swirling kilt. I am Ewan MacGreggor, born the year of our Lord 890. I am first born son of Gregor MacGreggor: the original MacGreggor. His father, Gregor, was sired by Kenneth 'The Great' MacAlpin, first king of Scots and Picts, and my great-great-grandsire was Alpin, king of the Scots.
Twenty summers old, I have a bonny young wife and baby daughter. Tall, lean and strong I am in the prime of my life and have already proven myself in battle – I feared no man – and I am to be the next Clan MacGreggor Chief. Striding confidently, purposefully through my native environment I feel and know all of this, and much more.
As suddenly as it had begun it ends. Hurtling back through eternity, images relentlessly assailed me, and I became totally aware of my whole life-experience as Ewan MacGreggor, including my eventual death in battle defending the lands of Clan MacGreggor.
Abruptly, I found myself back in the hut. I was hot and sweating, my head ached and my stomach was cramping with pain. I thought to splash my face with water; there was a jug and a bowl in the corner for my ablutions. Rising from the bed, trembling and head spinning, I almost passed out as, inexplicably, I felt a flood of warmth running between my thighs. In the next instant I understood; I'd taken the first steps to both psychic and physical maturity: I'd reached my Control Point and was having my first period.
The following morning when the guard brought my breakfast he at first thought I had sustained an injured. I'd done my best to clean myself up but I'd had nothing with which to work. However, it didn't take long to get the message across, and soon they brought me fresh water and clean rags to deal with the situation as best I could.
During the course of that day I received more attention than I'd had, in total, since arriving at the camp. Previously, when bringing my meals they'd been courteous, but curt. Suddenly they were attentive, making a variety of excuses to linger.
Extremely embarrassed by my sudden leap from childhood, and feeling unwell anyway, I wasn't sure what to make of the peaks of nausea I experienced whenever they were around. Attempting to contact my mother, I was interrupted on several occasions, and by the end of the day I was beginning to imagine all sorts of terrible things.
After nightfall, usually left to my own devices, I was beginning to relax. Almost ready to start my psychic transmission, I suddenly became aware of whispering just outside my hut. Putting my ear against the wall, I held my breath, and listened to the hushed Spanish discourse.
"I don't think it is a good idea," one man said.
"Why not? She has become a woman, now," said the other in answer. I was definitely now feeling nauseous.
"I meant that you are supposed to be watching the encampment, while I am supposed to be guarding the girl's hut," said the first man, tersely. "However… she is still a little girl… the only difference now is that she bleeds,"
"You know what they say?…" said the other, derisively, "Old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher', hey!" and to my horror they both chuckled with cynical glee.
"Anyway, you are a fool; you have obviously never felt The Sting?"
"She may not have it… not all do," answered the other, "and perhaps I can seduce her without scaring her too much."
"That is true my friend, after all…" and he laughed before adding, "That is why you are fond of the young ones: you have nothing much there to be afraid of!"
I shrank away from the wall in abject terror, while their muffled voices bantered back and forth, interspersed with ominous laughter.
Chapter 2: Survival Instincts
The door to the hut slowly opened inward, quietly admitting a shadowy figure. Moving silently to the bed, the spectre like shape bent to lift the blanket from my sleeping form.
"Senorita…" whispered the shadow.
In the blink of an eye, before he discovered the pillow and basin under the blanket, moving silently from the dark corner I smashed the jug over his head and he collapsed on the bed, unconscious. In an instant I had the pistol from his belt.
Practicing the martial arts since I could walk, I had also been trained in most small arms, but it needed more than training to give a twelve year old girl enough courage to move with that kind of composure. It required the self-possession of a mature highland warrior, who feared no man.
"Miguel?..." whispered the guard from outside. "Cual era ese ruido?... Espero que usted no el este lastimando, demasiado." (What was that noise?... I hope you're not hurting her, too much.)
Moving silently to the door I held my breath and waited; my mind was racing but I felt surprisingly calm.
"Miguel?..." he whispered again. "Esta el muchacha bien?" (Is the girl alright?)
"Si. Venga y obtenga algunos." (Yes. Come and get some.) I whispered as hoarsely as I could. After a moment the latch lifted, the door swung slowly open, and the guard's head appeared.
"Miguel?..." he whispered again, peering intently through the gloom.
"Venga adentro lentamente y sierra la puerta." (Come in slowly and close the door.) I whispered as I pressed the automatic pistol against the back of his head. "Soy un poco nervios, así que cualquier movimiento repentino haría ciertamente que exprimo el disparador!" (I'm a little nervous, so any sudden moves would certainly make me squeeze the trigger!) Seemingly in shock, he promptly complied as I ordered him to strip his associate, tie and gag him securely with his apparel, take off his own clothes and sit on the bed.
From behind, swinging the gun with both arms, in a wide arc, as though I were swinging a claymore, I crashed the heel of the pistol grip onto his temple and he collapsed on top of his comrade. After securing him with his own clothing and equipment, a pistol in each hand, I crept out of the hut.
There were two automatic rifles leaning against the wall outside; after a moment's consideration – the weight would be too much of a burden – I threw them both into the undergrowth: better they didn't know exactly how much firepower I had.
Skirting the camp I made my way quickly up the track. In fact so hard did I push myself, with a skinny twelve year old girl's version of a hill walker's stride, that by the time I'd climbed out of the valley, three hours later, I was drenched in sweat and totally exhausted. Turning at right angles into the jungle, I stepped out one hundred paces and sat down, cross-legged, facing the track.
Closing my eyes, I went through some deep breathing exercises; eventually I relaxed enough to go into psychic contact mode.
After finding Gerard and the gyrocopter pilot the day before, both shot through the head, WUSFU were actually closing in on the encampment when my mother passed on the information.
Eighteen terrorists were killed during the attack; the only survivors were the two still tied up in my hut. Three hours after first contacting my mother she told me to go back to the track, where I should wait to be picked up.
The WUSFU operatives at first approached me with caution. I must have been a sight to behold: a skinny, dirty, dishevelled and grim faced twelve year old girl sitting cross-legged on the track with a pistol in each hand.
Firstly, my father attempted to lay down the law – only to be curled around my little finger – and then my mother stepped into the breach and put her foot down.
"You are going back home, young lady!" she said adamantly. One day of crying, hugging and kissing and my mother had regained her composure.
"But Mum─"
"Don't but Mum me… If you hadn't reached your Control Point you'd probably be dead!"
She was right of course. The 'Sting' would have prevented me from being raped, while I was conscious. I might even have survived until the attack of the WUSFU operatives; however, I may also have perished during their attack: killed deliberately by the bandits or accidentally by the rescuing forces.
I had to give it one last try. "But I did survive and now I've reached my Control Point−"
"Forget it Heather! Back you go to Sanctuary Forest!" she said resolutely. "I don't know how much longer we're going to be here but, quite obviously, the time has come for you to spend some time in a tranquil environment; your psychic development needs equanimity to unfold."
My parents didn't return for five months; it was the first time my mother and I had been apart. We communicated every day of course, psychically and via personal communicator, but it's not like being together in the flesh. One or more of my various tutors were never far away, and our caretaker, Shane, and his family lived in a house on the property just a short distance away, but home alone for the first time it was a period of maturing for me.
Shane arrived early each morning to begin his day, feeding and exercising our five horses. The high point of that period was when, one stormy night, Blossom, one of the mares, gave birth. It all happened so quickly. Aware that Blossom was about to foal; Shane, his wife Shirley and their two boys, Dean and Jason, seven and nine years, stayed over.
The beautiful foal was born right in the middle the storm to the applause of tumultuous thunder claps; right from the beginning the colt had an explosive personality and I aptly named him Dynamite.
By the time my parents returned from the USSAR I had transformed from a 5' 5'' gangly adolescent: blossoming into a 5'8" gangly teenager. It was to be another couple of years before I would leave gangly out of my self description. Unfortunately, my psychic maturity seemed to be travelling along the same lines.
I'd tuned into Ewan MacGreggor numerous times, and was fully aware of myself as Ewan while I was tuned in, but the only time I seemed to be able to align was when his consciousness was freewheeling, so to speak, during periods when he was alone: like the first time as he travelled alone.
I had been unable to locate any other personality essences. After my unexpected, auspicious awakening I somehow imagined it would come easier.
"Don't get so frustrated, Heather!" my mother said, one day soon after her return; this in response to the tantrum I'd just thrown after her questions pertaining to a set of standard psychic exercises I'd been practicing.
Since my awakening, because of her position, as Awareness Education Minister, I felt intimidated by her. I felt pressured to excel in psychic studies; truth be known, I expected that I would excel, and when it appeared I wasn't excelling, that in fact it seemed like hard slog for little return, I did get frustrated.
"Don't try so hard…" she said another time, "just go through the routines… don't force it! Don't expect results… just allow them to come if they do."
Eventually, I did manage to relax and, gradually, I had increasing success and coextensive experiences with Ewan; eventually managing to have duality with him as he interacted with others. I so enjoyed conversing in Gaelic: understanding every nuance of a language that rolls around the mouth like a soft growl. Ewan knew something different was happening to him when I was there; it wasn't as if I could exert control over his reality, more that I added a dimension to his reasoning and his emotions. He began, intuitively, allowing me to come through when my understanding of a situation might help. In fact, at times, I could almost feel him calling to me through our joint psyche, across the void that separates us, when he needed that extra depth of reason. He of course treated me as a part of him, a part of him that was illusive but becoming integral to the Ewan MacGreggor that he recognised, and liked. I became increasingly aware that he considered me to be part of his maturing, and I was, but not quite in the way he understood.
He is a young soul, but that's not quite right either; he is a young, splinter personality of the same soul that is me, and I am a splinter personality of the same soul that is him.
It was in my sixteenth year that I found myself, embarrassed at first, tuning in as Ewan was attempting to seduce his young wife. But, far from rejecting my contact, he welcomed me into his reality.
Megan had had three children, each of them hard labours and difficult births; the youngest child was barely six months old. At just twenty years old now, she was understandably afraid of another pregnancy and had been rebuking his attentions for some time.
I had read plenty on the subject, as a biological study, and some rather juicy literature pertaining to the carnal appetites but, apart from some self experimentation, I was completely inexperienced. And so it was that my first real sexual experience was as a male. Suffice to say that the love making lasted a long time, and didn't actually involve vaginal penetration.
"Ewan, mo ghaoil… Tha fhios gur tu, gun teagamh, an duine a b' fhearr a bha riamh ann," (Ewan, my love!... You must be, without a doubt, the best husband there ever was,) says Morag astonished, and with such deep emotion that it both surprises and delights me.
Another time, under completely different circumstances, I found myself drawn into his reality.
"You're nothin' but a wee scrap o' a boy! How can you expect to lead the mighty Clan MacGreggor?" says Fingon MacGreggor derisively.
The Clan Chief has just died unexpectedly in his forty-second summer. Ewan has barely chance to grieve over his father's passing. The day after the funeral, Ewan is about to stand on the 'Swearing Stone' to swear his oath as the new Clan Chief, when his uncle – his father's younger brother, Fingon: one of the senior Chieftans – bars his way to the 'Swearing Stone'.
Fingon MacGreggor is in his thirty-eighth year; tall, broad shouldered, with quick dark eyes and a thick, trimmed, dark beard, he strikes a handsome figure. "What's the meaning of this, Uncle?" (I – Heather – can feel the rage welling within but I help Ewan check it. He has to curb any impetuousness and display a maturity beyond his years this day)
"Nothing against you, Nephew; I know you have been Tanist these five years past, but Gregor could not have foreseen leaving you with such a burden, while still so young," says Fingon evenly.
"And what, pray tell, are you proposing, Uncle?" (That's the way: keep it short, polite and to the point.)
"Just this, Nephew…" and looking into my eyes, unblinking, he says, "I take over in my brother's stead as Chief… and you remain as Tanist: my second in command."
The Clan had gathered for the swearing in, and now they are pressing close to hear what is transpiring. I know the importance of responding to this challenge in the correct manner. I know that if I back down now I'll never be Chief.
As we stare, unflinchingly, into each other's eyes I can feel the force of his conviction. Fingon is a fierce warrior, a veteran of many battles and it seems he is ready to push his claim as far as he has to. We are both of a size; he is perhaps a little thicker round the waist, but not much. He is darker than I, and my beard is finer than his; I could be a reflection of him in his youth, and he of me fifteen years on.
"We are blood, you and I… I understand your point of view, but I disagree," I say evenly. And then raising my voice to carry over the assembled Clan I go on in a reasonable tone, "I have prior claim by way of tradition, and I believe my father has thoroughly prepared me for the position I was born to…" and I let it hang there for a brief moment. "But I am willing to put the decision in the hands of the Clan."
Subtle though it was, surprise registers in Fingon’s eyes. He thought I would refuse out of hand, and I believe he was going to appeal to the Clan; I had taken the initiative away from him. I know I have the support of the younger Daoin' uaisle and now, with my responsible reaction to Fingon's challenge, I have hopefully stolen support from some of the more mature clansmen.
"Vote!" someone calls and it’s picked up and echoed by the assembled clansmen. Duncan, another Chieftan, speaks up then, asking for order and a show of hands.
Since the advent of Christianity, the clan system had become a solely patriarchal society, and although the women certainly had some influence it was indirect; men made the decisions, and only men voted.
Most of the young Daoin' uaisle, as I had thought, give me their vote; Fingon's entire family group of course vote for him. The rest of the clansmen are split right down the middle and when all the hands are counted Duncan announces, "Thirty-five votes for Ewan… and thirty-five votes for Fingon… We are at a dead tie!"
"So… what is it to be?" I say; knowing very well what it will be. There is no way Fingon is going to back off now. My heart begins to beat in double time. I am afraid of no man, I would face any man in battle, but this is my uncle; my father's brother, he'd bounced me on his knee, for Christ's sake.
"You don't want to fight me," he says evenly, looking steadily into my eyes, waiting for me to confirm his statement.
"I fear no man!" I threw at him. It has gone too far for me to back off.
"You do not want to fight me, Nephew!" he repeats slowly, pointedly.
"You're right, Uncle, I don't want to fight you… but I will, unless you withdraw your claim." The assembled Clan is now abuzz; the dye is cast.
Connor, a young Daoin' uaisle and close friend, steps up close behind me, "Just say the word and we're with you!" he whispers, and I think, 'Oh-oh… the mood is running high'.
With a grim smile, Fingon gives me a curt nod and says, "So be it," and then, "It won't make much difference, but you can choose weapons."
(Ewan is, as a matter of course, going to choose the claymore, but before he can transform the thought into words I manage to influence him.)
"No weapons!"
Appearing relieved, but also managing to look superior, Fingon says, "I'm glad you've seen sense, Laddy; I would not have enjoyed hurting you."
The gathering gives an audible, collective sigh; some of them disappointed, but most of them relieved, and there is a hum of noise as they begin to voice there individual opinions.
Raising my voice to be heard above the din, I say, "I'm afraid you misunderstand me, Uncle," and the hush again settles, as they wait to hear what I have to say. "My choice is no weapons… that is, to fight you with no weapons."
"Are you mad?!" whispers Conner from behind me. "Fingon has won the wrestling at every games since Gregor stopped competing."
"You wish to wrestle me for the Clan?!" says Fingon incredulously. And then thinking he has my reasoning – he thinks I’m actually backing down, but need to put on the show of a fight without the danger of being killed, so as not to lose face – laughing good naturedly, he says, "Very well… the winner becomes, undisputed, Clan Chief."
It is summer, officially, but the clouds hang heavily and there is a brisk wind whistling down the glen; the day is quite cool as we prepare for the coming combat. Stripping off his heavy woollen shirt, Fingon wraps the plaid from over his shoulder around his waist with the rest of his philabeg and begins doing some knee bends and then running on the spot.
Punching the air rapidly, doing some high knee lifts and then stretching my hamstrings, quads, back and shoulders, I receive some strange looks. My body is extremely strong and my muscles responded well to the ministrations; however, when I attempt to do the splits, expecting to flatten to the ground, I am pulled up short. I vow to remedy that in the future. Stripping my woollen shirt off and wrapping my plaid around my waist I’m ready for combat.
Fingon is suppressing a superior little smile as we face each other; he is totally confident as he crouches down ready to start. I’m not in a crouch; but standing left foot forward, knees slightly bent, hands raised and open, palms facing him. Looking at me oddly, he says, "Are you prepared, Nephew?"
"Ready when you are, Uncle."
Shrugging, still smirking, he stalks forward. As he comes within range I execute a hard left jab, breaking his nose and stopping him in his tracks. Shocked amazement shows on his face. Tentatively, feeling his broken nose, he looks down at the blood on his fingers and then back at me through watery eyes.
"That was quick, Nephew; that was vera quick! I won't feel half so bad now when I crush you," and letting out a blood curdling yell, hands a little higher to protect his face, he charges in.
Executing a right push kick, I jam my heel into his solar plexus, stopping him dead and, as his hands drop involuntarily, I followed with a straight right, catching him in the mouth, splitting both lips wide open. He’s now bleeding freely from mouth and nose, but his hurt pride is causing him the most pain. Briefly touching his mouth and looking down at the fresh blood, he looks back at me with a newfound respect; and then his eyes darkened as he moves towards me again, cautiously this time.
He makes to rush again, and I lifted my knee, as in the first part of a push kick, but he's baulking; he isn't going to underestimate me again, I've had all the freebees I am going to get. He stalks around me looking for an opening, every now and then making as if to rush in, just to check my reactions. This is a canny highland warrior I’m dealing with and he intends to win this fight; at least he now knows he is in a fight.
Deciding it’s my turn to take the offensive; switching feet I step quickly across to his left, as if to run past him, kicking his left leg from under him, but as I try to follow with a right, overhand elbow strike he latches onto me around the waist with both arms; being a little heavier, he manages to drag me to the ground.
He is soon on top of me; both legs wrapped around my right leg, arms in a bear-hug round my waist; squeezing with all his might, which is quite considerable. And then biting into my chest, tearing and shaking at it like a dog, I can feel the skin ripping (the pain is excruciating and I have never experienced such panic but luckily, in the height of battle, Ewan MacGreggor has) I hit Fingon with supported, rigid thumb-knuckle strikes, simultaneously, to both temples.
Disentangling, and kicking his unconscious body aside, I stand up as a roar goes up from the assembled Clan. "Ew-an… Ew-an… Ew-an…" At first it is just my most ardent supporters, but soon it is taken up by most of the gathering.
Whilst Megan cleans my torn, bleeding chest and applies a dressing of a foul smelling fungus, Fingon's supporters tend his injuries. A short time later we are facing each other again. "You are full of surprises, Nephew," says Fingon with open respect, while gently massaging his temples with his finger tips. "Where did you learn such skills?"
"Just instincts, Uncle… just instincts." (Ewan answers honestly)
"You've the instincts of a wildcat…" he says, smiling, "and they should serve your Clan well!"
"I hope you're head's not too sore?"
"I'll survive," he says with a laugh, rubbing his temples again. "How's your chest?"
Touching it and wincing, "I'll survive," I say and we both laugh.
After the laughter, we hug as kinsmen and then he says, "I'll be heading out on the morrow, taking my close kin – about twenty five, countin' women and bairns – you'll understand, I have no choice." The prospect makes me sad, but I understand. "We are still kin… and your father will be smiling down proudly on you."
"Take whatever you need."
Suddenly, gripped by the now familiar feeling of rapid acceleration, my consciousness is propelled back, across the millennia, to the late twenty first century.
Chapter 3: Satan’s Pawn
My studies, which had pretty much been limited to my experiences with Ewan MacGreggor, had been successful, as far as they went. My initiation with Ewan had been a positive experience: it basically saved my life; and since then, our coextensive ventures had enriched both of our lives. I'd be sixteen years old in just over a week.
"I think it maybe time to expand your physical world, my little Scottish flower…" said my father, and then leaving that enticing statement hanging, he continued to eat his breakfast.
All my life, I'd listened to my father raise a point of issue or open a debate by making an apparently arbitrary statement. He and my mother often worked in tandem: he would open, giving her a platform to enter smoothly. I stopped eating and looked at her.
"It's time you earned your keep, young lady…" she said smiling indulgently, "and took your place in World Unity. We are initiating a new faze of the Awareness Education Program, beginning at the end of January; touring firstly around Australia and then around the globe. If you're interested, it would mean being involved with the tour as a conduit for the youth of the world. Rather than feel they have no control, as happens with adults making all the decisions; part of the new initiative is to make them more aware of the control they do have; encouraging them to seek out their Control Point."
Initially flattered, abruptly I felt panic rising like bile. "But, Mother… I'm barely scraping the surface of my own Control Point! What on earth do I have to offer?"
"Don’t panic," she said, smiling. "You have two weeks to think about it… See how you feel then. The elections are coming up, and the tour isn't due to begin until after the inauguration."
Reaching across the table and touching my hand affectionately my father said, "You're far too modest, my little flower; you'd be perfect for the job."
I'd stayed in Canberra many times over the years, visiting the Web Centre often, and felt quite at home there. I'd even met the outgoing President, Cyprus Roberts, briefly after my little sojourn in USSAR. She'd been very nice to me and told me to be more careful, as World Unity would need all of its gifted children to ensure a bright and open future for the world. This Presidential inauguration coincided with the World Unity official New Years Eve, 2090, dinner party.
"Madam President," said my mother, shaking her hand firmly. "I'd like to introduce my daughter, Heather."
Tula Gandhi, her light brown skin glowing with healthy radiance, although a little plump still managed to look elegant in her green silk evening gown. Taking my outstretched hand and giving me a flash of her gleaming white teeth, she said, "I have heard a lot about you, young lady… and, if just half of it is true, I believe you have a big future ahead of you."
"Thank you, Madam President."
"My pleasure entirely… and by the way that's a very good handshake." Her perfect English held the merest hint of her Indian origins. I got a good feeling from her and felt sure the right person had been elected.
Turning to a small group chatting next to her she said, "Excuse me for interrupting, Mr Vice President, but I'd like you to meet the daughter of one of our best emissaries; and who in fact is about to become our youngest envoy." Winking at me she added, "Could even have the makings of a future President."
Smiling, a little embarrassed by her compliments, I shook hands with the Vice President. Calvin Bush was a sharp featured man in his early forties. A little shorter than me, with piercing blue/grey eyes, he was extremely dapper: his hair, already silver grey, was short and obviously manicured on a daily basis, and his perfectly tailored black evening wear made his white, starched shirt look positively luminescent.
"And as beautiful as her mother I see," he said. All his outward signs were gracious, pleasant and correct, but as he shook my hand I felt a definite twinge of nausea.
"Thank you very much; I'm so very pleased to meet you," I said, while cringing inside.
"Not at all… The pleasure is all mine," and while still holding my hand he directed his next comment to the President and my mother. "What a perfectly delightful child."
The fact that I resisted the almost uncontrollable urge to shudder was testament to the political trade I was leaning. As we moved away from the presidential group I said, "There's something very false about that man."
"I know," agreed my mother. "I can never quite put my finger on it; it may just be that he is a lecherous bastard."
The rest of the evening, if a little stuffy, was a pleasant affair; I always enjoyed bringing in the New Year with my parents.
New developments: Feeling pretty good about my life thus far, I was nervous about this next faze. Did I really want to put myself out there for the benefit of others? In truth, I was feeling a little selfish about my life, and not at all sure I had anything to offer in regards to awareness education. After all, what did I know? I knew my parents, grandparents and great-grandparents had committed their entire lives to The Movement; my mother had just assumed I would want to follow in their footsteps. I was unsure still. As always, whenever feeling troubled, I looked for the answers in deep meditation.
Feeling the familiar acceleration of consciousness I naturally assume that Ewan must be in need of me.
As confusing as ever at first; in that place between where you are and where you are again is all manner of lost-ness: not knowing who or what you are. So when I actually reach there, suddenly finding myself totally immersed in swirling, green water, nothing is clear. It is an ethereal, dreamlike experience; I actually think, initially, I've stopped somewhere between realities.
Suddenly I know I am Mary. I’m thinking in a different language, not like the Scots, it’s broken and mixed and it jars on the mind. I dodn't have a second name: I never had a father, or at least I never had anyone to call father, or to call me daughter, and my mother died giving me life; she shouldn't have bothered: it is a short, miserable, painful experience.
I appear to be breathing the water, like air. There is no panic or fear. Physical reality is slipping away while a comfortable, warm and loving peacefulness, and oneness with everything is permeating my being. In fact, the stark, isolated loneliness of physical reality seems cold and harsh by comparison.
Born in Northumbria, in the far north of England near the land of the Scots, some time in the winter of the year of our Lord 1202; I'm the bastard daughter of Mary, who I'm told was the daughter of one who was once Lord of this domain. It is said, that I was sired by one of the savages invading from the north, who came with the fierce one called Wallace in defiance of the then King, Henry Longshanks.
The Wallace, apparently, wiped out all who resisted him; it is said that he was always in a rage over some wrong committed against him by the English. Anyway, the nobles were killed and their women were claimed by the Chiefs of The Wallace's savages, as spoils of war. However, when Henry Longshanks, who had been fighting a war in France, came from London with a massive army to attack the heart of the Scots homeland The Wallace left this area never to return.
Brought up by the nuns, when I was only five or six years old I started to show signs that Satan had claimed me for his own. The first time was when I dreamt that Sister Martha, who was going on a boat journey to Hull, was going to drown.
I liked Sister Martha, one of the younger nuns; she had a round, kind face, and sometimes – when the Reverend mother and the other older, sour faced sisters were not around – she almost smiled. I told her about my dream and begged her not to go, but she said I was being silly; it took the Reverend Mother and Sister Bernice to physically restrain me from impeding her way. Two days later we were brought word that her boat had gone down in a flash storm, and all twelve on board had perished.
They treated me a little differently after that; praying over me constantly, and scourging me: stripping me naked and beating me with birch sticks. I was not to cry out when they scourged me; that way Satan could not find relief until he left my body; the Reverend Mother told me it was to save my immortal soul. It seemed to work for a while.
It was five years before Satan managed to touch me again. I dreamt of the coming of a fire breathing dragon; I told the Reverend Mother that the town would burn and many people would die. She told me that my dream was sacrilegious and that Satan, who had possessed me, must be driven out: more prayers, more scourging.
A week later the Norsemen came in long ships with dragon heads. At the first sign of the ships the monks from the monastery by the estuary gathered what holy treasures they could carry and fled to the forest. Passing by the convent, they advised the sisters to do the same; and so it was that they also took to the forest, taking the children in their charge; except me. The Reverend Mother said that I was the Devil's pawn, and that I would lead the heathens straight to them.
After raping, killing and pillaging they set the town alight, razing it to the ground. I had nowhere to go; alone in the woods I feared the wolves would eat me, in the town the Norsemen would kill or enslave me, so I hid in the nunnery. The heathens came and tore the place to pieces looking for hidden treasure; there wasn't any. It was a poor convent and what little the sisters did possess they took with them.
Climbing into the topmost rafters, I hid in the roof. Silly really: the chances were that they'd burn the place and although there was a lot of stone in the walls the roof was made from wood and thatch. But they did not burn the convent straight away; instead, the leader, a giant of a man with a huge, barrel chest, who tied his long blonde hair and beard in many plaits, made it his base. They burnt the alter, and anything else made of wood, in the middle of the chapel; if it had not rained so hard, for so long, and the roof had not been so wet, I'm sure it would have caught alight. As it was, it took all of my self control – learnt at the hands of the nuns – not to cough and splutter with the smoke.
I managed to wedge myself into a crevice, securing myself so that I would not fall. I had not eaten for two days previous to climbing into the roof – doing pennants for putting my finger in the broth and licking it while cooking the sister's breakfast – and at first when they feasted, and the food aromas assailed me, I was tempted to give myself up to whatever they had in store, for just a mouthful of food. However, on that first night they started bringing in girls who hadn't managed to escape to the forest. And the things they did to them so terrified me that I clung there, silently, hidden for three days and nights.
It was on the fourth day that the Norsemen set fire to the convent and anything that remained before they set sail.
The sisters found me hiding in the burnt out ruins of the chapel. My feet, legs, hands and arms were burnt, my head too; most of my hair burnt off as I climbed down from my hiding place. Wherever I wasn't burnt, I was black from the smoke, and I stunk: there wasn't much in my stomach when I climbed up to hide but when I could hold it no longer I caught my waste in the rags I was wearing.
The pain, as they scrubbed me in the river, was excruciating; I screamed and screamed until I eventually lost consciousness. When consciousness returned the sisters had shaved off what was left of my hair; and although I don't know what a peeled prawn feels like at that stage of its demise I fancy it must be similar.
In the following few months I almost died; I know I wanted to. But smothering me in a disgusting smelling salve every day, the Sisters brought me back from the brink.
"We have to save your miserable life…" said the Reverend Mother, "so that we can save your eternal soul from everlasting damnation, in the fires of Hell."
The prayers never stopped; while I was at deaths door there was a sister praying at my bedside, and as soon as I was well enough, the scourging recommenced and the fight with Satan for my eternal soul began again with a vengeance.
I secretly believe Satan must have enjoyed the scourging, because I started getting dreams again, but this time on a regular basis, foretelling various calamities in the district and some of further a field, but I never told the Reverend Mother. I think she knew, or at least suspected.
"Mary… look me in the eyes… have you had any more visions?" she would say.
Eyes wide… "No, Reverend Mother, Satan is scourged from me for ever!" I would lie.
In the spring of the following year, I was working in the vegetable gardens when Sister Bernice came for me. When I entered the Reverend Mother's chambers I was shocked at first to find a man with her, but then I recognised the robes and tonsured head of a monk. They were seated on either side of her table and he had his back to me. Turning, he gave me a benign look, almost smiling. The round, weather beaten face was old, but not ancient, and there was kindness in it.
"The Reverend Father wants to know if you have had any visions this year about the Vikings?" said the Reverend Mother sternly, her pinched face severe. The Reverend Father held up a hand, as if pointing to heaven, and she gave him a questioning look.
"Could I perhaps have a word with the child… alone?" he said. He had a quiet, gentle voice; but what might have been a request sounded like he would brook no refusal.
"Of course, Reverend Father," she said obediently, and rising she swept passed me, giving me a warning scowl.
As the door closed, he said, "Now, child… come, let me look at you?" again, a gentle request that you dare not refuse. "You look recovered from your dreadful injuries… are you well?" this he said as he took my hands in his; they were strong, thick fingered but gentle hands, and he looked over me with a caring eye.
"Y-yes, Reverend Father," I managed, surprised by what seemed like genuine concern.
"You were very lucky to survive your ordeal. You must be one of God's chosen."
I began to sob then, I don't know why; I had learnt never to show emotion, and during all of my ordeals I had remained stoic.
"Child?... He said quietly, and then held me gently to him. I cried and cried and cried, while he patted me tenderly, and all the while making soothing sounds. When I eventually stopped, he withdrew a square of linen from his robes and wiped my face. "You mustn't fret so; you are a blessed child of Christ," and as he smiled benevolently I smiled too; it may have been the first time in my life. "You are beautiful when you smile, child," he said; my smile widened and I actually giggled and felt my face get hot under his benevolent gaze.
"Now… Mary?..." he started, and then interrupting himself, his face suddenly illuminated by a pious reverence, he said, "Sweet Jesus… child – do you see? – you are blessed with same name as the Holy Virgin."
At that moment his benign smile infused me with a love of Christ I had never felt. I had heard of it; I had been hit over the head with it; quite literally: the Reverend Mother had beaten me about the head with her bible – no small book – and told me I should receive it in good grace as it was the word of the Lord, the love of Christ. But I had never genuinely felt it.
"Mary…" he began again, "have you had any more visions from God?" and when a frown replaced my smile, my face closing, as the dreadful weight of a cold hard stone settled in my belly, he said gently, "It is from God, Mary – the Reverend Mother was mistaken. Your visions are a gift from God." He could see my confusion as I wrestled with his gentle words and the conditioning I had received at the hands of the Reverend Mother and the sisters.
Seemingly changing his mind about asking me more questions he made the sign of the cross, "Nominus patra spirituous sancta," he said and then, "Return to your chores for the moment, child."
Slipping quickly from the room, scurrying past the Reverend Mother who was kneeling at the altar close to the door, I returned to the vegetable garden. A short time later I was on my knees, weeding, when they came into the garden.
"You will go with the Reverend Father to the monastery," she said simply; when I shot her an unbelieving look, instead of rushing to obey, she said, "What are you waiting for child… the Reverend Father doesn't have all day!"
"Yes, Reverend Mother!" I said leaping to my feet, brushing the earth from my legs and hands.
The walk from the convent to the monastery on that beautiful spring morning was the most wonderful experience of my life. The Reverend Father held my hand as we strode along, and he talked about the glory of God; pointing out His bounties: the sun shining, the birds singing and the new lambs chasing after the sheep as the shepherd moved his flock to better grazing.
He was a short, stout man, with a big round belly and it was not hard to keep up with him. When we reached the monastery he took me through the chapel to a little room at the back. Sitting on a wooden pew, he stood me in front of him and held my hands, and we smiled at each other.
"Now child…" he said, "now that you know your visions are from God… tell me about them?" Deflating instantly, the happiness I'd previously felt flying from me, I looked down at my dirty, bare feet. "Mary…" he said softly, and with gentle fingers he lifted my chin, so that I looked once more into his eyes.
"B-but the Reverend Mother─"
"Was mistaken," he interrupted, "and you need no longer worry about her." I was not convinced; she was the all powerful force in my life, the source of everything: she decided if I would eat, or sleep, or be subjected to a scourging. "There will be no more scourging," he said, and when my eyes grew wide in alarm: thinking he'd read my thoughts, he said, "Listen to me child… you do not have to worry about the Reverend Mother, ever again. It is now my responsibility to save your eternal soul; you have been given over into my care."
When at last it dawned on me what he was actually saying, for the second time that day, I broke down and began to cry and again he held me gently to him and patted me until I stopped.
After wiping my face, he said, quietly, "Now, child… the visions?"
After telling him all I could remember, I was taken to the kitchen and given some broth. I was then put to work in the gardens and later, just as the sun went down, I was given an old woollen blanket and the corner of the garden hut where a pallet was placed for me to sleep on. As I lay my head down, a combination of the fullness of the day and a happy contentment I had never before experienced, I fell fast asleep as soon as I closed my eyes.
Chapter 18: Just Another Life
Trembling, sweating and nauseous, I came back through the void. It took me the longest time to shake the terrible feeling I brought back with me. What lesson was I repeating? Thomas's life was not as bad as Mary's, but only by degree, ending in a like manner.
I needed some rest and recreation; however, as I prepared to depart for Australia my mother called on my PC. "Congratulations, Heather! I've just heard that USSAR are now going to take in the refugees from the USA. And I understand that you were a key negotiator."
"Oh, Mother… you know how these things are: President Chávez was already well disposed to saving poor, starving multitudes; I just pointed out how magnanimous a gesture it would be to extend a helping hand to a former enemy."
Smiling back at me from my PC, she looked as though she was about to say something profound when my father cut in, "You're far too modest, my little flower."
"He's right you know," and she chuckled before adding, "Well… at least the committee thinks so. They want you to fly straight to the conference in the URSA to help with that one."
"You mean after my summer break, of course?"
"Unfortunately not, Heather; the conference has already started, you need to take the first available flyer."
"But I've already told my security team they could go home today… In fact Case has already left."
"Recall him," she said, "he can't be far away and I know Case; he'd be back in a second if you asked him."
"Oh, I don't even know where he is, and besides… I… he no longer works for us." There was an ominous silence as I watched her image closely. Had I been with her I would have known exactly what she was thinking, or close to it, but all I had was the image of her face; the face of a politician and master negotiator.
"So you go with a team of five," she said eventually.
"No problem."
"Are you alright?"
"Yes…" and I smiled, "better than I've been for a long time, Mother."
Relaxing perceivably, she said, "Good! I'll look forward to seeing you after Africa then."
Like the USSAR, the URSA states had been separate countries up until the third decade of this century. There had been a quagmire of political, racial and religious conflict, causing some of the worst bloodshed and human suffering the world had ever seen; and if you know your history, that is quite a statement.
This was a place where 'World Unity' had its work cut out; and with the help of the Awareness Movement they managed to weld together a nation out of a continent that had been split by famine, disease and bloody civil wars; after being raped, pillaged and subjugation by European and Arab invaders for hundreds of years. Now, Africa was a beautiful place.
The conference was of a similar nature to that held in the USSAR. URSA was being asked to open its doors to the displaced multitudes of the United Republic of Europe (URE). Following the conflicts in the Middle East; when the Muslims blew apart The Vatican and bombed Israel virtually out of existence; the European Union, in conjunction with the USA, had annihilated the then countries of the United Arab Imarets. The whole Middle East region was in effect destroyed; however URE did not completely escape.
Furthermore, due totally to their own arrogance: ignoring the global warming warnings for too long and then doing too little about it, whatever was left of URE, that ancient and once great amalgamation of nations was also all but destroyed – when the very nature of the planet hit back – by the rising waters and terrible storms of the Atlantic Ocean.
So, in this century, the giants of the last century, now crestfallen, were dependant on the once down trodden for their current survival; Kismet.
"Always so good to see you, Heather," said President Maboto. "Your freshness, beauty and intelligence are always a welcome sight at these dry proceedings."
"You are too kind; as always, Mr President," I said, giving the standard, diplomatic reply. And then as we embraced and he kissed me on both cheeks I whispered, "I understand you're giving the Euros a hard time… as usual."
In his fifties, Stephen Maboto was a large, corpulent, black man, with a deep, base voice; and when he chuckled, as he was doing now, it was like the rumble of thunder.
With the laughter still in his voice he said, "When I was a young political, I used to pray that negotiations would break down so that they would send for Kirsty; I had a crush on her, you know. I don't suppose she ever told you that I asked her to marry me once?"
Before managing to regain my composure, my surprise showed momentarily and he gave a deep, rumbling, belly laugh. "Of course, that was before Bobby came on the scene," and then giving me a wink he added, "You're beautiful now… Just think how beautiful you'd be in black!" and he roared with laughter again. "Seriously though…" he said, eventually regaining control of his mirth, "When negotiations get bogged down they either send for you or your mother. You are both shrewd negotiators and of equal beauty. So, let's get this business cleared up, shall we."
The negotiations actually took a couple of days, and when finally they were complete it was several more days before I managed to extricate myself from the Presidents hospitality and return to Sanctuary.
Home to Sanctuary
"So…" I said, raising an eyebrow inquisitively after embracing my mother warmly, "I might have been Heather Maboto?"
Not only did she actually blush, after hesitating she said, "Stephen and I were very young… and on different paths," and I sensed a deep truth she wasn't ready to disclose.
When I replied with "Aah… OK…" she realised I'd only been fishing and she'd told me more than I already knew.
Giving me a very convincing scowl, she said. "Heather Wilson!... I do believe you are becoming a very shrewd, political negotiator… and I don't think I like you practicing on me."
"Sorry…" I said holding my hands up. "I've been too long on the road."
"You girls are not talking shop are you?" said my father coming into the room and giving me a big hug and a kiss, before adding, "Please save me from professional women," and then holding my face in his hands he said, "Are you tired after your journey, my little flower, do you want to have a sleep?"
"No, I'm fine," I assured him.
"Hungry?"
"Ravenous!"
"Good… we'll have some lunch by the pool, and catch up. You two go on, I'll do the honours and join you in a few minutes," he said ushering us in the direction of the pool. It was a glorious summer's day and would have been quite unbearable if it wasn't for the UV shields and the fans.
"So how is Stephen?" said my mother, looking surreptitiously over her shoulder. "And what did he say?"
"He's good… He's a very cheerful, character," I said remembering his jolly form. "Was he always… well, you know, a bit on the heavy side?"
"No he wasn't, that's all happened in the last ten years or so," and with a faraway look in her eyes she added, "He was actually a bit of an Adonis in his younger years; very statuesque," she said smiling, eyes unfocused, lost in nostalgia.
It was hard to imagine my mother with anyone but my father; however, I knew that she and my father hadn't got together until she was in her late twenties and although I knew she was dedicated to The Movement, she was a beautiful, sensual woman who would certainly have had her share of admirers.
"So, is it true what they say about black men?"
"Heather Wilson!... I can't believe you just said that!" she said flushing with embarrassment.
"Just joking, mother," I said quickly, but as she looked away I saw the ghost of a smile and sensed a sudden thrill in her emotions.
A visitor and an invitation We were all enjoying breakfast together, a few days after my return, when the door bell rang.
"Don't tell me your return to Sanctuary has been picked up on the local grapevine already," said my mother as she reached for the remote; however, as the image appeared on the security panel, I could see that it was no local boy come a-calling.
"I wonder if I might have a word?" said the dark clad figure, glancing up at the camera, before flashing a WUSFU identity card.
Thirty-something and just over average height; short, thinning dark brown hair and a receding hairline; Graham McKee, with his sharp, not unattractive features and quick, intense blue eyes looked like a solicitor. As my father led him into our spacious lounge room I could sense him drinking in the environment, quickly assessing each of us in turn. There was something vaguely familiar about him.
"Please forgive me for arriving unannounced, and for bringing business to your home," he said, briefly making eye contact with each of us. "I won't take up much of your time." Those quick blue eyes then settled on me and as I caught the intent I sighed inwardly. "My business is actually with you, Miss Wilson."
As I led him through the garden to the poolside, melancholy began to assail me as images of Harry came floating back. Graham McKee was head of undercover operations for the Antarctic region.
"Miss Wilson─"
"Heather… please?"
"Heather… Do you know a character by the name of Kareem Hespal?"
Shaking my head, I was about to answer in the negative when I suddenly remembered… "I met a boy in Malsi called Kareem a few years ago but I never knew his full name."
"Kareem Hespal is from Malsi, and he is twenty years old," he said, watching me expectantly.
"Then I suppose it might be the same Kareem…" I said, butterflies fluttering in my stomach; I knew it was him. "Has something happened to him?"
"You could say that," he said, his gaze was penetrating; I could imagine an adversary squirming under that intensity. "He's become a Messiah."
Remembering the shy boy who'd helped me find Shona, I found it difficult to picture him in that role. "Are you sure we're talking about the same Kareem?"
"There's only one way of finding out," he said succinctly.
"Now we're coming down to it. What is it you want me to do?"
"Kareem Hespal, in conjunction with a religious sect known as the 'Trilogy of the one God', is travelling around Antarctica, and wherever he goes people rally to him."
"Yes… but what do you want me to do?" I said pointedly.
That penetrating gaze was unfaltering. He seemed to be assessing me, gauging the best way to approach the subject. Eventually he said, simply, "I came here to recruit you."
So there it was; I was being recruited by the cloak and dagger boys. I wasn't at all sure I wanted to be recruited. "What makes you think I'd be interested? Or indeed suited to you're line of business?"
He smiled then, changing his whole appearance. "I was barely out of training, on my first mission with a front line special operations group. We were on a search and rescue mission, attacking one of the last terrorist cells who were based in a jungle enclave. Resistance was heavy; sustaining several casualties ourselves, we had to kill all but two of the group. A fairly successful operation except that our prime objective was nowhere to be found..."
At this point he stopped and looked into my eyes before continuing. "I'm going to tell you something I haven't told another living soul… Around that time I was having serious misgivings about my chosen profession and when I thought we'd failed in our objective that day, I made the decision to leave the agency."
Surprised a little by his honesty, and I knew instinctively it was the truth, I said, "What made you change your mind?"
"The two terrorists that did not die were naked, trust up like chickens in one of the huts. They told us a story which, initially, we were not inclined to believe. However, receiving more information from base, sometime later we rendezvoused with the objective. It was a twelve year old girl, and we found her sitting cross-legged on a jungle track, an automatic pistol in each hand."
Suddenly, assailed with a flash of memory, I could hear, smell and feel the jungle all around me; just a few metres away several soldiers approached, cautiously, and the face of one of those soldiers – much younger, intense, almost disbelieving – was indeed Graham McKee.
"You inspired me, Heather," he said, the hint of a smile softening those intense blue eyes. "You've been on our files ever since that day. If not for the importance of the work you've been involved in we would have recruited you long before now.
"In fact, un-requested and against all advice, you successfully completed a very delicate operation that would have been an extremely dangerous task for a fully trained agent. And by the way, a little late I know, but I'm sorry about Harry; he was not only an outstanding agent, he was my protégé; I recruited him from Armidale University."
From Graham McKee's arrival Harry had not been far from my thoughts, and although thoughts of him these days usually prompted fond memories, melancholy was today's flavour and mention of him now had me almost in tears. Here then was another set of circumstances where a chain of events, initiated by 'yours truly', led to Harry's demise.
"Alright Mr McKee─"
"Graham… please… We may have just officially met but we go back quite a long way," he said, that smile again transforming him.
"So… Graham; are you recruiting me for a specific task, or are you aiming to bring me into the fold, so to speak?"
Barely perceivably, his smile widened; and he took his time to answer. "Which, do think, would be my best bet?"
"Probably the specific task… at least initially," I said smiling.
"I thought so."
"So… the Messiah is it?"
"The Messiah it is."
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